Being the first-born daughter meant waking up before the sun, before the roosters, and long before her own exhaustion had cleared.
She moved through the house with the grace of muscle memory: warming tea for her siblings, folding the stray hijab her sister had draped over a chair, and double-checking the weight of her brother's backpack to ensure his homework was inside. She didn't complain; she never did. Responsibility lived in her bones as naturally as breath lived in her lungs.
By the time she arrived at school, she had already lived half a day. And yet, the entire world was still ahead of her.
Her students greeted her with shy smiles and murmured salaams. Teaching Arabic was her sanctuary; she loved the rhythmic flow of the script and the inherent order of the grammar. Her classroom was a safe place—quiet, steady, and entirely predictable.
Until Mr.Fares arrived.
He was the new PE teacher, and the reason half the faculty suddenly found excuses to "check something" near the athletic fields.
The students adored him because he turned grueling laps into a game, and his laugh was warm enough to thaw the frostiest mood in the teacher's lounge.
He had developed a habit of passing her classroom right after the morning assembly. And every single time—without fail—he tried to talk to her.
"Assalamu alaikum, Miss Azra ," he said today. He leaned against the doorframe, hands in his pockets, wearing a smile that suggested he had all the time in the world.
Her heart immediately tripped over itself.
"Wa—wa… wa alaikum salam," she stammered, focusing her gaze intensely on a stack of ungraded papers.
"How's your morning so far?" he asked.
"Why?"
The word tumbled out of her mouth before her brain could catch it.
His eyebrows shot up, startled but clearly amused. "Uh… just asking?"
She wanted the floor to open up and swallow her whole. Ya Allah, why am I like this?
"I mean—it's fine. I'm fine. Everything is fine. You can go," she added, waving her hand dismissively as if shooing away a stray cat.
A stray cat. She had actually shooed him.
He chuckled softly, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
He didn't look offended or mocking; he just looked entertained.
"Alright, teach . Have a good class," he said gently, before pushing off the doorframe and disappearing down the hall.
She waited until his footsteps faded, then buried her face in her hands.
"What is wrong with me?" she groaned into her palms.
Her students, well-acquainted with her silent internal meltdowns, watched her with patient, blinking eyes. "Miss… are you okay?"
"No," she whispered. "Absolutely not."
But beneath the embarrassment, a tiny, stubborn part of her wondered: if she was truly as awkward as she felt, why did he keep coming back? Why did he look at her as if her prickliness wasn't scary at all?
She didn't have the answer. Not yet. But the day felt a little brighter than it had at dawn.