Amina woke up with a strange heaviness in her chest almost like her thoughts had been running all night without giving her a chance to catch up. She pushed herself upright slowly, rubbing a hand over her face. The apartment was still, the morning dim, a muted orange light sneaking through the curtains.
She checked her phone out of habit.
No threats.
No accusations.
No guilt-laced messages waiting for her.
That alone felt unreal.
But there was something else too a growing uneasiness she couldn't name. It lingered at the edges of her mind, like a shadow she couldn't catch.
She rose, dressed quietly, and walked to the small kitchenette to warm water. The steam fogged the kettle lid as she stood there, lost in thought. It took her a while to realize she was gripping the counter too tightly.
The kind of tightness that meant she wasn't fine.
A soft knock sounded on the door.
She startled, heartbeat jumping.
"Amina?" Rafi's voice came through, steady as always.
She inhaled deeply.
"Come in."
He entered with the ease of someone who had learned her boundaries well. He didn't step too close, didn't search her face immediately, didn't crowd the space. He moved to place a small food pack on the counter.
"I brought breakfast," he said. "Didn't know if you'd eaten."
"I haven't," she said quietly.
He nodded. "I figured."
She stood there, arms folded lightly, watching him. Something about his presence felt grounding today, but it also stirred everything she was trying to suppress.
He finally met her eyes.
"You slept badly."
It wasn't a question.
Amina looked down at her hands. "It's not about anything specific. I just… kept thinking."
"About yesterday?"
"And everything before yesterday."
Rafi leaned against the counter, folding his arms. "Your mind is trying to adjust. When people come out of chaos, the quiet feels wrong."
She swallowed. That was exactly it.
"It's like waiting for something bad to happen," she admitted. "Even when there's no reason."
"You spent years expecting the worst," he said gently. "You can't undo that in a week."
Amina tried to slow her breathing. She hated how much sense he made. She hated how easily he understood things she barely allowed herself to acknowledge.
"I don't want to go back to that house," she said suddenly. "I don't want to feel that fear again."
"You won't."
The conviction in his voice startled her.
"How can you be sure?" she whispered.
"Because the person you were in that house doesn't exist anymore." He didn't raise his voice or sound dramatic—just honest. "You've already left mentally. Your body only followed."
Amina's pulse stuttered.
He continued, quieter now, "And even if you tried to go back, you wouldn't fit in that space anymore. You've grown past it."
Amina turned away slightly, staring at the wall. The truth hurt, but not in a bad way. It felt like something stretching inside her, making room for a version of herself she didn't fully recognize yet.
She whispered, "I don't know if I'm ready for a new life."
"You don't have to be ready." Rafi's voice softened even more. "You just have to allow it."
The kettle clicked off with a sharp sound that cut through the moment. Amina blinked, pulled back into reality.
Rafi opened the food pack, plating the meal for her.
"Eat," he said simply.
She sat at the small table. He stood nearby—not hovering, not leaving—just… there.
After a few minutes, she asked quietly, "Rafi… what's going to happen if my family refuses to take me back? After the exams? After everything settles?"
He didn't hesitate.
"Then you stay here."
Her fork paused mid-air. "Here? In this apartment?"
"In this building," he clarified. "We'll figure out the details when it's time. You won't be alone."
Amina stared at him, unsure what to feel.
"Why would you do that for me?" she whispered.
At this, something changed in his face. He didn't look away, didn't shy from the question.
"Because," he said slowly, "I see your future differently from how you see it. You see a girl who's barely surviving. I see someone who can build a life she's only dreamed of."
Amina's throat tightened again.
"You've helped me so much already," she said. "I don't want to be a burden."
"You're not."
"But"
"Amina," he said softly, with a certainty that almost made her tremble, "you're not a burden. You've never been one. Not to me."
Silence filled the room—thick, heavy, warm.
She felt the sting of tears again, but this time she turned her face slightly so he wouldn't see.
Rafi noticed anyway.
"Come on," he said gently. "Let's take a walk downstairs."
"I'm okay," she said automatically.
"You're not," he replied without judgment. "But that's fine. We'll walk anyway."
Something in her loosened at his tone firm but kind, steady but gentle. She stood, following him down the stairs to the lounge area. The building was quiet, the afternoon still early.
They sat across from each other, separated by a low table.
Rafi leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Tell me what's really worrying you."
She fiddled with the edge of her scarf. "What if I get attached to all this… to the peace, to the space, to you… and then it disappears?"
Rafi's expression softened in a way she wasn't prepared for.
"Then we'll deal with it," he said. "Together."
Amina's breath caught.
He didn't realize what his words did to her. Or maybe he did. Maybe he was fully aware and still chose to say them.
He continued, "You're trying to protect yourself from a loss that hasn't even happened. That's fear talking, not reality."
"I don't want to depend on someone."
"You're not depending on me. You're healing. There's a difference."
Her eyes met his again hesitant, searching.
"And if I heal?" she asked softly. "What then?"
His gaze held hers with steady intensity.
"Then you'll choose what you want," he said. "Not what you're forced into. Not what fear dictates."
"And you?" she whispered before she could stop herself. "What will you choose?"
Rafi didn't look away.
His answer came slow, deliberate, honest.
"You."
Amina froze.
The room seemed to tilt, her heartbeat echoing in her ears. She didn't breathe for a moment, stunned not by the confession, but by how calmly he said it—like it wasn't a revelation, but a truth he'd accepted long before she did.
She swallowed hard. "Rafi… I "
"You don't need to say anything now," he said, interrupting her gently. "I'm not asking for an answer. I'm not rushing you. I'm just telling you where I stand."
Amina couldn't speak. Her mind was a storm fear, hope, shock, warmth, all tangled together.
Rafi leaned back slightly, giving her room to breathe. "Let the future come on its own. Don't suffocate yourself trying to predict every step."
She looked down at her hands, trembling slightly.
"Rafi," she whispered again, "I'm scared."
"I know," he said softly. "But I'm here."
Amina closed her eyes.
For the first time in her life, the fear didn't feel like a prison.
It felt like the threshold of something new.
Something terrifying.
Something unfamiliar.
Something she wasn't sure she deserved—
But something she wanted, even if she couldn't admit it yet.
The room was quiet for a long time.
The kind of quiet that didn't suffocate.
The kind that let her breathe.