Chapter 1
How can you live and not have a story?” she said, her voice a mix of curiosity and longing khaalid just steering at her she repeated," How canst thou live and not possess a tale? she murmured, her voice a fragile whisper, as if the very thought pained her.
I was raised cadar said, a girl molded in the crucible of muted hopes and hidden sorrows, my childhood was a landscape of chaos, a home where love was scarce and silence pressed heavier than words. Each day was a subtle trial: school fees delayed yet again, empty promises echoing in the halls of my heart from my moms mouth as she promised on behalf of my dad a man who never lifted his heart nor hands for his children , a constant reminder that I belonged to a world where dreams were often out of reach like my father. I remember growing up with my father sitting in the room with his quranic verses echoing but not love or care maybe that's how he cared but but i cried maybe not. His presence in body but a ghost in my heart, his silence was a constant reminder of the love I longed for but never truly felt. I learned early on that sometimes being there isn’t enough. His quiet absence left a hollow space at the house, a gap in my memories where laughter and guidance should have been.
At the same time, money was always scarce, a burden we carried like an unyielding weight. I watched my mother turn each coin into a miracle, stretching every penny to keep our little world afloat. The lack of funds wasn’t just about missing luxuries, it was a daily struggle that left its mark in every whispered worry and every meal that felt too small. It was in the way I yearned for the reassurance of a father's protective embrace while grappling with the constant fear of not having enough to go around.
In that silent interplay between presence and absence, I learned that the deepest void isn’t always where someone is missing entirely, but sometimes where someone is present yet emotionally out of reach just like my parents but i couldn't blame them, that is the only lofe they had lived yet am hurting and longing for that warm love.
Then, in grade two, amidst shared crayons and whispered secrets on the playground, I met Khaalid. As we journeyed together through the innocent days of middle school, our friendship blossomed quietly, like a secret garden in a neglected courtyard. His life was painted in hues I could only imagine. Every day after school, I watched with quiet wonder as his father awaited him at the gate, a steady smile and a warm embrace offering the kind of care I’d never known. His lunch box always fresh and bursting with delicious food spoke of a nurturing home where every meal was a celebration.
Khaalid’s family reveled in the freedom of expression, and emotions as smiling together was seen was a part of their home, every moment was an opportunity to explore life’s vast palette. His father’s pride was evident when he cheered Khaalid on during spirited basketball games even at times they were the losing side he could run to his fathers gentle reminder that every opportunity is a turning point for betterment and his mother’s gentle encouragement filled the air during the painting sessions whatever he drow it was met with heartfelt cheers and optimism or when Khaalid recited verses of heartfelt poetry. Music, writing, dance, each hobby was embraced with contagious enthusiasm, and every form of self expression was celebrated as a testament to life’s endless possibilities.
Though our worlds were starkly different, I never harbored jealousy. Instead, a quiet melancholy settled in a soft sorrow born from knowing the weight of my own burdens. While Khaalid arrived at school each day with an infectious smile and a heart full of dreams, I carried the scars of a life that had never offered me such simple joys. I often felt like a solitary traveler lost in a labyrinth of unfulfilled dreams, my potential hindered by hardships that clung to me like chains.
Middle school was supposed to be a place of whispered secrets and laughter between classes, of scribbled notes and dreams stretched wide. But for me, it became a place where shadows walked beside me, silent and unshaken.
The day my big brother died, the world tilted, and I was too young to understand how grief could hollow out a person from the inside. I carried his absence like a weight in my chest, too heavy for a child to bear. And just when I thought loss had taken all it could, my other brother’s mind became a battlefield his laughter replaced by echoes of someone I no longer recognized.
I sat in classrooms where the walls felt too tight, teachers' voices a distant hum against the storm in my head. Friends asked what was wrong, but how could I explain that my world had cracked open, and I was barely holding the pieces?
I learned to smile, to nod, to pretend. But every night, when the world quieted, the same question echoed in my mind.
If my brother could disappear just like that and if the other could lose himself in his own mind then what about me? What if one day I wake up and I’m gone too?..
