The knock on the door was soft. Careful.
Ayra wasn't expecting anyone.
She dragged herself up, hoodie still drowning her figure, socks mismatched. Her cheek still hurt from the bruise. Her cramps had dulled to a low hum, but the night's memory still clung to her skin.
Another knock. Firmer this time.
She peeked through the curtain.
Zayn
She opened the door slowly.
He looked tired — not physically, but somewhere deeper. His eyes searched hers, then dropped briefly to her cheek.
"It's healing," he murmured.
She nodded. "Come in.
They sat on the edge of her bed like it was unfamiliar territory.
He didn't say much at first.
Just looked around her room like he was afraid to look directly at her.
"You should've stayed inside that night," he said, finally.
"You should've stopped fighting," she replied.
That shut him up.
Minutes passed. She offered him water. He didn't drink it.
"Is it weird that… I still don't know why you two fought?"
Zayn sighed. His jaw flexed.
"It's not your fight."
"Then why do I feel like I got pulled into it?
Her phone buzzed on the table.
She ignored it at first. But it buzzed again.
Zayn glanced at it.
[Cairo 🥀: Can we talk? I'm outside.]
Her breath caught.
Zayn saw it.
And suddenly, the air changed.
He stood up slowly, voice low.
"You're not going out there."
She blinked. "Zayn—"
"Ayra, I'm serious. Don't go."
She looked up at him, torn.
"He texted. I have to know what he—"
"No, you don't." His voice cracked. "You don't owe him anything. Not after what happened.
She stood too. Chest rising and falling.
"But you won't tell me what's going on. I'm just… stuck between both of you."
"Then pick a side," Zayn said quietly.
That silenced her
Her phone buzzed again.
Zayn turned to the door, hand on the knob, jaw tight.
"If you open that message… I won't be here when you look up."
And with that, he left.
Leaving Ayra between a boy who won't explain… and a boy who keeps appearing in silence