She once thought love was calm and kind,
Like soft rain that clears the mind.
He smiled, and the world felt right,
All her pain was gone that night.
But love can change, turn cold and wild,
Break the heart that once had smiled.
He made her dream, then made her cry,
Built her wings, then watched her die.
The bell rang again for the last period, and Zainab stepped out of the class, heading toward the washroom. But as always, she didn't take the short route. Where the shorter route would end in two minutes, her route took ten. She liked to roam around the school. She just enjoyed walking aimlessly through the corridors.
Today, the corridors felt emptier. Nayla wasn't there to tease her or drag her into random talks. Zainab sighed softly. God knows how Nayla is feeling right now. Her eyes must be swollen from crying.
"Sorry," Zainab murmured under her breath. But even she didn't know what she was apologizing for. Was it for Ibrahim—her own brother—killing Nayla's mother.... No.... Step mother. Or was it because Nayla was left all alone now?
The truth hurt in both ways. Zainab loved her brother, the man who raised her, protected her… but she also loved Nayla, her closest friend, her sister by fate. How could she choose between the two? She was stuck in the middle of two broken hearts—one that killed, and one that lost.
But what she didn't realise was… she was the one most lost among them.
As Zainab turned to cross the stairs, she didn't see a man coming from below. They collided. And she stumbled, losing her balance, and fell hard onto the steps.
Books and papers he was carrying flew out of his hands, scattering across the stairs.
"OUCH!" she cried, pain shooting through her ankle. It throbbed sharply, making her wince. For a few seconds, she just sat there, holding her leg. Then a deep, calm voice came from right in front of her.
"Oh God—child, are you alright?"
A man—a tall, well-built man in a white shirt and black trousers, wearing glasses that made him look serious. He was already kneeling beside her. He looked... older, maybe in his mid thirties, maybe younger—yet something about him demanded attention.
Zainab blinked at him, her mind completely blank for a few seconds. She could see his lips moving, could see his eyes watching her face, but she couldn't process a single word. The pain in her ankle faded under a stronger feeling—shock.
"You're hurt. I didn't see you coming this fast. I'm really sorry. Can you tell me where it hurts?"
She could only point to her ankle, feeling embarrassed and breathless all at once. He reached forward, holding her hand gently to help her stand.
The moment his fingers wrapped around hers, she froze. He was close now, close enough that she could see the faint stubble on his jaw and the little crease between his brows as he looked at her ankle with concern.
"Try to put your weight slowly," he said, his hand now resting lightly on her shoulder to steady her.
She tried to stand, biting her lip to hide a wince. Her ankle throbbed.
"Does it hurt here?" he asked, crouching a little, his hand gently hovering near her foot as if afraid to touch.
She nodded faintly. "A little."
"Next time. Look before running. You never know who might be coming your way."
Two female teachers came rushing up the stairs. Both of them looked worried, "Oh dear, Zainab! Are you alright?" one of them exclaimed, bending slightly to check her head. "Did you hit anywhere?"
Zainab shook her head quickly, "No, ma'am. Just my ankle hurts a little."
Another teacher looked at the man, "Sir, could you please help her to the sick room? We'll get an ice pack; the swelling is starting."
The man nodded once, "She can't walk properly."
"No, no, I can walk," Zainab protested, trying to put weight on her foot again. But as soon as she did, pain twisted her face and she bit her lip again.
He sighed, almost in disbelief. "You can't even stand properly. How do you plan to walk?"
"I can manage…" she whispered, but before she could finish, he bent down slightly, one arm sliding behind her back, the other beneath her knees.
Her breath caught when lifted her off the ground. Her small, fragile body seemed to fit perfectly in his arms. She could feel the strong rhythm of his heartbeat against her side. Her own pulse, however, was racing so fast it almost scared her.
"W-wait, you don't have to—"
"Just stay still," he said quietly, his eyes focused ahead. "You'll make it worse if you keep moving."
The two female teachers followed beside them, whispering to each other about how clumsy some students could be. Other students turned their heads, whispering, eyes wide. Zainab wanted to hide her face, but her hands clutched the edge of his collar instead.
The sick room was at the end of the corridor, past the library. When they reached, he gently placed her on the single bed. The room wasn't big—just a single narrow bed by the window, white walls, a small table, and a tall wardrobe filled with medicines and ointments. On one side, a little refrigerator hummed quietly, used for keeping ice packs and other things. It looked more like a tiny private pharmacy.
The teachers began opening drawers and cupboards, searching for ice packs. "Here," one of them said, handing him a small towel and a cold pack. "Usama, could you please help her? We'll find the nurse."
Zainab's head lifted slightly. Usama? So that was his name. The name echoed in her mind as she watched him kneel down again beside the bed.
"Sir Usama joined just last week," another teacher explained to her while preparing the ointment. "He's a guest lecturer from Kuala Lumpur University, but he visits daily to take classes here. Such a humble man—you're lucky he was nearby."
"Oh… I see." Zainab nodded quietly, her fingers twisting the bedsheet.
"We'll have to go now. The nurse should be here any minute. She's probably in the canteen again. Usama, could you stay until she comes?"
"Of course," he replied, without hesitation.
Zainab's eyes darted between the female teacher nervously. After a few more words with Usama, the teachers left.
Usama removed her shoes slowly and rolled her socks halfway down, revealing her small, swollen ankle.
Zainab tried not to look at him, her heart thudding inside her chest. His hands were too steady, as if he had done this a thousand times before. He opened the ice pack and placed it gently over her ankle. The cold hit her skin, and she winced softly.
Usama immediately looked up, "Too cold?"
"A little."
He shifted the ice pack slightly, "Next time. Don't try to act strong when you're hurt. There's no medal for pretending."
Zainab looked away, embarrassed. "I just didn't want to bother anyone."
"Bother anyone?" he adjusted his glasses, pushing them up the bridge of his nose. "People only get bothered when they care. Pretending nothing's wrong… that just makes it harder for everyone who actually does care to help."
He paused for a second, then added, "And besides, I don't get bothered easily. You're safe here, so stop worrying about that."
"I'll keep that in mind," she said quietly, "And I'm not that weak. It's just a small twist. I can handle this."
"That's good." He pressed lightly around the swelling, frowning slightly as he observed the red mark. "Still tender," he muttered under his breath.
Zainab watched him—how focused he looked. He reached for a dry cloth, wiped the area gently, and then opened a small tube of ointment, "This might sting."
The ointment was cool and minty. His fingers worked in slow, careful circles, spreading it evenly over the skin. She tried to focus on the cabinet behind him. But all she could sense was him—his nearness.
After a few moments, he finally pulled back. "You'll be fine," he wiped his hands with a tissue. "Just don't walk too fast for a few days. And if it hurts again, come here directly—don't wait till you fall again."
That made Zainab smile, "You make it sound like I'll fall every day."
He stood, adjusting his cuffs, "If you keep running without looking. I wouldn't be surprised."
There was a pause—just long enough for her to think the conversation had ended. But his gaze softened again, "Be careful next time, little dove. And don't bring your phone to school again."
Little dove?
Zainab's eyes lifted slowly to his face, disbelief written all over them. Her lips parted, the words trembling out. "Y-you… you were the one… the caller?"
He raised a finger slightly, "Keep your voice down. Walls here have ears, Zainab."
"So you were talking about meeting here? In school?" she asked while she tried to push herself up. "This was the unexpected place you meant?"
Before she could get up properly, Usama took a sudden step. "Sit Down."
His hand moved to her shoulder, pressing her gently back down on the bed, "I said, sit down."
The pressure was strong enough to make her sit again. Zainab's eyes flicked down to the spot he had touched.
"I came here because you wanted me in front of you," he leaned just enough so she could feel the weight of his presence. "So I came."
"As… as a teacher?" she whispered, shaking her head. "I didn't… I didn't mean… I didn't mean for you to come here like this–"
He cut her off, "Does it matter what you meant?"