And for the first time that night, she smiled. Not a happy smile. A tired one. The smile of someone who has been stepping hard for so long that she forgot she could stop.
Layla's voice cracked on the last syllable. She wasn't scared of the height. She wasn't scared of the drop. She was scared of her . Of Mariam. Of what Mariam had become in the three months since her older brother disappeared—taken by men in plain clothes, no charges, no phone call, just a black van and the screech of tires. thmyl- albnt tqwlh ana khayfh ant btdws jamd bnt...
"Thmyl..." (Imagine...)
Layla reached out. Her fingers brushed the sleeve of Mariam's worn denim jacket—the one with the embroidered flower on the cuff, the one their mother had made before the cancer took her. And for the first time that night, she smiled
But tonight, Mariam's eyes were different. Darker. Hungry. The smile of someone who has been stepping
"You're not jamd," Layla whispered into her hair. "You're just broken. And broken things can still be beautiful."
(I'm scared.)