In the small town of Woodridge, the streets were lined with picket fences and unspoken rules. People waved politely but rarely crossed social boundaries. Lena Whitmore grew up behind the gates of a grand white mansion on the east side of town. Her family was old money — her father a real estate tycoon, her mother a society darling. Church on Sundays, piano lessons on Mondays, and charity events on Fridays — Lena's life was scripted like a play she had never agreed to star in.
On the west side, life moved to a different rhythm. Samir Rahman lived in a modest apartment above his father's corner grocery store. His family, immigrants from Jordan, worked hard and kept to themselves. Samir was a quiet boy, thoughtful and observant, with dark eyes that seemed to read between the lines of the world.
They met at the public library. Lena had wandered in, bored of the manicured perfection of her world. Samir was in the philosophy aisle, leafing through a worn copy of The Prophet by Khalil Gibran. She noticed the cover and struck up a conversation. They talked until the librarian flicked the lights, signaling closing time.
That night, something shifted. Neither of them said it, but both felt it — a current that pulled them out of the neat lines of their lives and into something uncharted.
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