INAAYA

Chapter 1

Home was never a place. At least, not for me. Maybe it’s just a feeling—a fleeting one I’ve spent my whole life chasing, without ever really finding it. And if that’s true, then maybe I’ve always been trying to belong to places that were never mine to begin with.

The apartment looked the same as always.

The tacky yellow wallpaper still clung to the walls, stubborn and peeling at the corners. The leather sofa bore the same sagging dent from too many evenings spent curled up, too tired to care. The kitchen still held the faint, lingering scent of old spices—coriander, cumin, maybe a little turmeric—like ghosts of meals long finished.

But today, something was different.

The air felt heavier. The colors looked duller. The familiar space felt like a memory I’d already started detaching from—before I’d even stepped out the door.

Leaving had always been a part of my rhythm. A cycle. A dance I never quite learned to finish. I’d leave, only to return, pulled back by unfinished conversations, aching comfort, or the quiet terror of the unknown.

I’ve lost count of the times I tried to let go, only to run back—physically, emotionally, spiritually. Caught in a loop I couldn’t quite break.

But this time… this time felt final.

I sat cross-legged on my bed, surrounded by the mess I’d created over the months—maybe years. My gaze drifted to the far corner, where my small study table was buried under books, notebooks, pens, unopened letters, half-filled journals. I couldn’t even see the wood of it anymore.

My eyes moved across the room.

Clothes hung haphazardly off the chair—wrinkled, entangled, forgotten. Papers and wrappers scattered across the mattress. A two-day-old Coke can sat on the nightstand, dripping condensation in the still air.

Everything looked rushed. Left behind. Like I’d already mentally checked out long ago.

Somewhere in this mess was a version of me I had quietly outgrown.

I took a slow breath, grounding myself. So many emotions had passed through these walls—grief, joy, fury, softness. I’d cried in this room, laughed till I was breathless, lost myself in long silences. But no matter how hard I tried, it had never truly felt like home.

Maybe I’d convinced myself it did, once. But I think I always knew better.

“You have too many clothes!”

I turned to see Sheerin crouched beside my suitcase, trying—and failing—to zip it shut. The bright red fabric bulged at the sides. She was biting her lip, tugging at the zipper like it had personally betrayed her.

I smiled. She’d been working in the apartment for the past few months, but somewhere along the way, she’d become more than just help. Sheerin had a way of making things feel lived in, even when they weren’t hers. She had this quiet grace about her, like she could make a home out of anything.

“Then leave some behind,” she said, bumping my shoulder with hers. “You’re going to a new place. New energy. Don’t carry so much.”

I smirked. “Wow, Di. I call you for help, and I get a lecture?”

She scoffed, straightening up. “Just saying… stay here another year, and you’ll end up married to some banker your dad picked out.”

“God, Di!” I groaned, tossing a pillow at her. She caught it midair, laughing as she walked off to the kitchen.

I followed her in, watching her open the cupboards. Flour, lentils, half-used spice packets—remnants of my occasional bursts of inspiration. I’d cook when I felt calm, like I was building something, even if it was temporary. I hadn’t felt like that in a while.

“Take these,” I said, gathering the ingredients and placing them on the table. “You’ll use them more than I will.”

She hesitated. Her eyes flicked over the pile, then back to me.

“That’s too much,” she said softly.

“It’s going to waste if I leave it here,” I replied, nudging the bag toward her.

She pressed her lips together, pride and gratitude visibly wrestling inside her. Then she murmured, “Allah duniya ki sari barkat de.”

(May Allah bless you with all the world’s blessings.)

I nodded, swallowing the sudden tightness in my chest.

For a moment, I felt good. Helpful. Like maybe I was doing one thing right.

But then—just as quickly—a strange feeling crept in.

Was I just trying to feel better about leaving?

I exhaled slowly. I didn’t want to unpack that thought. Not now. I’d deal with the guilt later.

Right now, I just needed to keep moving. One item at a time.

Sheerin wiped her hands on her scarf and sat beside me. Her eyes studied me—quiet, knowing.

“Are you scared?” she asked.

I blinked.

Was I?

I thought about all the things I’d tried to leave behind before. People. Places. Dreams I never dared chase. Patterns I swore I’d break. I’d always managed to go back, in some form or another. Even if my body left, my mind would linger.

But this time felt different. The air smelled like change. The silence was deeper. The goodbye felt real.

“I don’t know,” I said. “But I feel… different.”

“A good different or a bad different?”

I paused. “Just... different.”

She nodded like she understood something I hadn’t yet put into words.

I stood up and gave the apartment one last look.

The peeling wallpaper. The faded couch. The narrow kitchen window where sunlight poured in every morning.

It was all still here. But I wasn’t.

And for the first time, I was okay with letting go.

I knew I wasn’t coming back.