The truck shudders violently as Habeel slams the driver's door shut—hard enough to make the entire old frame rattle. The echo snaps through the quiet forest like a gunshot, scattering a few startled birds into the evening sky.
He sits stiffly upright, shoulders squared with a tension that looks carved into him rather than carried. His knuckles are bone-white against the steering wheel, straining with the kind of pressure only anger—or heartbreak—can conjure. His eyes, usually warm with stubborn humour, alive with that reckless spark he refuses to admit he has… now look like a storm trapped behind glass. A storm he refuses to spill.
The truck jerks forward the moment he turns the key. No hesitation. No pause. No word.
Ababeel climbs into the passenger seat slowly, like every movement risks triggering something she barely understands. Her fingers tremble when she catches the door, and she closes it softly, almost ceremoniously gentle, as though a loud sound might shatter whatever thin barrier is holding him together.
The little girl sits between them, perched awkwardly on the worn seat like a fragile bridge between two colliding worlds. She clutches a half-crushed packet of snacks to her chest, eyes flicking from Habeel to Ababeel and back again—two adults simmering like distant earthquakes she fears might erupt at any moment.
The road ahead stretches in a dusty, empty line, swallowed by trees and fading evening light. A road with no destination—just movement. Escape. Survival.
Habeel's jaw is locked so tightly it looks painful. His breath comes unevenly, like he keeps forgetting to inhale. His eyes haven't blinked in too long, glued to the road with an intensity that borders on frightening.
Minutes pass.
Five. Ten. Twenty.
By thirty, the silence becomes a creature of its own—thick, suffocating, coiling through the cramped cabin until even breathing feels like an intrusion.
Ababeel keeps stealing glances at him—little, hesitant, unsure looks, as if searching for a crack in the armour he's welded around himself. Her leg bounces with restless anxiety she tries and fails to hide. Her fingers fidget around the seatbelt buckle, tracing the metal again and again.
She inhales once, gathering courage. Twice, steadying her voice.
She parts her lips—then closes them, the words dying before they leave her throat.
Habeel presses the accelerator harder, the engine growling in response. The trees blur past the windows as though even the forest wants to get away from the tension filling the truck.
Finally, why can't she swallow it anymore?
"Habeel…" she whispers, almost too softly to hear.
He doesn't flinch.
She leans closer, her voice trembling in a way she rarely allows.
"Please… look at me."
No reaction. Not even a breath change.
"I said, look at me."
The words come out harsher than she intends, breaking on the edges of fear and guilt.
Still—nothing.
The silence claws at her ribs. She reaches out, her fingers trembling, and lays a gentle hand on his forearm. It's a shy touch, a quiet plea.
He jerks away. Not violently—but sharply. Like she burned him.
The sting of that recoil slices deeper than a shout ever could.
"Don't."The word leaves his lips low, dangerously controlled. A warning more than a request.
The little girl's eyes go wide. She pulls her knees up slightly, shrinking into herself.
Ababeel swallows hard. Her throat feels raw.
"You think I see you as a threat," she says softly. "But that's not true."
He offers no response, no glance, no shift of expression. Just the relentless drive forward. The truck hits uneven ground, bumping hard, but he doesn't slow down.
Ababeel curls her hands into fists, nails digging into her palms.
"Say something!" she bursts out. "Yell at me—insult me—just don't do this! I can't take this silence!"
The little girl presses her palms over her ears.
Habeel's grip on the wheel tightens. His hands begin to shake.
And then—finally—He breathes out one, broken word.
"I'm driving," he murmurs, voice cracking at the edges, "for the three of us. So I don't want to do something stupid."
Ababeel freezes.
He turns his head the smallest fraction—just enough for her to see it. The hurt.The betrayal.The disbelief that she—of all people—could wound him this way.
"You reached for the gun," he says quietly, "against me."
The world inside the truck goes utterly still.
Only the engine moves. Only the wheels. Everything else—frozen.
Ababeel's lips tremble. Her eyes sting instantly.
"I—I didn't mean—"
"Instincts don't lie."
His voice is steady eyes are burning.
The little girl curls even tighter, as if trying to disappear.
Ababeel reaches for breath that won't come.
"You don't understand—"
"Then make me understand!" he snaps.
The truck swerves, just slightly, before he yanks it back under control.
He exhales shakily.
"Because right now," he says, voice breaking into something dangerously vulnerable, "I'm thinking maybe you were right… Maybe one of us should stay clean. Maybe one of us should carry the ugliness."
His voice drops to a whisper.
"But I didn't think you meant me."
The words hit her like a blow. She covers her mouth, her breath shuddering as guilt rises like acid in her chest.
The silence that follows is no longer empty, trembles with pain. With fear.With the fragile thread holding them together.
Outside, dark clouds gather in the sky, mirroring the turmoil inside the truck.
Three people.One truck. A storm is closing in—outside and within.
And Ababeel knows, with a sinking certainty, that if she doesn't reach him now…
They may never return to each other again.