Chapter Two – Saal
I let out a guttural groan and dropped the dumbbell onto the cushioned floor of my private gym. Sweat clung to my skin like regret. My shirt, drenched, hung off one shoulder as I wiped my face with the hem. My trainer watched with a bored expression. "You're distracted again."
I shot him an uninterested glance but I didn't answer. No number of reps could fix what I was feeling.
I had built every inch of this body hoping she'd notice. Ibtisam. But the only muscle she seemed to care about was her heart— and even that, she locked behind bulletproof glass. Which I'd soon incapacitate
Reigning in my obsession with someone who isn't destined to be mine, I pulled my shirt back on and stalked to the bathroom to shower. Steam clung to my skin, but nothing washed away the frustration. I stepped out with water vapor as an entourage.
My white towel hung low on my waist as I picked up my neatly pressed outfit, dressed quickly, grabbed my car keys, and headed out.
Tapping my fingers rhythmically on the steering wheel as my car blasted Rema's latest playlist, I tried to find rhythm—something to hold onto, but my mind wandered as the buildings thinned out into lush greenery and suburban settlement. I closed my eyes for what self like a fraction of a second and, I was knocked off the road by an oncoming vehicle. It felt surreal. I was vibing a minute ago.
And the next—I was letting it all slip through my fingers, cascading down the ramp of the inevitable.
Unlike what people say, my life didn't flash before my eyes. Instead, a foreign feeling settled in—regret. Regret for things unsaid, for moments wasted. I thought of how I could have been better. A better son, a better friend. Maybe even a better man for her. All I saw was her, then everything turned black.
The weight pressing on my chest wasn't just physical—it was emotional, existential. The first thing I heard was the steady beeping of a heart monitor. Then came the pain: dull, deep, patient. Not sharp, not screaming, just… there. Like regret.
My eyes fluttered open, wincing slightly at the intrusive rays and insignificant echoes. The ceiling was cream-colored, too bright, too sterile. I was in a hospital
Then came the flashes—glass shattering, the wheel spinning, the music cutting off mid-chorus. That sickening silence after impact. My breath caught in my throat. I should've died.
And maybe I almost did. But she was here.
Ibtisam.
She sat beside me, arms folded, shoulders stiff like they were holding up the world. She stared at nothing. Eyes sharp and wet, lips tight with words she didn't want to say.
I'd imagined waking up to her before, but never like this. Not in a hospital bed, wrapped in gauze and shame.
I watched the shake in her fingers, the twitch in her jaw, the silence that screamed louder than words. She always wore anger like armour—but underneath, she was terrified.
I tried to speak. My lips cracked as I whispered, "Ibti? Is this the part where you admit you like me?"
She didn't laugh. Not really. But something shifted in her posture—like she'd exhaled something she'd been holding in too long.
"Don't flatter yourself," she muttered, arms still crossed. "I'm just here to make sure I don't lose the chance to end you myself." I smiled. Weak, but real. "You're terrible at lying." She didn't reply. But she didn't leave either.
I let my eyes close again.
It seemed to be in the morning
I woke up hours later. The room was quieter, darker. Ibtisam had moved, now seated on the edge of the chair, elbows on her knees, fingers threaded like she was praying but didn't know how.
"You're still here," I croaked.
She nodded without looking at me. "Unfortunately."
I wanted to tell her I was sorry—for crashing, for scaring her, for not being enough to make her stay before. But my voice gave out.
She turned to face me, eyes red but fierce. "What were you even doing driving that fast?" "Trying to feel something."
She scoffed. "Try a punch to the face next time. Less expensive."
A beat passed. I knew she was angry. But I also knew she came. She stayed. That meant something. "They said you hit your head," she said finally. "Concussion. Broken arm. Internal bruising. You're lucky."
"So lucky," I whispered.
Silence stretched between us, thick and honest.
Then she stood. Her shadow cut through the white light. "Don't make me do this again, Saal. Don't make me… care." I didn't have the strength to argue. I just watched her walk out.
The chair she left behind was still warm.
And somehow, so was I.