Iman's POV
The old library smelled the same—dust, worn wood, and stories.
I'd been here a hundred times. But never like this.
Not with scraped knees under my shalwar.
Not with silence filling the space where my voice used to be.
Not with someone's fingers still ghosting around my wrist like a memory I didn't want to replay.
Ahad placed the lunch bag on the low table between us and sat cross-legged like it was any other day. Like nothing had happened. Like we weren't still carrying the echo of that fight with us.
"Say something," he finally muttered, unwrapping a samosa and placing it in front of me like an offering.
I looked at it. Then at him.
Still silent.
He sighed dramatically, taking a bite of his own. "You know, people usually thank their rescuers."
I raised an eyebrow.
He smiled—soft, easy. "There she is."
But I wasn't really there.
Not fully.
I could still hear Haffiz's voice. "You are mine."
Still feel his fingers tightening around my wrist.
Still remember the panic in my chest—not just from what he said, but from what I felt.
Not love.
Not even anger.
Just… trapped.
I shivered.
Ahad must've noticed. His voice gentled. "You okay now?"
I nodded. Barely.
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Look, I know it was too much. Too fast. You didn't deserve that."
I stayed quiet. But inside, something loosened.
Because he got it.
He always got it.
Even when I didn't say a word.
He reached for another snack, then glanced at Shanzay who sat by the window, arms folded, eyes focused on a stray cat outside like it was the only thing that made sense in the world right now.
She'd been scared.
I'd never seen her like that before.
Not because of the fight—she'd grown up around boys throwing punches.
But because of me.
Because she'd never seen me like that.
"I'm sorry," I finally whispered.
Ahad blinked. "For what?"
"For... letting it go that far. For not stopping him sooner. For being silent."
"Iman." His voice dropped, firm. "You didn't let anything happen. He did."
I looked down at my hands.
"I just… I don't get it," I said. "Why me? Why like that?"
Ahad didn't answer immediately. And maybe that silence was better than anything else.
Because when he did speak, it wasn't about Haffiz. Or fights. Or drama.
It was just this:
"You don't have to get it. You just have to know who's in your corner."
And in that dusty, half-broken room, with samosas cooling and pages rustling behind us,
I finally let myself feel safe again.