The dorm was quiet in a way that felt heavier than silence. The refrigerator hummed faintly down the hall; somewhere, two buildings over, a dog barked once and stopped. Inside Room 306, the two beds were separate islands in an ocean of shadows. Hyunwoo lay curled under the blanket, his breathing slow and even, utterly asleep. Ahmad watched the soft rise and fall of his roommate's shoulders for a few more minutes, the small domestic rhythm anchoring him for a moment.
He had meant to sleep. He had meant to close his eyes and let the day's memories dissipate. But the thought had been tugging at him all evening — a persistent, aching need to hear a familiar voice, even if that voice was laced with judgment. He slid his feet onto the cold floor, moved with the practiced care of someone who knew exactly how a small noise could rouse someone from slumber, and stepped out onto the narrow balcony.
The Seoul air bit pleasantly at his face. A few stars dimpled the black; further off, a plane arced over the city like a slow fist of white light. Ahmad wrapped his arms around himself and dug his phone from within the pocket of his hoodie. His thumb hovered over the contact labeled "Baji ❤️" — his sister. The sticker of a small heart and the Urdu nickname made his throat ache. He pressed call.
It rang in his ear like an echo from another life.
"Assalamu alaikum?" A sleepy, cautious voice.
"Wa alaikum assalam, Baji," Ahmad breathed. "I hope I didn't wake you."
A soft chuckle answered him, then, "It's six in the morning here, Ahmad. You always did have the strangest timing."
He laughed, not with humor but with the salt of homesickness. "Sorry. I forgot. I just wanted to talk."
They began with the small, safe things. She told him about the power going out in their street, and how the neighbor's kid had learned to ride a bicycle without training wheels in one afternoon. She asked about midterms, about whether he was eating properly, and if his dorm had functioning heating. Ahmad answered — automatic replies, the sort you used as a shield. But as the exchange softened and memories came up, he let himself be bolder.
"Baji," he asked, voice smaller than he intended, "do Abbu and Ammi—do they ever talk about me? Do they… forgive me?"
There was a long, careful cessation of sound. He could imagine her moving the phone away to get a clearer signal, the way his mother always did when she wanted to hide worry behind practicality. Finally: "They ask," she said. "But they are… still upset, Ahmad. They feel like you abandoned your duties. They worry."
The floor beneath him shifted. He pictured his mother in the kitchen, sari sleeves rolled up, eyes reddened from crying. He heard his father's voice, stern and brittle. For years the house had been the center of his world; the walls had held his small rebellions and his secret joys. Now the house had become a place of accusation in absentia.
"And you?" Ahmad asked, because he needed to hear her say something that would steady him, something that would make the ache in his chest less sharp.
Baji's voice softened. "I am your sister. I love you. The rest… I wish it were simpler. But Abbu—he holds onto shame like a talisman. Ammi's heart is softer, but she is afraid of losing her place in the family. I cannot say it is easy for me to take your side openly."
Ahmad let out a breath that trembled. "I never wanted them to feel betrayed. I only wanted to study. To be someone I could be proud of. To breathe."
There was a quiet on the line, a kind of kindness threaded with helplessness. "I know," she said finally. "And I know you. But family… you know how it is. It's not always logic. It's fear and gossip. It's reputation. It breaks me to say this, but at the moment they are not ready to forgive."
He stared at his phone until the glass blurred. For a long time he had imagined that one day he could go home and explain himself, that time and distance would soften their anger. Now it felt like a gulf widening between the man he was and the family that had made him. For the first time since the acceptance packet informed him of the scholarship, the future he had run toward felt like a scarbed-over battlefield where his old life would not heal.
They spoke then of easier things: the mango trees, the small neighbor who always stole sweets, the memory of his sister slapping his palm when he reached for a fresh jalebi on Eid morning. There was laughter in those moments and then, inevitably, sorrow. Before they hung up, Baji said, "Be careful, Ahmad. We love you. Don't make decisions you'll regret."
He told her he understood, and he did, on the surface. He told her he missed them, which was true. Then the call ended with a soft, "Goodbye," and the line went dead. Ahmad kept the phone in his hand for a long time after, as if the device might hold onto her voice if he didn't let it go.
When he slid the door open and stepped back inside, the room smelled faintly of Hyunwoo's shampoo and the leftover tea. He perched on the edge of his bed, phone warming under his palm, as if he might extract a different answer from its glow. Sleep refused to come. He traced verses on his lips by habit, the Arabic syllables a private comfort.
Hyunwoo stirred, sleep-soft and hesitant. "Ahmad?" he asked, voice hoarse from sleep.
"Yeah," Ahmad said, forcing a calmness that was half performance and half protection.
"Where did you go?"
"Outside. Needed some air." He tried to make it sound casual. It came out brittle.
Hyunwoo blinked, then sat up, pushing his hair off his forehead. His eyes were sleepy and honest; he took the longest, quieted breath, as if he were shining a flashlight on a part of the room only to find Ahmad there. "Talk to me."
Ahmad could have lied as easily as he had lied to himself that night. He squeezed his phone until the edges went white. Then he let go. "I called my sister," he said. "I wanted to hear from home."
And when the words were out, the rest flowed like a tide. He told Hyunwoo about the call — the small talk, the way his sister's voice had tired under the weight of a family's stubbornness. He told him about his parents' anger, their fear that he was forgetting who he was. Every sentence felt like a small incision, but saying them let the wound breathe.
Hyunwoo listened with the careful attention of someone discovering the shape of another's pain. He moved closer and sat cross-legged, mirroring Ahmad's posture from earlier. The city hummed below them with indifferent light.
"They're scared," Hyunwoo said at last. "They're holding on to what they know even if it hurts them. But that doesn't make it right."
Ahmad wanted to hide the shaking behind a joke, to turn the conversation into something softer. But Hyunwoo's voice had a steadying warmth. He placed his hand over Ahmad's, fingers warm and real.
"You don't deserve that," Hyunwoo spoke simply. "You didn't do anything wrong by trying to make a life better."
"I left," Ahmad said, because that was the entire argument. "They say I left them. They say I took something with me they can't get back."
"You left because you were brave," Hyunwoo answered. "And bravery isn't something to punish."
They sat quietly for a long while. The skyline lightened imperceptibly, the darkest stars swallowed by the soft blush of approaching dawn. Ahmad thought of the first day he'd held the acceptance letter, how his hands had trembled with a secret joy and fear. He thought of the bus terminal where he had stood alone, the last time his mother had spoken to him with such finality. The images stacked like fragile glass.
"I missed them," Ahmad said suddenly, the words slipping out raw. "I always thought if I did well—if I became someone respectable—they'd come around. But maybe I misread them. Maybe they see anything different as betrayal."
Hyunwoo leaned his forehead against Ahmad's shoulder. "Maybe they don't know you yet," he said. "But I do. And people can change. Sometimes the people closest to us are the slowest to see the new version."
Ahmad closed his eyes at the warmth of that shoulder, at the rhythm of another heart so plainly present. "It doesn't feel like it helps," he murmured.
"It helps me," Hyunwoo replied. "It helps me feel less lonely when I know about your pain. If you let me, I want to be the person who stays when they don't."
Ahmad laughed, a short, incredulous sound. "You're offering to replace a lifetime of family with a student who still eats instant ramen."
Hyunwoo's answering grin was half-bleary sleep and half-defiant brightness. "I'll cook real food sometimes too. Maybe your sister will forgive me."
Ahmad's laugh became steadier. The humor was costume, but the comfort beneath it was honest. He reached out and squeezed Hyunwoo's hand back.
"You can't replace family," Ahmad said after a pause, his voice sober. "But… I can learn to accept that family may look different now. I can let the people I choose be my family too."
"Then pick me," Hyunwoo said softly, his tone like a gentle dare and a vow both. "Not because I demand it, but because you want to. And I'll stay."
Ahmad's chest unclenched by degrees. He could feel tears at the edge of his eyes, less sharp now — more like a rain that rinsed than a storm that broke him. "I'm scared," he admitted, confessing a thing he would rarely say aloud. "Scared that I'll lose something if I open myself fully. Scared that I won't be enough."
"You are enough," Hyunwoo whispered. "Even when you don't believe it."
They stayed there, together, until the horizon spilled pink and gold across the city. The world began to wake — delivery trucks, distant calls, the clink of cups in an early café — but for them time had elongated into a simple promise.
At breakfast, Hyunwoo made eggs and Ahmad brewed tea the way his sister had taught him to pretend it was still home. He watched Hyunwoo move with a comfortable confidence in the small kitchen, the tasks of morning grounding them. A small smear of jam appeared at the corner of Hyunwoo's mouth; Ahmad wiped it away with a thumb and then pretended he had not noticed the heat in his own palm.
Later that day, they walked together through campus, shoulders brushing as they moved, quiet in a new way that was no longer merely awkward companionship but something stitched together from late-night confessions and mutual covenants. At the mosque, Ahmad prayed and Hyunwoo waited, hands folded, eyes trying to absorb the ritual. It was not dramatic. It was not a declaration. It was simply two people taking the small steps toward an imagined future — one person steadying the other every inch of the way.
When dusk came, Hyunwoo looked at Ahmad and said, "You don't have to fix everything overnight."
"I don't expect to," Ahmad said.
"You can tell me everything you can't tell them," Hyunwoo replied. "And I'll carry as much as you need me to carry."
Ahmad wanted to argue, to insist this was too much to place on one other person. But his chest unknotted with the simple reality of the offer. He leaned his head against Hyunwoo's, the contact quiet and certain.
"You're not alone anymore," Hyunwoo said again, as if trying on the sentence for truth.
"No," Ahmad answered, and the word felt like the first step he had taken toward a new kind of love — one that acknowledged family and faith and duty, while making room for two people to build something that would not erase the past but soften its edges.
Night fell. They returned to their rooftop and watched the city lights blink on, street by street. Ahmad thought of the call he had made and the words his sister had said; he felt them now as not only pain but as a compass — a marker that would shape how patient and persistent he would need to be. He had always wanted reconciliation; now he understood that reconciliation might be a lifetime's work. But he would not walk it alone.
He tightened his hand around Hyunwoo's and felt the solidity there. A promise, quiet and honest, passed between them. It did not solve everything. It did not bridge every wound or undo every scorn. But it was a promise that, at the end of day, he could choose trust and steadiness — and that someone would choose him back.
Under the soft glow of the city night, with dawn a dream away, Ahmad allowed himself to believe — just for a little while — that family could grow, that forgiveness might arrive, and that love, in its patient form, could stitch the torn edges of a life back together.