The living room was filled with silence — not the peaceful kind, but the heavy, awkward kind that presses on your chest.
Amine stood there. Tall. Composed. Wearing a navy-blue suit that made him look like he belonged to a different world.
Aya had not seen him in over a year. His eyes no longer carried the playful sparkle she remembered from childhood. Now, they were guarded. unreadable.
He glanced at her for a second, nodded politely, and looked away.
"You've grown," he said flatly.
"So have you," she replied, matching his tone.
Their parents beamed in the background. Tea was poured. Smiles exchanged. Words like responsibility and future floated in the air like perfumed smoke.
But neither Aya nor Amine spoke again.
When everything was done, the elders left the room to "give them space."
The door clicked shut.
Silence.
She stood by the bookshelf, pretending to read titles.
He remained near the window, hands in his pockets, not even trying to pretend.
"I didn't ask for this," she said, breaking the silence.
"Neither did I," he replied calmly, "but here we are."
Her hands clenched. "Do you think this will work?"
Amine turned to face her, his expression unreadable. "It doesn't have to work. It just has to happen."
Aya's heart sank.
And in that moment, she knew — this was not a love story.
Not yet.