Aya sat by the window of her room, the pages of her notebook open in front of her, but her pen hadn't moved in minutes. Outside, the sky was painted with the colors of dusk, yet her thoughts were far from poetic. Ever since the awkward moment with Amine in the dark hallway, something inside her had shifted. Her heart was louder, her breath heavier, and her mind refused to quiet.
They hadn't spoken properly since that night. Just glances. Short, unfinished sentences. The air between them was tense, like an unplayed melody waiting for the first note.
The silence wasn't peaceful—it was suffocating.
Amine, on the other hand, tried to convince himself that nothing had changed. He buried himself in work, in training, in anything that would stop his thoughts from drifting to Aya. But no matter how much he tried to act normal, he noticed everything—how she avoided looking at him directly, how she laughed less, how she only answered him with one-word replies.
One evening, they crossed paths in the kitchen. It was late. Everyone else had gone to bed.
She was making tea. He walked in to grab water.
Their eyes met.
Just for a second.
Then Aya looked away.
"Couldn't sleep?" Amine asked, his voice quiet.
"No," she replied, not looking at him.
He nodded, awkwardly. "Me neither."
A heavy silence followed.
"You don't have to act like you care," she said suddenly, her voice barely above a whisper.
That stopped him cold.
"What?" he asked, stepping closer.
Aya turned to him, her eyes tired but fierce. "This... pretending like nothing's wrong. It's exhausting."
Amine hesitated. "I'm not pretending. I just... don't know how to fix it."
She let out a dry laugh. "Maybe some things aren't meant to be fixed."
He looked at her, his eyes searching. "Do you really believe that?"
"I don't know what to believe anymore," she replied, her voice trembling despite her best efforts.
There was so much unsaid between them. So much they were both afraid to admit. The closeness, the tension, the jealousy that flared whenever someone else got too near. But instead of confronting it, they danced around it, like fire afraid of burning.
That night, when Aya returned to her room, she didn't sleep either. She stared at the ceiling, her heart aching from words she wished she had the courage to say.
And Amine, lying awake in his own room, replayed her voice in his head over and over again.
"Maybe some things aren't meant to be fixed."
But something deep inside him whispered:
Maybe they are… if you stop running from them.