The morning sun slipped through the lace curtains, painting golden lines across the pages of Aya's journal. She sat by the window, her fingers resting gently on her pen, though her thoughts were far from the words on the paper.
"In another life," she whispered to herself, "maybe I would have chosen my own story."
Aya was twenty-three. Quiet, thoughtful, and always carrying a storm behind her soft gaze. Her life was a blend of small dreams — books, tea, quiet evenings, and freedom. But freedom wasn't something you always got to choose… especially not when family was involved.
In the living room downstairs, voices buzzed — excited, sharp, decisive. Her mother, her aunt, and her uncle. She knew what they were discussing. It wasn't new anymore. For weeks, she had overheard the whispers.
"It's for the best, Aya. You'll be safe, stable. He's family. He's Amine."
Amine… her cousin. No — her mother's sister's son. The boy who had once shared his crayons with her when they were five, and now, apparently, was supposed to share her life.
But the Amine she remembered was no longer the same. He had grown into a man with cold eyes, a successful but distant soul. Reserved. Always carrying a shadow of something unsaid.
Marriage? With him?
She had laughed the first time she heard it. She wasn't laughing anymore.
"Aya," her mother's voice called softly from the hallway, "they're waiting for you downstairs."
Aya stood up, brushing invisible dust off her dress. Her heart wasn't ready. But hearts were never asked for permission in these things.
One step. Two steps. Down the stairs and into a decision she hadn't written for herself.