Unwritten Yet

Zayneb woke up to the sound of her own breath.

No alarm, no sudden noise — just that soft, aching inhale that reminded her she was still here.

The early morning light slipped through the cracks of the blinds, pale and cold, like winter pressing its fingers against her window. Outside, America moved — cars on the street, people walking their dogs, coffee shops opening. But inside her room, silence stretched like a second skin.

She sat up slowly, like someone rising from the weight of a dream that didn’t end.

Her hands reached for the side table, fingers brushing the surface before landing on her phone. Two missed calls from her mother. She hesitated, then opened the screen, but didn’t press ‘call back.’ She already knew what it would be.

Her mother’s voice was sharp, even through the distance. It always had been.

“You don’t call. You don’t care about us. You think you’re better than your family?”

Zayneb could almost hear her mother’s lips curling with judgment, her words laden with unspoken accusations.

The familiar ache twisted in her chest. There was no escaping the pull of the past, even though she was thousands of miles away from it now.

Her thumb hovered over the screen but didn’t move. She didn’t need to hear it again.

Her mind went back to the house in Turkey. The mansion, they called it. It stood tall in the middle of a quiet neighborhood, its ornate gates and marble floors hiding the wars fought behind closed doors. She used to dream of living there, back when she thought the world could be everything she wanted it to be.

But now, every brick of that house was a memory of a lie.

She slipped out of bed, the silence following her as she moved. The kitchen was cold, the air thick with the lingering taste of loneliness. She had never been good at cooking — a cup of instant coffee, a piece of bread, and she was ready to face the day.

Zayneb’s apartment was small. Barely enough space for her belongings, let alone her dreams. The walls were thin, the floor creaked, and the window framed a view of nothing special — just another gray morning in a city that never felt like home.

But it was hers.

No one screamed here. No one threw things. No words were spat like knives. And for Zayneb, that was the closest thing to peace she could find.

She poured herself the coffee, watched the steam rise. Her phone buzzed again — her mother, this time with a text.

“Your father says you’ve forgotten who you are.”

Zayneb’s chest tightened. She set the phone down without replying. She wasn’t sure anymore who she was, either.

The university felt like a world apart. Students walked past her without seeing her, all with their own lives, their own stories, their own quiet dramas. She was just another face in the crowd, a girl with a scarf draped around her neck, a hoodie pulled too tight. It made her invisible in the best way possible.

At least, that’s how she preferred it.

She didn’t raise her hand in class, didn’t speak unless she had to. The professors thought she was reserved, maybe even shy. They didn’t know the truth: that the words she kept inside were often louder than the ones she let slip past her lips.

“You should talk more,” her classmates said.

But how could she tell them that talking had always gotten her into trouble? That her words never felt safe, that they had always been twisted and used against her?

She could feel the weight of the silence pressing against her chest every time someone tried to get too close. The distance she kept was for her own survival. And she needed to survive.

She didn’t come to the U.S. for a better life — she came because there was no other way to escape. No other way to breathe without the suffocating grasp of her family’s expectations.

After class, Zayneb took the bus back to her apartment. The city’s streets were lined with trees that shed their leaves in thick golden piles. It reminded her of Turkey — of autumns spent hiding behind those thick walls, pretending the chaos wasn’t happening just outside the door. Pretending that if she stayed quiet enough, no one would notice.

But people noticed.

Her mother.

Her father.

Her brother.

And the worst part? Zayneb noticed, too.

FLASHBACK:

It was a Friday evening when it all happened.

Her father was already shouting before Zayneb even walked into the living room. It didn’t matter what it was about — something small, a misunderstanding, an opinion too loudly voiced. He had a way of turning everything into a fight, his voice a weapon. Her mother, standing in the kitchen, did nothing but watch, arms crossed, eyes dull.

Zayneb had learned long ago that her mother’s silence was just as dangerous as her father’s rage.

And then there was her brother, slumped on the couch, eyes glued to the television like nothing was happening. She was the only one who saw it — the terror hidden behind his indifference. He never stepped in, never tried to stop it. He was too busy pretending it wasn’t real. Too busy running from the truth.

That night, Zayneb stood there, in the doorway, watching her father and brother argue. Her mother’s silence, the same as it had always been, suffocated the room. She didn’t have the courage to speak. All she could do was watch as her father’s hand rose in anger. But this time, it wasn’t at her mother.

It was at her.

Back in her apartment, Zayneb shook herself free of the memory. It wasn’t the first time her father had hit her. It wasn’t even the worst time. But each blow had chipped away at something inside her, until she wasn’t sure what was left.

The phone buzzed again.

Her mother’s message: “Don’t forget your family. You are still one of us.”

Zayneb stared at the screen for a long moment, feeling the weight of every word. She was still one of them. But wasn’t she also someone else now? Someone who was tired of surviving and wanted to live, truly live?

She dropped the phone, closed her eyes, and exhaled slowly. There were no answers here. Only questions, and a story that felt like it was still being written — one that didn’t end with her staying in a place she could no longer call home.

Zayneb sat in the silence of her apartment, staring at the empty walls, wondering if it was always going to be this way. Sometimes, the weight of her thoughts felt like it might crush her, but she wasn’t allowed to let it show. She had learned early on that no one wanted to see the cracks. They didn’t want to hear the ugly truth behind the composed exterior. They only wanted smiles, but smiles were a luxury she couldn’t afford.

Her phone vibrated again — a text from an unknown number. She unlocked the screen, wondering who it was. A new classmate? A random number?

“Are you still meeting at the library today?”

It was Amir — a boy from her psychology class. He was friendly in a way that made Zayneb uncomfortable. His energy was too open, too bright for someone like her who had learned to hide. She didn’t know why he reached out to her so often. She didn’t know how to explain that it wasn’t him — it was her. She couldn’t let anyone get too close. She had made the mistake of trusting too many people back in Turkey, and it had cost her.

Still, the thought of being around someone, even if it felt forced, made her hesitate. She hadn’t had a real conversation with anyone in a while. She wasn’t sure if she even remembered how to talk without hiding pieces of herself.

“I’ll be there in an hour.” She replied, the words feeling strange as they left her fingers. But she didn’t want to stay in the isolation of her apartment any longer. There was a nagging restlessness in her chest, something she couldn’t quite name. Something that told her it was time to stop hiding.

An hour later, she found herself in the university library, the smell of old books and coffee wrapping around her like a cocoon. Amir was already sitting at a table by the window, his eyes scanning a textbook. He smiled when he saw her walk in, and for a moment, Zayneb wished she could return that smile without the weight that followed her everywhere.

She took a seat across from him, pulling her scarf tighter around her neck as if to shield herself from the open warmth he offered. He didn’t say anything for a moment, just waited, watching her like he knew there was something behind the silence.

“You don’t have to talk,” he said quietly, almost as if he’d read her mind. “I just thought it might help, you know, to be around someone for a while.”

Zayneb didn’t know how to explain that it wasn’t about talking. It was about the noise inside her head, the constant battle to keep her emotions hidden. It was about the way she had spent years building walls around herself so high that she could barely see over them anymore.

“Thanks,” she murmured, even though she wasn’t sure what she was thanking him for. The company? The quiet understanding? Or maybe just the escape from the ever-present reminder of everything back home.

She glanced at the window, watching the autumn leaves swirl outside. The trees reminded her of Turkey — of the ones near her family’s house, their branches heavy with memories of what she couldn’t escape. The same feeling of being stuck. Of wishing for freedom, but knowing it was always just out of reach.

Her phone buzzed again. She ignored it.

Amir continued to read, but there was something different in the way he watched her now. His attention wasn’t as casual as it had been earlier. Zayneb shifted uncomfortably in her seat, unsure of how to keep the conversation going without revealing too much. She could feel the walls in her chest rise higher, her body instinctively pulling away from the warmth Amir was offering.

“You know,” he said softly, breaking the silence. “I don’t mean to be nosy, but… you seem like you carry a lot with you. You don’t have to tell me what it is, but… if you ever want to talk, I’m here.”

Zayneb stiffened, the words hitting her like a sharp blow. She didn’t know how to explain that she didn’t talk to people. That even if she did, she wouldn’t know where to start. The past had so many layers, so many unspoken words, so many wounds that hadn’t even started to heal.

She looked down at her hands, unsure of how to respond.

“I don’t talk much,” she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Amir smiled softly, but it wasn’t a pitying smile. It was a smile that said he understood more than he let on.

“Maybe you don’t need to talk,” he said gently. “Maybe just being here, even in silence, is enough.”

The words hung in the air, but they didn’t seem to reach her. The silence between them grew, and Zayneb felt herself closing off again, pulling back into the familiar darkness she carried with her.

She wasn’t sure why, but the thought of staying here, in this moment, felt wrong. She stood up abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor. Amir looked up at her, surprised by the sudden motion.

“I’m sorry,” she said, feeling a mix of frustration and embarrassment. “I think I need to go.” She grabbed her things, not waiting for a response. She didn’t know why she was running, but it felt like the only thing she could do.

Before she left the library, she checked her phone. Her mother had called again, but Zayneb couldn’t bring herself to listen this time. Instead, she stepped into the cold outside air, where the wind bit at her skin, and she was left with nothing but her thoughts.

Back in her apartment, she sat on the edge of her bed, staring at the phone in her hands. She didn’t want to call her mother. She didn’t want to hear the same accusations. The same guilt. The same expectations that weighed on her like chains.

She thought of her father, of the way his anger would explode without warning, of the violence that left her feeling powerless. She thought of her mother, whose silence had always been more painful than any words could ever be. She thought of her brother, who had learned to look away.

And she thought of Lale, her little sister. The one person who still needed her.

Zayneb had always felt like she was the one holding everything together. She was the protector, the one who kept the peace, even if it meant burying her own pain deep enough that no one could see it.

But Zayneb was tired.

She was tired of being the strong one. Tired of pretending like everything was okay. Tired of running from the truth.

She opened her laptop, fingers trembling slightly. The blank document sat there, mocking her. But for the first time in a long time, she didn’t care about being perfect. She didn’t care about the way the world would judge her.

She typed one sentence:

“I’m tired of pretending to be someone I’m not.”

And then, for the first time in a long time, she didn’t stop typing.