The Next Morning…
Morning sunlight gently filtered through Zuhra's bedroom window, casting its youthful warmth across a room wrapped in cold stillness. Her eyes were swollen — the undeniable evidence of a night spent crying. She sat curled on the floor beside her untouched bed, hugging her knees tightly, as if trying to shield her soul from the storm inside.
Slowly, her heavy eyelids parted. The light filled the room, but instead of bringing comfort, it unveiled fresh pain. The first thing her eyes landed on was devastation: musical items scattered across the floor, her golden trophy cup shattered into jagged pieces, torn papers and books — some soaked in spilled water. Her dream of music lay ruined around her.
She didn't rise at once. With trembling hands, she reached out for a broken shard of the trophy, as though hoping to piece her dream back together. But the sharp pain that struck her fingertip mirrored the deeper ache in her heart — she flinched and pulled back.
Eventually, she gathered herself and rose with effort, walking slowly to the bathroom. Her steps were heavy, as though sorrow clung to her feet. She splashed her face with warm water and stared into the mirror. The reflection looking back at her was unfamiliar — red eyes, disheveled hair, and a heart brimming with questions she couldn't answer.
She emerged from the bathroom wearing a plain, long dress. Every step she took felt like walking barefoot on thorns. In the living room, her father sat at the dining table with her younger siblings, Amir and Ruhan, quietly waiting for breakfast. Her mother moved between the kitchen and the table, giving instructions to the housemaid.
Zuhra hesitated, then approached her father.
"Good morning, Baba," she said gently.
He looked up at her, his eyes firm and unreadable. He didn't respond. Instead, he turned his face away, as if her words had not even reached him.
Zuhra blinked back the sting of his silence and quietly turned toward the kitchen.
Her mother gave her a sympathetic glance and smiled faintly. "Come help me with the plates," she said softly.
Zuhra nodded and began setting the table. She worked in silence, forcing her tears to remain hidden. Her heart bore the weight of guilt and rejection, but she pushed herself to move with grace and dignity.
Ruhan, with a mischievous grin, chirped, "Aunty Zuhra, you danced so much last night, Baba had to snatch your headphones!"
Zuhra gave a faint smile — one that barely touched her lips — and said nothing.
And so, the home sank into silence. Not one of peace, but of wounded pride, quiet sorrow, and unspoken fears.
---
Meanwhile — at Munir's house…
Golden morning light crept into Kamal's room at Munir's house, washing over his unkempt bed. The air was cool, dim, and hushed — a sharp contrast to the storm brewing in his head.
His face was slightly puffy — signs of a restless night drowned in alcohol, pain, and regret. He lay there still, breathing softly, as if trapped somewhere between sleep and grief.
From the next room, Munir's voice echoed in calm urgency.
"Kamal… Kamal, get up. Daddy and Mommy are downstairs having breakfast. You should come down before they leave."
Kamal opened his eyes slowly, each movement a struggle. His temples throbbed as if nails were being driven into them. Munir's voice buzzed like static in his ears. With a groan, he pushed himself off the bed, dragging a hand across his face. He washed quickly, slipped into a mismatched t-shirt and joggers, and followed Munir downstairs.
At the breakfast table sat Munir's parents. Mommy was flipping through a file while Daddy scrolled his tablet. Across from them, an elegant, well-dressed young woman — a visiting relative — sipped green tea quietly.
They looked up as the boys entered.
Mommy smiled warmly.
"Oh Munir, good morning. Kamal, did you sleep well?"
Kamal lowered his gaze, weighed down by a fog of shame and headache.
"I'm fine, Mommy," he mumbled.
Daddy adjusted in his seat and gave a short laugh.
"Good to see you awake early today. May Allah guide you."
Kamal forced a smile and sat beside Munir, eyes fixed on the steam rising from Daddy's coffee cup — not really seeing it, not really there.
Munir sighed quietly. His heart was heavy with worry. He knew what Kamal was going through — especially after Zuhra stopped answering his calls. He wanted to say something comforting, but held it back. Mommy was watching.
And so, this home too settled into silence.
Not the silence of comfort —
but the silence of things left unsaid…
of misunderstandings…
and hearts quietly breaking