The morning sun poured into the apartment through the sheer curtains, casting golden streaks across the walls. Amara stirred on the couch, still wrapped in the oversized shirt she had borrowed from Zayn. The scent of him clung to the cotton—woodsy and warm. She smiled to herself, stretching slightly before sitting up. The blanket fell to her lap.
Zayn was in the kitchen, humming under his breath, pan clinking against the stove.
"You're cooking?" she asked, voice groggy but amused.
He turned, spatula in hand. "If I want to convince you to move in, I have to prove I'm husband material."
Amara laughed. "Well, the effort is impressive."
"Effort?" he said dramatically. "This is artistry."
She stood and padded over, wrapping her arms around his waist from behind. "Artistry smells like burnt toast."
"It's not burnt. It's rustic."
They both laughed, and Zayn leaned back to kiss her temple. The apartment was quiet except for their easy banter and the soft sizzle from the frying pan. For a brief moment, it felt like the world had slowed just for them.
But peace rarely lingered too long.
Amara's phone buzzed on the coffee table. She glanced at it, then froze.
Zayn noticed her expression shift. "Who is it?"
"Dara," she said. "My sister."
Zayn turned off the stove. "Is everything okay?"
Amara stared at the phone until the ringing stopped. A second later, a message popped up.
"Mum's in the hospital. She's asking for you."
Amara's breath caught. She hadn't seen her mother in years—not since the day she left home after one final screaming match about her art, her dreams, her refusal to become the obedient daughter they demanded. Her mother's words still echoed in her mind: You are not one of us anymore.
"She's sick," Amara said softly. "She wants to see me."
Zayn came to her side. "Do you want to go?"
She hesitated. "I don't know."
He didn't push. "Whatever you decide, I'll be there."
Two hours later, they were on the road, driving toward the part of town Amara had long avoided. The buildings changed from glass and steel to faded brick and cracked sidewalks. Zayn held her hand as she stared out the window, her grip tight but trembling.
"I'm not ready for this," she said.
"You're stronger than you think."
At the hospital, the air was sharp with disinfectant. Amara's heels clicked along the corridor floor as she followed the nurse. Zayn stayed just a few steps behind. Room 213. She paused outside it.
"She hasn't seen me in nearly five years," Amara whispered. "What if she… what if she hates me?"
"Then you'll walk out with your head high. But what if she just wants to heal?"
Amara nodded, gathering what little courage she had left.
The door creaked as she entered. The room was dimly lit. A frail woman lay in the bed, tubes trailing from her arms, an oxygen mask over her face. Her skin was pale, eyes closed, chest rising slowly.
Amara's breath caught. This wasn't the towering woman she remembered. This was someone who had aged beyond her years.
"Dara," came a raspy voice from the bed.
"It's Amara, Mum," she said, stepping closer. "I'm here."
Her mother's eyes opened slowly. They were tired but familiar. Her lips trembled as she removed the mask weakly.
"You came," she whispered.
"I got your message."
A weak smile. "Still stubborn."
Amara pulled up a chair. "Still painting."
Her mother chuckled, then coughed. "I've seen your work… your name is in the magazines."
"I didn't think you looked."
"I always looked. I just didn't know how to support a dream I didn't understand."
Amara swallowed the lump in her throat. "You didn't have to understand. You just had to try."
"I was hard on you. I thought protecting you meant controlling you."
Tears welled in Amara's eyes. "You pushed me away."
"I pushed because I was afraid. You were always bigger than this place… than me. And I didn't know how to love something I couldn't hold onto."
Zayn stood quietly at the door, watching the two women, sensing the decades of silence breaking apart.
"I'm not here to reopen wounds," Amara said softly. "But I needed to hear you say that."
Her mother reached out a shaky hand. Amara took it, surprised by how light it felt.
"I'm proud of you, Amara. I may not deserve to say it, but I am."
"You do," Amara said, wiping a tear from her cheek.
They sat in silence for a while. Her mother fell asleep again, but her grip on Amara's hand didn't loosen. In that grip, Amara felt something shift—an apology, a blessing, maybe both.
Later, outside the room, Dara waited with arms crossed.
"She's dying," Dara said without emotion. "Heart failure. Stage four."
"I didn't come here for closure," Amara replied. "I came because part of me still cares."
"She's always cared too. Just… in her own broken way."
Zayn stepped forward, hand on Amara's lower back. "We'll come again."
Back in the car, Amara stared ahead, eyes unfocused.
"She was proud of me," she murmured.
Zayn squeezed her hand. "She should be."
"I used to think healing meant forgetting. But I think it just means forgiving. For my sake."
He looked at her, proud. "You're extraordinary, you know that?"
She smiled weakly. "Don't let my mother hear you say that. She might start thinking she made me perfect."
They both laughed.
By the time they returned to the apartment, the sun had dipped below the horizon. Amara kicked off her shoes, curled up on the couch, and rested her head on Zayn's lap.
"I want to go back tomorrow," she said.
He ran his fingers through her hair. "Then we'll go."
"Will you always come with me?"
He nodded. "For as long as you'll let me."
Amara closed her eyes, listening to the steady beat of his heart. Everything in her life had once been loud—arguments, slammed doors, silent meals. But this? This was quiet. This was peace.
That night, they didn't speak much. They didn't have to. Healing wasn't always dramatic. Sometimes, it came in the quiet presence of someone who held you while you breathed through the pain.
And in Zayn's arms, Amara exhaled years of bitterness, one breath at a time.