---
~Amira's pov
There was a silence Amira had learned to live with.
Not the peaceful kind.
The kind that wrapped around your ribs and held tight — a silence filled with things that should've been said but never were.
She watched the early Sicilian sun cast golden lines across the floor of her small apartment. It wasn't much — a cracked balcony, white walls, and a closet-sized kitchen. But it was hers. No lies in the walls. No footsteps in the hall that made her tense.
She had escaped.
But freedom, she was learning, was lonelier than expected.
Amira curled her fingers around her cup of tea, staring out at the city below. Palermo breathed like something ancient — hot stone, fading history, whispers that never quite died. She liked it here. The weight of her old life didn't follow her around the way it did back home.
Back home…
She blinked.
No. Don't go there. Not yet.
---
She pulled her hair into a loose bun and walked to the table, where three books were open, notes scribbled across the pages.
Language. Art history. Philosophy.
She had always been good with words, though hers were often twisted or stolen back home.
Her mother used to say, "Your words are a mirror. Guard them well. People will either try to break them or use them against you."
Amira hadn't heard her mother's voice in over ten years.
The last time she did, it was through hospital glass. Her mother, pale and fading, telling her to be brave. Telling her to forgive.
---
She had tried.
But forgiveness felt harder when you were blamed for everything.
---
Growing up, Amira had been the golden child. Her father adored her — or at least it felt like he did. He would bring her sweets, braid her hair himself when her mother was too tired, and call her stellina, little star.
Then her mother died.
And everything changed.
The woman who replaced her mother came with cold eyes and a daughter who smiled too easily.
At first, Amira tried. She smiled too. She played the role.
But when no one was looking, the smiles slipped.
Her stepsister, Elena, would "borrow" her clothes and ruin them.
Her stepmother would subtly shift blame for every broken glass, every missing item, every raised voice.
And her father… stopped noticing.
It didn't happen all at once. It was gradual — like a room growing darker minute by minute until you couldn't remember what light looked like.
He stopped asking how her day was.
Stopped waiting for her at recitals.
Started saying things like, "Why can't you just get along?" and "You're always so sensitive, Amira."
And when she tried to explain…
She was told she was imagining it. That it was all in her head.
So she got quieter.
Until her silence became the perfect scapegoat.
---
She didn't hate him. That was the worst part.
She missed him. Loved him.
Even when he barely looked her in the eyes anymore.
That's what love did. It crawled inside your chest and refused to leave, even when you begged it to.
So one day, she left.
Packed what she had. Took money she'd saved from tutoring. Booked a one-way ticket. And disappeared without saying goodbye.
Her father hadn't called.
Her stepmother did — once — just to say, "He's hurt, Amira. You always take things too far."
She had nearly laughed. Nearly broken.
But she stayed gone.
---
Now, in Palermo, she was building something. Slowly. Quietly. A job at a local museum archive paid barely enough, but it came with peace. And in the evenings, she walked the city, found quiet corners of cafes, and studied.
She had plans — not big ones — just ones that were hers.
That was enough.
Until yesterday.
Until him.
---
She still remembered the weight of his body when he slammed into her.
Books crashing. Her breath hitching.
And his eyes.
Cold. Piercing. Controlled.
She had never met anyone who made silence feel like a threat.
He hadn't said sorry. Hadn't even helped her.
But he looked back.
That was the strange part. Something in his stare — like he was trying to remember her, but didn't know from where. Or like he expected her to disappear if he stared long enough.
She had told herself to forget him.
But then fate had other ideas.
---
Last Night — The Bar
She hadn't planned to go out. But her co-worker, Rina, had begged.
"You need to loosen up, Amira," Rina had said. "Come on. Just one drink. You're too pretty to stay invisible forever."
So she went.
And there he was.
At the far corner of the room, wrapped in shadows like a secret.
And when she approached, when she called him out — "We meet again" — he didn't flinch.
He watched her the way wild animals watch fire.
That conversation…
She played it cool.
But something about him crawled under her skin.
---
Now, in the morning light, she hated that she was thinking about him again.
Men like that were trouble.
Worse — they were the kind you didn't see coming until they already owned part of you.
She had seen men like that once before.
At home.
---
Still, part of her wondered… who was he really?
Zayne. That's what he said his name was.
But that wasn't a common name in Sicily. Or Italy at all.
His accent — clean, clipped, not local.
His presence — too sharp to be accidental.
She knew danger when she saw it.
But part of her didn't care.
---
Midday — Palermo Market
Amira slipped on a light jacket and grabbed her worn leather tote. She had errands to run — groceries, textbooks, and a drop-off at the museum.
She took the long way through the open-air market, weaving past stalls of bright fruit, perfume oils, and loud men selling cheap shoes.
Then she stopped at a narrow bookshop tucked between two cafés — one of her favorite places. Quiet. Tucked away.
She stepped inside and began scanning a shelf near the back.
And there — just for a second — she felt it.
A shift.
That feeling when someone's watching you.
She turned her head subtly.
No one.
Or maybe someone had just walked past the window.
Her heart skipped, but she shook it off.
---
She bought her book and stepped back into the sun.
And there, across the street, slipping into a black car, was a man in a dark coat.
Tall. Sharp shoulders. Black hair.
She froze.
It couldn't be.
Zayne?
---
But the car was already pulling away.
Amira stared after it, heart tapping faster.
What were the odds?
---
She shook her head. Get it together. You're imagining things.
Still, part of her already knew.
This city wasn't as big as it felt.
And fate?
It had a cruel sense of humor.
---
That Night — Her Apartment
She sat on the balcony, knees to her chest, the book unopened in her lap.
The moonlight hit the stone walls like silver paint, and the air was heavy with sea wind.
She thought about her father.
She thought about Zayne.
And she thought about herself — the girl who had always been caught between being too much and not enough.
But not anymore.
She was here.
She was becoming someone.
And maybe, just maybe…
She was ready to be seen.