The room felt like a warm embrace. Soft amber light flickered from the fireplace, casting gentle shadows over the shelves lined with books—old leather-bound ones, colourful modern novels, and travel journals stacked sideways. Aesthetic photographs filled the walls: moonlit forests, rain-kissed windows, old cobblestone streets, and a few warm, grainy portraits that made the space feel lived in. The entire room smelled faintly of vanilla, wood, and the comfort of stories already told.
Two sofas sat facing each other. One was a deep, plush, oversized piece—made exactly for sinking into, stretching out, or curling up when emotions got too heavy. That was Ababeel's. A soft knitted blanket lay over its arm, as though waiting for her.
She lay there now, her head resting against a large cushion, the firelight softening her features. Her posture was relaxed, but her eyes held a certain heaviness, the kind only someone carrying too much could have.
Across from her sat a young, beautiful-looking person—calm, graceful, with a serene presence that felt somehow therapeutic even without saying anything. A notebook rested loosely in their hands, legs crossed comfortably, a quiet smile on their lips.
They tilted their head, studying her with gentle curiosity.
"So… how did you get here, Ababeel?"Their voice was soft, steady, like a warm blanket being laid across a trembling soul.
Ababeel let out a small chuckle—light, almost embarrassed.
"Started it off a bit wonky and funny… but okay," she said, brushing a stray hair from her face. Her smile lingered, but it carried a shadow behind it.
She took a slow breath, eyes drifting toward the dancing flames in the fireplace.
Then, softly—
as if opening the first page of a long-hidden chapter—
I had never spent more than a night alone in my life, and now I was just counting day twelve of my parents' "We-have-to-go-or-our-visa-will-evaporate" trip abroad. My own visa paperwork, in contrast, was moving at the speed of a sleepy turtle.
My sister checked on me every few days—usually calling to say things like "Don't burn the house" or "You locked the door, right?"—before returning to her married life.
That evening, after talking to both my parents and my sister on the phone, I tossed my phone aside, stretched my arms—
—and froze.
Something. Scratched. The balcony rail.
A sound that most certainly did not belong to the wind, the neighbour's cat, not a fallen leaf doing acrobatics or her imagination.
Something alive.
"...No. Nope. No way," I whispered to myself. In one fluid motion, I immediately reached under her bed for the metal baseball bat I would always keep for exactly these dramatic emergencies.
Heart racing, I tiptoed towards the balcony door.
And then my brain went like: Okay, Ababeel. You trained for this. Actually, no, you didn't. But still—swing like a confident queen.
I raised the bat, gripping it like a nervous warrior going into battle.
But the moment I peeked through the curtain—
I froze.
Because there, halfway climbing over the balcony rail… was a guy.
A very real guy.
A very shocked guy.
A very much her age-looking, well-dressed, absolutely-not-your-typical-thief guy.
Their eyes met.
Her thoughts exploded:
"Where is his weapon?"
"Why is he climbing like a lizard?"
"Why isn't his face covered—does he not care about his reputation as a thief?"
"Why does he look like someone whose parents might own multiple properties?"
"Is this thief wearing cologne??"
Meanwhile, Habeel—who had expected this apartment to be empty—was staring back at her with the same level of panic.
His thoughts were equally chaotic:
"The house was supposed to be empty."
"Why does she have a bat?"
"WHY is she lifting it like she actually knows how to use it?"
"You wanna hit me?!! What did I do??"
When I finally found my voice.
"You—DON'T. MOVE," I threatened, pointing the bat at him like it was a sword of justice.
Habeel held up both hands. "Okay, okay—relax! I'm not here to rob you!"
"Oh, really?" I snapped. "People who break into balconies at night usually come for yoga practice?"
He blinked at me, saying. "This is a misunderstanding. I swear!"
"Uh-huh. Said every criminal ever." I tightened my grip on the bat. "State your purpose before I crack your skull."
Habeel made a face. "Why is that your first option?!"
"Because you're on my balcony at night," I hissed.
"Okay, fair," he admitted, nodding.
I narrowed my eyes. "Explain yourself."
He pointed vaguely behind him. "I locked myself out of my cousin's apartment… upstairs. Keys inside. Door shut. No hope. So I tried climbing down to the next balcony so I could get inside and use the hallway."
I stared.
He stared back.
They blinked.
Then I asked bluntly, "So… you're stupid?"
He looked offended. "Excuse me?? I call it problem-solving."
Ababeel lifted the bat again. "I call it trespassing."
"Please don't swing that thing!" he squeaked, backing up so fast he nearly tripped. "I bruise easily!"
I sighed, lowering the bat just a little. "Fine. But if you move weirdly, I'll treat you like a mosquito."
Habeel gulped. "Understood."