Syria never imagined that the first person to threaten the fragile bond between her and Ali would be the one who had always protected her. Her elder sister, Samira, had returned after months of study, carrying maturity in her eyes and an intuition sharper than any sword. The moment she saw Ali's name glowing on Huda's phone screen, she understood everything Syria had not yet dared to confess even to herself.
Samira knew Ali — not as a stranger, but as a boy known in the town for his honesty, for the way he spoke with lowered eyes and a steady voice. A boy who never crossed his boundaries. A boy elders trusted. A boy people believed could never hurt anyone.
And yet, Samira feared something deeper.
Not Ali.
But Syria's delicate heart.
So, without telling Syria a single word, Samira messaged Ali. Her fingers did not tremble — her tone did not shake. She spoke like a sister who had seen heartbreak before and refused to let history repeat.
"Take care of her," she wrote softly,
"and if you cannot… then stop talking to her. I know my sister. She's already halfway into feelings she does not understand. Don't let her fall alone."
Ali stared at the message as if it were a verdict handed down by fate.
He respected Samira. He feared disappointing her. And in that moment, he realized something he had been trying to hide even from himself:
He didn't know if he was strong enough to protect Syria.
The weight of responsibility sat on his chest — heavier than mountains, heavier than the valley's silence. What if he failed her? What if he made her cry? What if he wasn't what she deserved? The questions wrapped around him like vines.
So he made a decision.
A decision that would break someone.
A decision he believed was right.
A decision that would carve itself into Syria's memory like a wound.
Ali disappeared.
No explanation.
No warning.
No goodbye.
One day he was there — sharing little stories, asking about her day, laughing gently at her nervous texts.
The next day… nothing.
The silence hit Syria like cold water thrown in the middle of the night.
At first, she waited.
Then she wondered.
Then she blamed herself.
Maybe he was busy.
Maybe he lost his phone.
Maybe he forgot.
Maybe… maybe… maybe…
But the truth waited like a ghost in the corner, whispering louder each night.
Ali wasn't coming back.
And for the first time, Syria tasted a heartbreak that had no name — because they weren't lovers, they weren't anything defined. They were just two souls who had touched for a moment… and that was enough for it to hurt.
The nights swallowed her quietly. She cried into her pillow, holding the phone like it was a lifeline. No message came. No call. No explanation.
Anaya was the only one who knew the storm in her chest.
"Syria," Anaya whispered one evening, brushing tears from her friend's cheeks, "you like him. Don't deny it now."
But Syria shook her head every time, her voice breaking,
"I don't. I didn't. I just… I just trusted him."
Trust — that was the real wound.
And Samira, unintentionally, had become the villain of her story. Syria began to see her sister not as a guardian but as someone who had snatched something precious away before she could understand what it meant.
The home felt smaller.
The days felt longer.
The nights felt unbearable.
A year passed silently.
Ali's birthday slipped away without a message from Syria.
The bond they once built — a delicate thread — snapped long ago.
And while Syria drowned in silent ache, the town was stirring with whispers.
Yusra, driven by jealousy she never admitted aloud, had already spilled rumors between the families — tiny poisonous seeds planted in fertile ground. Little by little, misunderstandings bloomed like thorns.
No one knew what was coming next.
But fate had already begun its work.
The storm was on its way.