Tracy....
[Journal Entry – Not to be read aloud]
> I saw it on her hand.
A quiet little ring.
Thin. Gold. It didn't shine much in the rain — but it didn't have to.
It glowed because it meant something I didn't want it to mean.
I don't hate him. Amir.
I don't even know him.
But I know what he stands for:
The finish line I was never allowed to run toward.
---
She said "yes" like it was a confession.
Like it cost her something.
And I wanted to tell her:
You don't owe the world obedience if it costs you your soul.
But who am I to say that?
I'm just the girl walking beside her, holding her silence like it's mine too.
---
> You smiled at me like I was a warm place.
But you gave your name to a man who doesn't even know your favorite book.
---
Laila....
My mother was slicing mangoes when I came in.
She didn't look up.
"You spent too long at school again."
I didn't answer.
She kept slicing, voice low but tight:
"People talk, Laila. You know that."
There it was.
Not "are you okay?"
Not "how was class?"
Just the shape of suspicion hidden in fruit.
"I was studying," I said.
"With that girl again?" she asked, sharper now.
I didn't reply.
Because anything I said would be wrong.
---
In my room, I stared at the letter from Amir still unopened on my desk.
I used to read them carefully.
Mark the margins with soft smiles. Write replies.
Now… I don't even touch them.
Not since that day under the chapel tree.
---
My sister passed by my door. She didn't knock.
She just stood there, arms crossed.
"They're saying things about you," she said.
Her voice wasn't cruel. Just scared.
"You should stop seeing her so much."
I met her eyes.
"She's not doing anything to me."
"That's what you think."
Then she walked away.
But her words stayed.
Like a bruise that hadn't formed yet.
---
Later, I unfolded the letter.
Not to read it — just to see if it felt like anything.
It didn't.
Just words.
Just a future I didn't write.
---
I curled up by the window with my notebook instead.
Not to write to Amir.
To write her name in cursive. Just once.
Then I tore the page out.
Burned it with the match I keep hidden in the second drawer.
No one would see.
No one could ever see.
But the smoke still smelled like guilt.
---
Tracy....
[Journal – Bottom corner of the page]
> I think she's slipping away.
Not because she wants to —
but because the world keeps pulling her back like a tide that never asked permission.
---