The apartment felt different that evening.
Maybe it was the soft glow of the desk lamp, or the faint hum of cars outside, or simply the absence of fear. Amina couldn't tell. She only knew that, for the first time in years, she wasn't bracing for something to go wrong.
She closed her textbook, stretched her fingers, and let her eyes wander around the quiet room.
It still didn't feel like her space.
Not yet.
But it felt like a space she could grow into.
A gentle knock pulled her back.
"Amina?" Rafi called, his tone softer than usual.
She opened the door and found him standing there with two plates in hand—one covered with foil, the other with a slice of something that looked like cake.
She blinked. "You brought dinner?"
He nodded. "From a place nearby. I wasn't sure what you'd prefer, so I got two options."
"You didn't have to—"
He cut her off with a quiet look. "I know."
He stepped inside, placed the plates on the small dining table, then sat down—not too close, not too far.
"You studied all day?" he asked.
"Yes."
"And?"
"I finished two chapters."
He smiled slightly. "Good."
His calmness made her relax in a way she couldn't explain.
She removed the foil. Fried rice and grilled chicken. Still warm.
Amina hesitated. "Did you eat?"
"Not yet," he admitted. "I was waiting for you."
She rolled her eyes gently. "You don't have to monitor my meals."
"Who's monitoring?" he said with a quiet tease. "I'm just trying not to be rude."
She shook her head, but her lips curved into a small smile.
They ate peacefully. No shouting. No tension. No rush.
Just… quiet companionship.
When they finished, Rafi collected the plates and placed them neatly on the counter.
Then he stood there for a moment, looking at her—not with intensity, but with a certain thoughtful weight.
"Amina," he said softly, "I have to ask you something."
Her stomach tightened. "What is it?"
He walked closer—not invading her space, just enough that she could hear him clearly.
"Are you scared of going back home after exams?"
Her breath caught.
She didn't answer immediately.
He continued, "Your sister's message… the way she spoke to you… Amina, it wasn't normal. It wasn't right."
Amina swallowed hard. "It's always been like that."
"And that's not an excuse," he said firmly.
His tone wasn't angry. It was protective.
She looked away. "I don't want to hate them."
"You don't have to hate them to protect yourself," he replied.
His words landed deep, deeper than she expected.
She sat on the edge of the sofa. "I don't know what happens after exams. I don't know where I belong. I don't know if they'll ever forgive me for leaving."
Rafi crouched in front of her so she wouldn't have to look up. "You don't need forgiveness for choosing peace."
Her eyes stung.
No one had ever said anything like that to her.
"And you're not alone anymore," he added, voice gentler. "Whether you stay here, go back, or choose something else entirely… you won't face it alone."
Amina felt something inside her crack—not painfully, but like a knot loosening after years of being pulled tight.
She whispered, "Why do you care this much?"
He held her gaze, steady and unflinching. "Because you deserve better than survival."
Silence stretched between them, full and warm.
Rafi stood slowly. "Come with me."
Amina blinked. "Where?"
He didn't force her. He just extended a hand—not touching, just offering.
"To the rooftop," he said. "Fresh air helps when your thoughts get heavy."
She hesitated for a heartbeat, then nodded.
Together, they walked up the narrow staircase to the top of the building.
The night air was cool, soft against her face. The city lights glittered below, tiny and distant. The stars peeked through thin clouds.
Amina stepped forward and inhaled deeply.
It felt like the first real breath she had taken all day.
Rafi stood beside her, not speaking, not demanding. Just present.
After a moment, he said quietly, "When life becomes too loud, sometimes you need to rise above it—literally."
She let out a small laugh. "You sound like someone who's done this a lot."
"I have," he admitted. "Too many times."
She turned to him. "Why?"
He looked at the skyline instead of her. "Responsibility comes with pressure. And sometimes… people expect more from me than I can give."
Amina's eyes softened. "So even you feel overwhelmed?"
He gave a dry smile. "More often than you think."
For the first time, she saw him as something other than unshakeable.
He was human.
Quietly, she said, "Thank you… for today."
"You don't need to thank me."
"I do," she insisted. "You showed up. And you didn't have to."
His eyes met hers then, and something unspoken passed between them—warm, steady, dangerous in its gentleness.
"Amina," he murmured, "I told you yesterday… I'm not going anywhere."
A tremor ran through her chest.
Not fear.
Not confusion.
Something else. Something she wasn't ready to name.
She looked back at the city, letting the wind brush past her face.
For the first time in her life, the future didn't feel like a threat.
It felt like a possibility.