Chapter Four: The Last Night in Dhaka
Zaria's pov:
The day we started packing, the house didn't feel like ours anymore.
Every corner looked half-empty — shelves stripped of books, the walls bare where my photos used to hang. Sofia sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by my old toys, refusing to let me put them in a donation box.
"You can't take everything with you, Sofi," I said gently, folding my school uniform for the last time.
She pouted. "Then take me."
I smiled sadly and pulled her close. "I wish I could."
Mom's voice echoed from the kitchen. "Zaria, fold your shawls properly! And don't forget the sweater Nanu gave you!"
Nanu — my grandmother — had come over early that morning with a basket full of narikel naru, chirer pulao, and every sweet thing she could think of. She sat on the sofa, fanning herself with her scarf and muttering blessings under her breath.
"May Allah protect you, my child," she said, pressing her warm hand to my head. "Remember your roots. No matter where you go, you're Bangladeshi first."
"I will, Nanu," I promised, even though my throat tightened with every word.
Lia had taken over the living room floor, rolling up her clothes into neat bundles. She was trying to act calm, but I could see the nervous excitement in her eyes.
"Can you believe it?" she said, laughing softly. "We're really doing this."
Maya was there too, helping me fold my clothes while her parents sat with mine, sipping tea and talking about flight times, paperwork, and everything adults think about when their kids are about to cross oceans.
The smell of cha and singara filled the room — that familiar comfort that made me want to freeze time.
By late afternoon, our suitcases were lined up like soldiers near the door — red, navy, and black. Sofia had drawn little hearts on mine with a marker, insisting it'd make me "easy to spot at the airport."
Neighbors dropped by one by one to say goodbye. Auntie Farzana from next door brought mishti doi. Uncle Rashid, who'd watched me grow up, handed me a prayer book. Even our gatekeeper, Jahangir bhai, smiled shyly and said, "Bidesh jaben, Ria apu? Khub bhalo porashona korben."
("You're going abroad, Ria apu? Study well, okay?")
I nodded, blinking hard to stop the tears.
That evening, we had our last dinner together. The table overflowed — biryani, shutki bhorta, dal, ilish machh, alu bhaji, firni. My favorite dishes, all made by Mom.
Dad led the dua after dinner, his voice steady but soft.
"May this journey bring blessings, not distance. May our daughters shine wherever they go."
I tried not to cry, but when I looked at Sofia, her little face buried in her plate, it broke me.
After everyone went to bed, I stayed awake on the balcony with Maya and Lia. The night air was thick with the smell of rain-soaked dust and jasmine. The call to prayer from a faraway mosque echoed through the city, soft and haunting.
Maya rested her head on my shoulder. "Do you think we'll ever feel this close to home again?"
I thought about it. About the laughter echoing through the joint family house when I was younger, the endless festivals, the chaos of Eid mornings, the sound of rickshaw bell chimes that had been the soundtrack of my life.
"I don't know," I said quietly. "But I hope one day, we'll find something that feels like this — even if it's not here."
Lia smiled faintly, her eyes glistening in the dim light. "We'll carry it with us. Every sound, every smell. You can't pack a home in a suitcase, but you can keep it in your heart."
When dawn came, the city was still half-asleep. The fajr azan drifted through the cool air, and we loaded our luggage into the car.
Sofia ran to me, holding something in her tiny hands — my old friendship bracelet, frayed and faded.
"So you don't forget me," she said.
"I could never," I whispered, tying it around my wrist.
As the car pulled away, I looked out the window — at the narrow lanes, the faded buildings, the smell of smoke and sweets, the tangle of wires above the street. Every piece of Dhaka blurred together, melting into the rising light.
It hit me then — the real meaning of distance.
It wasn't just miles or time zones. It was this moment — when you had to leave everything you loved, just to find out who you were.
And as the sun rose over my city for the last time, I whispered under my breath,
"This isn't goodbye. Just… see you soon."