𖥻﹕𝖥𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖮𝗇𝖾𝗌﹒ຯ - Chapter 11: Chapter 11

Fahmid stood still, his mind whirling with emotions as the truth spilled from Afreen’s lips. She had loved him all along. Every heartbeat, every stolen glance, every quiet prayer—it had all been real. And yet, she had sent him away. Harshly. Without explanation.
He wanted to be overjoyed. But the ache—the years of silence, the betrayal, the loneliness—it clawed at his chest. He did not smile. He did not move. He just stared at her. Not with affection—no. With something more painful: disappointment.
Afreen knelt before him, her eyes shimmering with tears but filled with hope. “Lion-ie, now that you know everything.... Can you, please, give your answer? It hurts to stay kneeling for so long.”
He looked down at her, expression unreadable. Everyone was anticipatingly waiting to hear his response to her confession. However, he, slowly, took a step back, which shocked everyone, their hearts tightening with fear. “Get up, Afreen.” He spoke slowly but firmly.
Afreen blinked, confused. “W-What?”
“Get up,” he repeated, quieter the second time. “You don’t have to kneel for me. Not anymore.”
She slowly rose, uncertainty painted across her face. "Fahmid, I—”
"You loved me?" He asked, cutting her off. She nodded slowly. "And yet, you crushed me like I was nothing."
"I made a mistake. I was scared and stupid. I—"
"So was I!" he snapped, the sharpness in his voice startling her. "But I would’ve fought the whole damn world for you, Afreen. You gave up before the war even started."
She stepped forward, trying to reach his hand. "Please, I am sorry. I really lov—"
Fahmid cut her off as he yanked her hand away. “No,” he said sharply. His voice cracked slightly but held firm. He stepped closer, pain flashing in his eyes. “You don’t get to love me now, Ms. Hadid.” His words hit like bullets.
Afreen's lips parted, heart shattering. "For three years, I died every single day wondering why I wasn’t enough. You buried me alive in the name of love."
She shook her head, tears streaming. “Fahmid, I never meant to—”
Fahmid stepped back from her, his eyes blazing—not with anger, but with a grief so deep it bled from his very soul.
"No!" He snapped, his voice cracking as thunder rolled in the distance. "You meant to save your family. And in the process, you killed me."
He let out a bitter laugh, one that held no joy—just hollow echoes of a broken past. His hands clenched into fists at his sides as he took a shaky breath. "You know I never wanted to get into this military training. Why?" His voice dropped. "Because I never wanted to leave you."
He looked at her, eyes dark with unshed tears, pain layered in every syllable. "This military uniform, guns, fighting at borders, the brutal training—it was never my thing." He placed a hand over his chest. "I wanted to stay here… with you. I wanted to build a peaceful life for us. A future full of love, not war."
His voice shook as he continued, quieter, but each word struck like a blade. "But you…" He whispered. "Only because of you and your happiness… I left." He turned away from her, shoulders slumped. "I had nowhere to go when you wanted me gone from your life. No specific career, no purpose." He looked over his shoulder.
"Except for that one letter—the military college acceptance. The thing I never wanted became my only escape." He laughed again, lifelessly. "Funny, isn't it? I left everything I loved… just to survive without you." As his voice trailed off, the scene seemed to blur around him.
— FLASHBACK —
Fahmid, with bloodied knuckles and bruised ribs, lay sprawled on the dirt floor of the military training camp, chest heaving, skin scraped raw. The air reeked of sweat, gunpowder, and crushed dreams. Around him, the camp buzzed with exhaustion and fading ambition—but he felt nothing—except the dull ache in his chest that no injury had caused.
His breath ragged, eyes fixed on the closed fist held tightly to his chest. Inside it, a simple black hairband, frayed and worn from age. It was nothing special to anyone else, but to him? It was a piece of his Angel.
It had once fallen from her wrist on a rainy afternoon, years ago. She had not even noticed. But he had kept it ever since—tucked away like a secret, a quiet promise of everything he was fighting for.
His bunkmate, wrapping a bandage around his own forearm, said, "Man, you always hold onto weird stuff,” he muttered. “Some kind of good luck charm?”
Fahmid did not answer. His grip tightened around the hairband, his knuckles whitening. “Whatever,” the guy shrugged. “This place’ll knock that soft side out of you soon enough.”
Fahmid just stared at the hairband in his palm, sweat and blood streaking down his face. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, cracked with pain and quiet devotion, he said, “It’s all I have left of her.”
He did not care if anyone heard. He did not care if no one understood. Every bruise, every gunshot, every night spent with nothing but the stars overhead and the weight of regret in his chest—he had endured it all with that small piece of her woven between his fingers.
— END OF FLASHBACK —
Fahmid closed his eyes at the memory, that silent moment on the cold camp floor when her absence had screamed louder than bombs.
“I survived bullets easier than your silence,” he murmured, not to her—but to the universe that had watched it all.
Afreen blinked, stunned by the pain she had never seen. The battles he had fought were not for medals, but for the hope of returning to a girl who had sent him away. He looked at her finally, gaze steady, haunted. “You told me to leave, Afreen,” he said quietly. “And I did. I left everything behind. My home, my dreams, you… All because the person I loved most decided I didn’t belong in her life.”
Tears burned at the corners of her eyes. “I won’t ask you to leave,” he said, his voice softening. “But I won’t stay either. Not tonight.”
He turned slowly, shoulders heavy, each step away from her as heavy as the silence that had once held his love. Afreen stood frozen; the distance between them grew again—not by oceans or borders, but by the grief of everything unsaid.
She watched him go, her hand slowly lifting to her own wrist—then bare. That old black hairband… She remembered it. The one she had lost. The one she had thought did not matter. But it had meant everything to him. Her arms hugged herself as though trying to hold together all the shattered pieces of the love she had once pushed away.
She dropped to her knees in despair. Her Lion-ie had walked past her, leaving her not with nothing, but with the echo of a love that had once been hers… and the guilt of knowing she was the one who let it go. Afreen sat there, knees sinking into the cold floor, her body trembling as sobs tore through her chest. The chandeliers above glistened with cruel indifference, casting their golden glow over her shattered world, as if mocking the silence of her grief. Her lips trembled as she whispered the name only her heart had ever dared to call him, “Lion-ie…”
The silence that followed was deafening. Behind her, a soft cough broke the stillness. It was her father. His steps were slow and careful—age and regret weighing equally heavy—but his voice held steady. “Afreen, stand up.”
She did not move. Her gaze was fixed on the ground, hands clenched at her sides. “He hates me…”
“No,” Ashraf said gently, kneeling beside her with effort. “He doesn’t hate you. He’s hurt. Deeply. But that pain… it’s rooted in love. If there was no love, your silence wouldn’t have burned him so.”
Her voice cracked. “But I… I broke him, Baba.”
A long pause stretched between them before he finally nodded. “Yes. Maybe you did. But sometimes, the people we break are the only ones who know how to hold our shattered pieces together.”
She looked at him then, tear-streaked and trembling, and found no judgment in his eyes—only sorrow and a quiet kind of hope.
Behind them, her mother approached, silent as a shadow, and gently draped a shawl over Afreen’s shoulders. “You thought we wouldn’t approve,” she said softly, “so you let him go without asking. But you never gave us a chance to stand beside you.”
Afreen’s breath hitched. Her heart twisted at the truth in those words. “He didn’t walk away because he stopped loving you,” Yasmin continued. “He walked away because he didn’t know if you ever truly chose him… if he was worth defying the world for.”
The shawl then felt like armor—warm, familiar, grounding. She clutched it tightly. Then came a voice nearby—Sabrina, eyes glassy with unshed tears. Afreen immediately hugged her, sobbing loudly without any care. “Shh. My dear, shh. He still loves you.”
"N-no, he doesn't want me now!" Afreen denied it, followed by another heart-wrenching sob. "No. He doesn't. He could never; he loves you like breathing. He is just now afraid to open up. And all you have to do is now prove your love to him." Sabrina pulled away from the hug and wiped her tears. Afreen stared at her—the unexpected circle of strength. Parents whom she thought loomed like barriers, then quietly became bridges.
Hamza, extending a hand. “You let him go thinking your father's reputation will stand in your way. Now, let us all help you walk toward him.”
Afreen rose slowly, as if pulled upward by hope itself. She did not have all the answers. But she had something she did not have before—support. Courage. A choice. And when she got it, she would choose him. Without thinking, without missing a heartbeat. Afreen Hadid was going to earn her Fahmid Bilal, her Lion-ie and his love and trust back.
"We will help you with perfect ideas to earn him back, Afi!" Sufiyah added with a wink, already thinking of many mischievous ideas to bring the lovers close again. While Ayaan just face-palmed, knowing very well how much of a goodly crook his wife was.
The heavy oak door slammed shut behind him, echoing through the emptiness of his room like a gavel sealing a cruel verdict. Fahmid stood still for a moment, shoulders stiff, jaw clenched, his chest rising and falling with a storm he could no longer suppress.
Outside, the air still held traces of her voice. Afreen’s voice. “I love you…”
He squeezed his eyes shut. That one sentence had torn through every wall he had spent months building around his heart. Her words echoed in his mind like a ghost refusing to be silenced. And still—he had walked away.
He turned the lock slowly, his movements stiff, robotic. The latch clicked into place, and only then did he finally exhale—ragged, broken.
His legs faltered, and he sank to the ground, the cold floor a stark contrast to the fire raging in his chest. His head fell into his hands, fingers trembling. "She said she loves me..."
The words were too heavy. They clung to his throat, choking him. "After all this time... after everything..." He let out a strangled laugh, one devoid of any humor—just pain. Pain that had been festering, buried deep beneath discipline and duty. The military had trained his body and sharpened his mind, but nothing—not even a battlefield—could’ve prepared him for this war within.
He punched the floor—once, twice—until the sharp sting in his hand grounded him in the present. "Why now?" He murmured bitterly. "Why say it now when I’ve spent every damn day trying to forget the way she looked at me… when she told me to leave?"
His voice cracked at the memory. She had not asked him to stay. She had not fought for them. She had asked him to go. Cruelly. She had asked him to forget her, to stop loving her. And he went—because she asked. Because he loved her enough to respect her wishes even when it felt like being ripped from his own skin.
He rose slowly, every bone heavy with exhaustion and emotion, and walked to his desk. His fingers brushed over a framed photo—her, smiling shyly, fingers twined in his at the old bus stop.
He picked it up and held it close, his voice no louder than a breath. "You asked me to go, Afreen. And I went. Every day without you... every mission, every cold night—I told myself it was for the best."
A single tear traced the sharp line of his cheek, followed by another. His breath hitched. "But I never stopped loving you. Not for a second. I waited... hoping you'd come back. Hoping that if we ever met again, you'd still be mine. But when I saw you today..." He trailed off, hands shaking as he set the frame down.
"I wanted to hold you. I wanted to tell the whole world you’re mine." He gritted his teeth, anguish warping his face. "But I couldn’t. Because I’m scared, Afreen. Terrified. What if you change your mind again? What if this time I fall harder, and there’s no one left to pick up the pieces?"
His knees buckled again, and he sat on the edge of the bed, head in his hands. "I love you. Only my Allah knows how much I love you. But I don’t know if I can survive losing you again."
A knock echoed faintly from the hallway, but he did not lift his head. His world was too heavy, his heart collapsing under the weight of emotions he had buried deep for too long. The room was dim, the fading sunlight casting orange streaks through the curtains, illuminating dust motes floating in the air—quiet, still, like the ache in his chest.
The photo frame glinted on the floor, catching a sliver of light. Their smiling faces, from a moment that once held promises, mocked his current despair. “I still remember,” he whispered hoarsely, fingers tangled in his hair. “Your sleepy voice in the mornings, your scent on my hoodie, the way your eyes used to search mine like I was your whole world.”
His shoulders trembled as the sob he had been choking on finally broke free, raw and unrestrained. “Why did you send me away, Afreen?” He whispered, the question a fragile ghost that drifted into the silence. “Why didn’t you fight for me? Even when I was begging you in my silence to just ask me to stay... you let me go.”
His voice cracked as he pressed a hand over his heart. “You haunt me. Every prayer, every dream, every beat of this damned heart that doesn’t know how to forget you.”
The call to Maghrib echoed faintly from a distance, and his trembling fingers reached for the prayer mat folded near the shelf. Slowly, like a man surrendering, he unfurled it, lowering himself onto it with the weariness of someone carrying a lifetime of ache.
As he bent forward into ¹⁰*sujood, the tears returned—not of weakness, but of surrender. “Ya Allah,” he whispered, “if she’s written for me... bring her back to me in a way that heals us both. But if she’s not... please, please, help me forget how it felt to love her.”
He prayed to Allah for some resolution. Except there was not any resolution but a quiet ache. That was no longer a mature man or graduated military cadet but a man broken by love, leaning solely on his faith to carry him through the storm of uncertainty.