Nazma squeezed her right hand under the table. A burning anger spread across her chest.
Every word in her father's story was like swallowed shards of glass. Sharp.
Painful.
She stared at her father. A man whose shoulders were stiff and whose breath often sounded heavy. Realizingthat every inch of Ziko's strength was built upon the ruins of hisownpride.
Which was destroyed by his own family.
***
Walking through the quiet school building corridor. There was no one Nazma saw there yet.
Some time passed
On the second floor, Nazma approached the balcony. From above, Nazma looked out at the rows of students entering on the floor below like tiny ants.
From below someone was calling out, "Nazma," Safina shouted. "Nazma," said a short boy. "Nazma," said Celline. The three of them waved their hands at Nazma in succession.
Nazma's smile formed a U-shape. She responded to the hospitality from above.
A man climbed the dark stairs. White uniform. Blue trousers. Carrying a bag. He climbed the steps one by one. On the sixth step, he landed his feet. Walking.
His back was upright, stiff. The white uniform he wore looked slightly oversized. Leaving empty space at his shoulders.
As he stepped, strong sharp lines were visible from the folds of the fabric on his back.
The shirt was white and clean. The straps of the black backpack he carried were pulled taut, pressing the seams of his white shirt until they formed long diagonal wrinkles.
The rhythmic movement of the blue trousers occasionally brushed together. He walked straight, passing through the shadows in the corridor.
From the front, his collarbones protruded behind a neatly buttoned collar.
Both of his long arms hung at the sides of his body.
The man walked along the balcony.
Passing behind Nazma and Nazma was still transfixed on the view of the field below.
Nazma could feel the movement of the air.
However, she did not turn.
To her, it was just a foreign presence not important enough to check. Only a passing shadow.
Jerem's steps stopped a few meters from there.
One of the red-faced twin girls screamed. Her voice was shrill, echoing off the walls of the quiet corridor, "Woy, Jerem!"
Nazma, who was still leaning on the balcony, shifted her position slightly.
She caught a glimpse from the corner of her eye of a man standing silently in the face of the intimidation.
Nazma looked back toward the field, considering it just typical teenage drama. And unnecessary to interfere with.
Her mind was still full of Ziko and Zemiro.
Jerem lowered his head slightly. Yet his voice when answering sounded very flat, almost without emotion.
"What is it?"
Tet!
The long bell echoed through the corridor, breaking the thin tension behind her.
Nazma turned her body. As she turned, the friction of her shoes made an unpleasant sound.
The rubber sole that had thinned and started to peel at the tip produced an annoying screech, making Nazma fully aware that her footing was no longer sturdy.
She could feel the coarse texture of the corridor floor directly. Through the sock that had a hole at the big toe.
The shoes were a gift from her uncle—Endah's younger brother. Dull, with many hand-stitches on the sides, and the color looked more like gray than black.
Nazma stepped. Then, held it.
Her instinct pulled that step for a second longer.
Without needing to focus her gaze, Nazma "felt" the atmosphere beside her. She didn't just see Jerem and the twins as three people talking, but she caught a 'strange' frequency.
There was a sense of suffocation and a hint of hostility creeping there.
Jerem Quinnel
She walked past them. Her mind had just captured the invisible wound from that atmosphere. Her arms swung stiffly.
Nazma tilted her head slightly, letting strands of her hair fall to cover part of her face as she stole a glance.
There,
Jerem stood tall.
His fiery red hair was cut with a very clean borderline. On both sides of his head, two zig-zag lines from a thin shave were carved precisely. Parallel. Without a single strand of hair out of place.
His facial structure was symmetrical with high and faint cheekbones.
His eyebrows were thick and straight, contrasting with his curled eyelashes. Black and deep. That framed his beautiful eyes. His nose was straight, giving the impression of a face perfectly carved from the side profile.
Nazma withdrew her gaze. Too perfect for a man who was addressed in such a demeaning tone. She then walked away, taking the pathetic screech of her shoes away from there.