THE HUNTER .

I'm walking home with half my soul dragging behind me and the other half somewhere back in the classroom, still yawning through lectures.

The sun is dipping, low and slow, bleeding gold across the pavement. People brush past me in both directions—businessmen yelling into Bluetooths, girls in tight skirts clicking their way to somewhere important, kids running like chaos bottled in skin. Life is loud here. Too loud for someone with a thunderstorm in her chest.

But I keep walking, zoning in and out.

Something's definitely coming. I don't know what. But I can feel it. In the pit of my stomach, in the crackle of the wind, in the way my mom looked at me this morning like she already knew something I didn't.

Maybe I'm dying.

Maybe it's nothing.

Maybe it's everything.

Either way, I'm so goddamn tired of guessing.

Shadin hasn't texted since last week. I miss his loud voice and stupid smirks more than I'll ever admit to his face. He would've distracted me right now—probably offered to set the entire fucking city on fire just to make me smile. But he's abroad now. Living his best boy-genius-gone-menace life.

And me?

Still here. Brain rotting.

I should probably apply somewhere. A publishing house maybe. Somewhere with books and deadlines and caffeine. Or I'll just snap one day, say fuck it, and run off to the countryside. Build a small house. Get a cat. Raise some rabbits. Start a garden. Bury my phone. Disappear.

No more deadlines. No more city. No more people.

Just silence and wet soil and something that isn't this.

I cross the road with a small herd of people. It's that classic crosswalk chaos—bodies bumping into each other, earbuds in, eyes on phones. Everyone's got somewhere to be. Everyone's in a hurry to feel important.

And that's when it happens.

Something lands in my arms.

No—thrown into my arms.

Not violently. Not aggressively. But it's enough to startle the hell out of me. I fumble it, almost drop it, my fingers scrambling like a damn cartoon character until I finally get a grip.

It's soft.

Delicate.

Cold.

I look down.

White roses.

A full bouquet of them. Not plastic. Not cheap. These are real. Fragrant. Pristine. The kind you only see in bridal photoshoots or ridiculously overpriced Instagram reels.

And they're mine now apparently?

"What the fuck—" I mutter under my breath.

I whip my head around, eyes scanning the swarm of strangers. There's gotta be some dumbass YouTuber hiding in the crowd, waiting to get my reaction. Someone with a ring light stuffed in their backpack and a mic clipped to their fucking hoodie.

TikTok prank? Social experiment? Secret admirer reveal? What the hell is this?

But… nothing.

No one's pointing a phone. No one's laughing. No camera crews. No fake mustache-wearing dudes waiting to scream "you've been pranked!"

Just people. Moving. Living. Oblivious.

I hug the bouquet closer instinctively.

It's gorgeous. Ridiculous. Luxurious.

Girls around me do double takes as they pass. One whispers "damn" under her breath, and the other hums out a little dreamy aww. Even a guy glances sideways with that tight-lipped smirk that screams jealousy masked as judgment.

But no one claims it.

There's no note. No ribbon with initials. No card hidden between the petals. Just pristine white roses in sleek black wrapping paper. Classy. Clean. Untouchable.

And I'm standing in the middle of a crosswalk, clutching something that looks like it came straight out of a fucking movie scene while the rest of the world keeps moving like I'm invisible.

I step back onto the sidewalk. Still looking. Still waiting. Still suspicious.

It has to be a mistake.

A mix-up.

A trap.

Something.

My pulse ticks louder. Not fast. Just… present. Aware.

I check the bouquet again. Nothing.

No stalker energy. No red thread of blood. No hidden blade. No envelope whispering "I'm watching you." Just roses.

And it hits me then—they smell like peace.

Not perfume-faked peace. Real peace. Petal-soft. Garden-wet. Rain-just-ended kind of peace.

For some reason, that makes my throat go tight.

I've been choking on city smoke and expectations for so long, I forgot what clean even smelled like.

I look around one more time.

Still no answers. No cameras. No laughing bros with shitty punchlines. Just the weight of the bouquet in my arms and the ghost of a shiver running down my spine.

I should throw it. Toss it in the trash. Burn it just in case it's bugged or cursed or dipped in psychological warfare.

But instead, I take a slow, deep breath and say, "Fine."

Fine.

You win.

Whoever the fuck you are.

I tuck the bouquet tighter against my side and start walking.

Still suspicious. Still edgy. But a little lighter.

It's stupid, I know.

But suddenly, the air doesn't feel so heavy anymore.

And for the first time in weeks… I feel kind of—

Fresh.

Like I've stepped out of something.

And maybe, just maybe,

I've stepped into something else.

The moment I reach home, I shut the door harder than necessary.

It's not out of anger, not really. More like confusion with too many sharp edges. My arms ache—not from the weight of the bouquet but from the weight of not knowing. The mystery of it, the fucking elegance of it. Who does that? Who just hands someone a movie-scene bouquet and vanishes into the crowd like smoke?

I walk straight to my room, kick off my shoes without grace, and drop the bouquet carefully—like it's a live wire—into the corner chair near the window.

And then I stare at it.

Still flawless. Still fucking smug in its beauty. Still giving zero answers.

It shouldn't be affecting me this much. They're just roses. Just flowers.

But something about it messes with my head.

The color.

The freshness.

The timing.

The goddamn silence of it.

I sit on the edge of my bed, head tilted, trying to pick it apart.

Maybe it was some TikTok guy. Maybe the video's already up—"We gave strangers luxury roses to see how they react 🥺✨." Maybe there's a hundred thousand views, and my blank, deadpan face is now a meme.

Great.

Just fucking great.

I shake my head and reach for my phone—mostly to distract myself. I need something mindless. Something loud and stupid.

But then I catch a glimpse of the date in the top corner of the lock screen.

October 18.

And my brain… stalls.

Wait.

Wait—

Wait what?

I unlock the phone. Check the date again.

October 18.

October fucking 18.

That's—

My birthday?

I blink. Hard. The number stays the same.

No memory of remembering.

I forgot.

I forgot my own goddamn birthday.

I let out a breathless, stunned laugh and collapse backward onto the bed, arms splayed like I just got punched in the chest by time.

I don't celebrate it, not really. I never have. No parties, no cakes, no bullshit. Just another date that happens to exist.

But still—

I forgot. Completely. Like it was erased from my mental calendar without a trace. What kind of emotionally repressed twenty-one-year-old blanks out her own birthday?

Apparently me.

And suddenly—the bouquet.

My eyes dart to the chair.

White roses.

On the street.

Today.

October 18.

A chill climbs up my spine like slow fingers.

No.

No fucking way.

This can't be birthday-related. No one knew. I didn't even remember. It's just a coincidence. Some dumb TikToker playing flower fairy to strangers for views. That's it.

It just sits there, regal and innocent, like it doesn't smell like money and mystery and something that shouldn't be in my room without explanation.

I grab my pillow and scream into it.

Happy fucking birthday, I guess.

And now I get to spend it spiraling over a goddamn floral delivery from a faceless stranger in the middle of a crowded street.

I flop back again and stare at the ceiling, lips curled into a dry, hollow smile.

Yup.

Nothing weird about this day at all.

Nothing at all.

.

---

---

Time is cruel in the way it slips out of your hands when you're not looking.

One second, you're screaming into your pillow on your twenty-first birthday. The next, you're walking across the stage in a black gown and heels that hurt like hell, shaking hands with a dean you don't give a fuck about, holding a scroll that says "Topper—Department of English Literature."

I don't cry.

I don't smile either.

I just take the damn certificate and walk off like it's a receipt from a bookstore.

But the moment I step out of the auditorium—

It hits.

Not the weight of the degree.

The weight of the flowers.

They come out of nowhere. Everyone's handing me bouquets like I'm some local celebrity. White roses. Pink lilies. Red tulips. More than I can carry.

And at the center of it all—

Shadin.

The menace.

The traitor who ditched me for a whole damn year and fled the continent.

Now back like nothing happened, standing there with three separate bouquets, grinning like he's the hero in this story.

He doesn't say anything. Just hands them to me and steps back, like he knows the spotlight belongs to me today. People around us literally pause. I swear to God, someone even takes a picture. A few girls whisper like I'm the scandal of the hour—"Is he her boyfriend?" "Did he send all of those?" "God, she's so lucky."

I text him one word later.

Me: Show off.

And his reply is instant.

Shadin: You're welcome, drama queen.

That's it.

No explanation for the roses.

No "I'm proud of you."

No "I missed you."

Just chaos. His favorite language.

It's been three months since that day.

Three fucking months.

And life has gone back to its dull, choking pace. Faster than I expected. Colder than I was ready for.

Ifrah's drowning in her internship. I barely get texts from her anymore unless she's bitching about her toxic manager at TIG.

Shaiza made it into another media firm after crying for days over not getting into TIG. She's so busy now, I only see her Instagram stories with aesthetic office coffee.

Ruby's opening her café next weekend. She keeps sending photos of unfinished shelves and dust-covered books. She's tired, sleep-deprived, and still the happiest one out of all of us.

And me?

I'm alone.

Not in the tragic, violin-soundtrack way.

In the real way.

I don't hate it. I've always liked my own company more than most humans. But there's a void now. Something sharp and quiet. Something that feels like the last page of a book that ended mid-sentence.

I wake up late.

Make coffee I never finish.

Scroll through my camera roll and stop every time I see a bouquet or a rainy street or some blurry-ass memory I don't remember taking.

And every day, I try to write.

I open a blank doc.

I title it:

"The Man I Met for Three Seconds."

Then I delete it.

Next day:

"The Stranger Who Looked Through Me."

Delete again.

Eventually, I settle on this:

"I Want You To Haunt Me."

Because that's what he does.

He lives in my head. Rent-free. Untouchable. A myth I built out of one glance and the idea of him. He's not a man anymore. He's everything I wanted and couldn't have. Everything reality refused to give me.

So I'll do what reality can't.

I'll write him.

The way I want him.

The way he could've been if the world wasn't a heartless fuck and I didn't live in a timeline where he left at the green light and never came back.

I don't have the full plot yet. Just fragments.

But I know who he is.

He's the man with the leather jacket.

The shadow at the red light.

The god carved by rage and rain and impossible eyes.

And I'll be the girl who dared to love him.

Even if it's just on paper.

Because maybe that's the only place where I get to keep him.

Where I get to be wanted back.

Where he doesn't vanish into traffic.

Everyone keeps asking the same damn question.

"Why didn't you apply?"

"Even TIG was open for literature roles."

"You topped the department, Arshila. You beat Ifrah."

"You're wasting your potential."

"Do you have any idea what that certificate could do for you?"

And honestly?

I don't care.

I don't want to sit in some stiff office chair beside a stranger who drinks cheap coffee and breathes too loudly.

I don't want to fill out reports and smile at men in ties and pretend to care about how "corporate culture" works.

I don't want to answer emails with dead eyes and sit through HR workshops about "team building" and "communication strategies."

I don't want any of that shit.

Because I already know what would happen if I tried.

I'd sit in that chair with a body I didn't belong in, typing words I didn't believe in, smiling at a manager I didn't respect, and somewhere around week two, I'd snap. Not the loud kind. The quiet kind. The kind where you stop pretending. The kind where the real version of you starts leaking through, and they don't know how to handle that, so they write you off as difficult, disruptive, unstable.

I'm not meant for offices.

I'm not meant for people who speak in meetings but never say anything real.

I'm not meant to be handled.

And most of all—I'm not meant to be distracted.

Because the second I let another name take up space in my head…

He'll fade.

And no matter how stupid it sounds—how insane it makes me—I don't want to forget him.

Not even for a second.

That's why I didn't apply anywhere.

That's why I spend my days in oversized T-shirts, sitting cross-legged in bed with my laptop open and blank docs blinking at me like ghosts.

It's not depression.

It's not laziness.

It's choice.

It's the conscious, defiant, middle-finger-to-society decision to stay in my own head—where the only voice that matters is mine, and maybe… maybe his.

Even if he never speaks.

Even if he's just a memory wrapped in leather and fog.

Shadin texts me almost every night now. The bastard's abroad again—Spain this time—and still manages to be more present than people who live down the street.

Shadin: I swear to God, if you don't date me, I'm going to lose my goddamn mind.

Me: You lost it a long time ago.

Shadin: Babe I'd fly back just to pick you up on a bike and ride until you forget that fucker.

Shadin: You know the one. Mr. Traffic God.

Shadin: Did he ever even talk to you? No. I talk. I have a personality. I have a passport.

Me: You have a delusion.

Shadin: I also have arms. Just saying.

He thinks he's charming.

Sometimes, he is.

Sometimes I smile. Sometimes I roll my eyes so hard I give myself a headache. But never once—not once—do I feel what I felt when a man I didn't even speak to looked through me like I was something.

Shadin's fun.

But he's not him.

And he knows that.

He just pretends not to care.

Shaiza calls me last night. 1:42 a.m. She's crying.

I answer on the third ring.

"Don't say it," she sobs.

"Say what?" I whisper into the dark.

"That I should've never taken this job. That I should've stayed home. That I should've followed you and just fucking vanished."

I listen to her breathe hard through the phone. She's having a panic attack again. It happens when the pressure builds. Her voice gets messy. Fast. She says things she doesn't mean. Or maybe she does. Who the fuck knows anymore?

I talk her through it.

I say dumb things like "breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth" even though I hate when people say that shit to me. But it helps her.

Then I lie.

"You'll be fine," I tell her.

"You're strong."

"You've got this."

All the same branded lines the world feeds us.

She calms down eventually.

Hangs up with a sniff and a soft "thank you."

Ifrah? Oh, she's thriving.

Apparently.

Got a new hookup at work. Some fellow intern with sad brown eyes and no future, but good shoulders.

She told me about it casually, like she was talking about the weather. "We made out in the server room. Not that great. His cologne gave me a headache. But at least it wasn't boring."

I didn't know what to say, so I just said, "Nice."

What else could I say?

I don't judge them. My friends. Their paths.

But I don't envy them either.

Ruby's café opens next weekend. She's sent the invite card on the group chat with a hundred emojis and a voice note that sounded like she was on the verge of tears.

She's proud.

She should be.

That café is her dream, built with her bare hands, between shifts and stress migraines and late-night breakdowns.

I texted back.

Me: I'll be there. I'll bring you a fucking cactus for the counter.

And I meant it.

Even though deep down… I don't want to be anywhere. I don't want to show up, or smile, or pose for pictures in front of flower arrangements and string lights. I just want to vanish.

Slip into the air like smoke and disappear.

Not because I hate my life.

But because I'm scared of it.

I'm scared that I'll wake up ten years from now still thinking about the man I met for three fucking seconds and wondering why no one else ever made my heart beat like that again.

Scared that maybe this is it.

Maybe I already had my once-in-a-lifetime moment—and I let it ride away on a black bike without asking for a goddamn name.

So yeah.

That's why I didn't apply for a job.

That's why I didn't chase after companies or go to interviews or fake my way through resumes like the rest of the world.

Because I'm not looking for stability.

I'm looking for him.

Even if he never comes.

At least I'll be ready.

At least I'll know I waited.

And when I finally write this book—

He'll know too.

__________________________________________

I'm sitting with my legs kicked up on the rusted balcony railing like I own the goddamn sky.

The city looks quieter than usual tonight—fewer honks, fewer people shouting into their phones. Even the dogs have taken the night off. There's just a soft hum of distance and some idiot revving their bike every three minutes like they're trying to remind the world they exist.

I let the wind roll over my face.

It smells like burnt tea leaves and sweat-soaked pavement, but weirdly… it's calming. Comforting.

There's a book on my lap that I'm not reading, and a cup of tea gone cold beside my foot.

I haven't written a single word all week.

Not one.

Not a line.

Not even a shitty paragraph I can delete later.

I keep telling myself I'll start.

Tomorrow.

Later.

Next hour.

But somehow, I always end up here—zoning out into the night, waiting for something that never shows up.

And then I hear it.

The footsteps.

I don't move. Don't even flinch.

I know those fucking footsteps. Too light to be thieves, too hesitant to be casual. They don't belong to people who take walks—they belong to people carrying intentions.

Here we go.

I brace myself, dropping my feet from the railing and sitting up straighter, arms crossed like a silent fuck off banner across my chest.

They step out together.

My father drops into the old rattan couch like this is going to be a friendly chat. My mother stays standing, arms folded, sari crisp, eyes sharp, and spine straighter than mine's ever been.

This is not a chat.

This is a setup.

"Are you gonna be jobless for a lifetime?" my dad says, not even bothering with preamble.

Straight to the goddamn point.

I blink at him, slow, deliberate. "Yeah," I say. "That's the plan."

He raises an eyebrow. My mom doesn't even blink.

"Maybe you can help with my business?" he tries, almost sounding generous.

I almost laugh. "I don't have any interest in that," I say, and I don't even mean it to be rude—it's just a fact. He knows it. I've never stepped foot into that tiny office of his where papers are piled like walls and the printer screams like it's dying.

He sighs like I've disappointed him since birth.

But it's my mom who speaks next. Calm. Clean. Practiced.

"Fine. You don't have to go to a job," she says.

For a second, I stare at her. That's... suspiciously easy.

"That's the plan," I repeat, slower.

She doesn't react.

Instead, she says, "Your aunt called today."

Oh, fuck.

Here we go.

I stay silent. Let her continue.

"She mentioned her friend's son. He's working at TIG."

TIG again. Why is that fucking company haunting me like a ghost in Gucci?

"And?" I say, too flat.

"He's in a very good position. Solid future. He's rich, well-mannered, very—handsome," she adds like it's supposed to be a cherry on top of a shit cake.

I blink slowly. "Okay?"

"So we were thinking… maybe you could talk to him."

I turn to look at them. Both of them. Dad on the couch. Mom standing like a fucking recruiter.

"Talk to him," I echo. "Like... casually?"

No one answers.

The silence fills in the blanks.

"You want to arrange my marriage?" My voice rises. "What the fuck. You're giving me marriage?? In this fucking generation? While I'm twenty-one? Twenty-fucking-one! I just got out of university!"

Dad looks like he wants to disappear. Mom just stands there like this is the most reasonable thing in the world.

"You guys dated for ten years before you got married!" I point at them like a prosecutor.

"So why can't I?"

Mom shrugs. "It's different now."

"No. It's convenient now."

She doesn't deny it.

"It'll benefit your father's business too," she adds casually, like she's discussing a new blender purchase.

I stare at her. "So it's not about me. It's about a deal."

"It's for your own good," Dad chimes in, finally finding his voice. "He's a good boy. Maybe your type."

I scoff. "My type? You don't even know my type."

.

My dad squints. "Do you have a boyfriend?"

And suddenly I think of him. That biker. The storm in leather. The unreal ache that's still crawling in my ribs

I look him in the eye.

"No."

My mom lights up like she's won the lottery.

"Then we should fix this!" she beams, already mentally writing the invitation cards.

Fix it.

Like I'm broken.

Like being single at twenty-one is a disease that needs immediate treatment.

I clench my jaw. "This isn't for me, is it?"

Neither of them answers.

And that silence? That silence is the loudest confirmation I've ever heard.

I inhale slowly, try to calm the storm under my ribs. "I want some time to think," I say through my teeth.

They nod.

And then they leave.

Back downstairs. Probably to discuss florists and guest lists and how best to manipulate me.

And I'm left sitting on the balcony, staring at the black sky like it's going to give me an answer.

The wind's colder now.

Sharper.

Not enough to cut skin.

But enough to remind me—

I don't belong here.

Not in their idea of life.

Not in this business exchange wearing the mask of marriage.

Not as someone's wife just because it's convenient.

I don't want a "good boy."

I want him.

Even if he's the worst decision I'll ever make.

At least he'd be mine.

Even for a second.

-----------------------------------

I don't know how the fuck I got here.

That's the first thought in my head when I sit across from him.

Him, the so-called perfect match—Aydin. Twenty-eight. Tall. Good-looking in a very "TIG billboard" kind of way. Sharp suit, clean smile, polite voice. The kind of man you can proudly take to a business dinner or let stand next to your father without feeling embarrassed.

And me?

I'm sitting in this over-bright, expensive-ass restaurant, staring at the expensive cutlery like it holds the answer to how to dig myself out of this grave I just agreed to climb into.

I asked my friends first, of course. Because that's what you do when your life is being flipped over like a table.

And they said yes.

Not directly, but in their trying to be supportive but lowkey manipulative way.

"It might be good for you," Ruby had said softly, her hand on my shoulder. "To move on. To stop thinking about… him."

Shaiza, always the chaotic little shit, shrugged and said, "He's not coming back. You don't even know who he is, babe. If he gave a fuck, he'd have shown up by now. Go meet this new guy. Just dinner."

Ifrah—bless her emotionally constipated heart—just stared at me and said, "It's one dinner, not a fucking wedding."

They didn't get it.

Not fully.

They never saw him.

Never felt what I did in that flash of lightning where time slowed down and reality cracked open to show me something not meant for this world.

But I was tired.

So fucking tired.

Tired of waiting.

Tired of hoping.

Tired of aching over a ghost.

So I gave myself three days.

Three days of staring at my ceiling..

Three days of wondering if letting him go would stop this… fucking weight on my chest.

And when it didn't go away, I said fuck it.

I agreed.

-----------------------------

The restaurant smells like old money and imported flowers. The lights are dim, the music soft jazz, the kind of place where the food is too pretty to eat and the wine list is longer than the menu.

Aydin is already there when I arrive. He stands when he sees me—like a fucking gentleman—and pulls the chair out for me.

I smile. Barely. Automatically. I sit.

He starts talking the moment I'm settled.

"I'm really glad you agreed to meet," he says, voice warm, low, easy to listen to. "I know it's… a lot. But I think it's good our parents arranged this. Makes things simpler, right?"

Simpler.

Right. Nothing screams romance like your life being negotiated like a business merger.

I nod. "Sure."

He keeps going.

He tells me about himself.

Works at TIG, of course. Because this entire world fucking revolves around that place.

Born in Sharjah, raised in Dubai. Studied finance. Now in senior management. Loves reading—non-fiction mostly. Travels when he can. Loves animals.

Perfect. Polished. Clean.

The kind of man any sane girl would want.

And all I can think is—he's not you.

He doesn't have your hands.

Or your eyes.

Or that scar near your mouth.

He doesn't look at me like I'm a puzzle worth figuring out, or like he already knows how to break me.

He doesn't make my fucking heartbeat forget its rhythm.

He doesn't haunt me.

I sip the wine. It tastes like disappointment and expensive regret.

"I hope we can get to know each other before next week," Aydin says gently.

"Next week?" I echo, even though I fucking know.

"Yeah," he smiles, proud like it's a goddamn achievement. "Our dads locked the engagement date. Thursday."

And just like that, it feels like someone shoved a whole fucking glacier down my throat.

I nod, but something in my chest snaps.

I feel it—like a thread pulled too tight.

The rest of dinner is a blur. He talks. I nod. I don't eat. I barely breathe. I hold onto my purse like it's the only thing keeping me from walking out.

Because reality is a bitch.

Because I'm unlucky.

Because I met the wrong person at the wrong time, and the world doesn't stop for people like me. It just moves forward, dragging you with it, whether your heart is ready or not.

When I get home, I drop the fake smile like it burned me and go straight to my room. I don't even turn the lights on.

I curl up on the bed like a fucking child and let the tears come.

Not loud. Not messy.

Just silent. Raw. Burning.

I cry because I'm going to be someone's fiancée.

And my mind is full of him.

Still.

Always.

The boy from the traffic light.

The storm on a bike.

The stranger who didn't say a word, but rewired my fucking brain in three goddamn seconds.

And now?

Now I have to learn how to belong to someone else.

When every part of me is still owned by a man who never even touched me.

What kind of fucked-up story is that?

-----------------------------------------------------

Ruby's café smells like cinnamon and espresso and fresh paint—hope wrapped in glossy floors and the hum of celebration. The lights are warm, the walls lined with shelves that hold books waiting for fingertips. There are plants in clay pots, mugs with sarcastic quotes, and a chalkboard menu that still smudges when you brush too close.

It's perfect.

So fucking perfect.

Everyone is here.

Shaiza in her oversized hoodie and giant hoops, sipping iced mocha like it's champagne.

Ifrah in a blazer, acting like she owns the building.

Ruby—red lipstick matching the ribbon she cut just an hour ago—glowing. Her dream, made real.

And me?

I'm here in body. That's all I can offer.and a cactus.the one i promised.

The launch is beautiful. Cameras flash. The soft clink of forks on cake plates echoes around the room. People come. People praise. They leave. Slowly. Quietly. Until only the four of us are left—sitting around a table in the corner, coffee half-cold, laughter stretching thin like the final string of a party balloon before it pops.

And I say it.

Flat. Straight. Like ripping off a bandage with no time to brace.

"They fixed the engagement," I say.

A pause.

Not even a dramatic one. Just… stillness.

"Tomorrow," I add, like the silence needed a punchline.

Ruby's jaw drops, mascara blinking fast.

Shaiza freezes, her straw stuck in her mouth like she's forgotten how to sip.

Ifrah just sets her cup down slowly, that small frown already curving on her face.

"Tomorrow?" Ruby echoes.

"As in this tomorrow?" Shaiza says, voice sharp.

"Yeah."

Their reactions start tumbling in—like they've been waiting for this.

"You're actually going through with it?" Ifrah says, more accusation than question.

"I thought you were joking," Shaiza mutters.

"Girl, what the actual fuck?" Ruby leans forward, elbows on the table. "You're not even happy."

I look at them. All of them. Their voices mix with the low jazz playing in the background, a perfect storm of disbelief and high-pitched chaos.

And I want to scream.

Not because they're wrong.

But because they're right.

I open my mouth. Close it. Then say, "Shadin texted me this morning."

Of course they all go silent.

I continue, voice flat. "He said to pack my bags. He'll pick me up. Take me with him. Abroad. Escape plan."

Ifrah blinks. "Are you serious?"

"Dead." I let out a dry laugh. "He's been saying it for months. Marry me. Date me. Forget the guy from traffic. Forget your weird-ass imaginary love story. I'm here. I'm real."

"And?" Shaiza pushes. "Why didn't you?"

"Because I'm tired," I whisper. "Tired of being tired."

They don't respond to that. What can they even say?

I look down at my cup, the rim smudged with lipstick, my fingers cold against the ceramic. They're still talking—about dresses, makeup, how they need to look hot for my engagement day. They're excited like this is something worth celebrating. Like this is a fucking carnival, and I'm the one in costume.

And then it happens.

That small ache in my chest—the one that's been there for weeks—pulls. Tightens.

It's not loud. Not explosive. Just… there.

A slow twist.

A whisper of grief for something that never existed long enough to be lost.

I push the chair back.

They look at me.

"I'm going," I say, grabbing my bag.

Ruby stands. "Wait, where—?"

"I just need to walk."

They don't stop me. They know better.

They just let me go.

The door swings open behind me with a soft chime, and the night air wraps around me like a secret. The road is mostly empty. A few cars hum by, headlights dragging shadows across the pavement. The air smells like gasoline and rain that hasn't fallen yet.

I walk.

No destination.

Just sidewalk beneath my feet, lights blurring in the corner of my eyes, my mind loud and fucking exhausted. My engagement is tomorrow. My parents are proud. His parents are richer. Everything makes sense on paper.

But my heart?

It's somewhere on a goddamn streetlight, still watching a man on a bike who never looked back.

I walk faster.

Because if I stop, I might scream.

And if I scream, I might shatter.

And I don't know if I can survive breaking one more time.

The drizzle is light, barely there, just a misty kiss against my skin. Evening air carries a scent of damp earth and something else—something metallic, sharp. Maybe the storm coming, or maybe I'm imagining things. 

My fingers are cold. I rub them together, trying to remember why I feel like I'm somewhere I shouldn't be. Like I forgot something. Like I lost something I never even had. 

The streetlights flicker against the wet pavement, stretching golden reflections in uneven puddles. Cars pass in slow-moving clusters, headlights dull in the thin rain. I should be moving, crossing, going somewhere— 

I step forward. 

A horn rips through the air. 

Too late. 

I don't even see it at first. Just the sound—a violent roar of an engine, too close, too fast. Then, a flash of movement in my peripheral vision, slicing through the rain-soaked world like a bullet. The bike. 

It's not slowing down. 

Time cracks. Splits. 

Impact. 

A force slams into me, bone-jarring, brutal. Pain doesn't come immediately. Just the sensation of my body being ripped from where it stood. The world twists. Tilts. My feet leave the ground. Air, weightless for half a second— 

Then, pavement. 

The hit steals breath from my lungs. 

Something cracks—mine, his, I don't know. The back of my head collides with concrete. Sound warps, fading, like I'm sinking underwater. Raindrops tap against my skin, colder now. 

I can't move. 

A sharp, burning sting blooms across my leg, my arm, my ribs—fuck, it hurts. But my mind latches onto something else. Something outside my body. 

A hand. 

A few feet away, against the road's wet, shimmering surface, a hand lies still. 

Not moving. 

Not even a twitch. 

My mind is slow, sluggish, like wading through thick fog. My vision blurs, and I can't tell if it's the rain, my own blood, or something worse. 

Is he breathing? 

I should get up. Check. 

But the pain digs in deep, rooting me in place. 

The rain falls heavier. The scent of gasoline, iron, blood, thickens the air. Distantly, voices rise—shouting, running, but they feel far, far away. 

My eyes drift back to the hand. 

Something is wrong. 

My chest tightens. My breath stutters. Something is very, very wrong. 

I want to move. I can't. 

Darkness tugs at the edges of my vision, pulling me under, whispering things I can't understand. 

I blink. 

The hand is still there. 

Still unmoving. 

A single thought fights through the haze, sluggish and detached. 

I think I'm dying. 

Darkness swallows me whole

________________________________

AUTHOR NOTE 

So...

That happened.

I could lie and say I planned this ending calmly—but the truth?

My hands were shaking while writing that last scene.

One second, she was walking.

The next, the world split in half.

You felt it too, didn't you?

The bouquet. The birthday. The almost-love. The ache.

And then—impact.

But here's the real question:

Was it just an accident?

Or did fate finally lose its patience?

You think you know what's coming next?

You don't.

The next chapter changes everything.

If you thought she was broken before...

Wait until you see what she becomes.

DON'T FORGET TO VOTE, COMMENT AND YOU KNOW WHAT ELSE.

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