A memory called Zahra

Chapter 6-The sound of coffee and quiet hearts.

The morning sun filters through the thin curtains, soft gold spilling across my small room. For a moment, I lie still, listening to the faint hum of the ceiling fan and the faraway laughter of children walking to school. It feels strange to be awake without the heaviness I’ve carried all week.

Maybe Kabir’s words are still tucked somewhere in my chest — don’t let your fears stop you from living. They echo every time I think about the days I’ve wasted hiding from the world.

I get up, dress in my simple grey hijab and long navy gown, and stand before the mirror. The face staring back still feels like a stranger’s. But there’s something different today — not familiarity, just… acceptance.

“Hanifa,” I whisper to my reflection. “You’re doing fine.”

At school, the day passes slower than usual. The children’s laughter fills the classroom, and I find myself smiling — genuinely this time — when one of them draws me a picture of “Miss Haneefa and the sun.” Their innocence soothes me in ways I can’t explain.

But when the final bell rings, a soft unease creeps in. I pack my books slowly, stalling for no reason at all, until I finally step outside — and freeze.

Kabir is there.

He’s leaning casually against his car, sleeves rolled up, sunglasses dangling from his fingers. There’s an ease about him that both steadies and unravels me. In his other hand, he’s holding two cups of coffee.

“I thought you might need this after your first day back,” he says, smiling that calm smile that makes me forget how to breathe.

I blink, trying to hide the warmth spreading through me. "You're here."

I take the cup he offers, fingers brushing his. For a second, something flickers — familiarity, maybe, or a memory just out of reach. But it fades too quickly to hold on to.

We sit on a nearby bench beneath a tree, the soft evening breeze teasing the hem of my gown. He talks — about the weather, about how coffee never tastes the same outside the city, about how he once thought teaching was the hardest job in the world until he tried helping his nephew with homework.

I laugh, quietly at first, then freely. I haven’t laughed like this in months.

When the conversation fades into a comfortable silence, he turns slightly, eyes searching mine. “You look lighter today,” he says softly.

“Do I?”

“Yes.” He pauses. “It suits you.”

The words settle in my chest, warm and unsettling at once. I sip my coffee to hide the smile threatening to form.

For a while, we just sit there — two strangers bound by something neither of us can name. When he finally stands to leave, he says, “Don’t disappear again, Hanifa.”

I nod. “I’ll try not to.”

As I walk home that evening, I realize something that makes my heart ache in the quietest way — I’m starting to wait for him. Not his voice, not his coffee, but the peace that comes with him.

And that, somehow, scares me more than losing my memories ever did.

That night, the world feels quieter than usual. The ceiling fan hums softly above me as I sit by the window, the moonlight pooling across my notebook. I haven’t written in days — maybe weeks — but tonight, the words come easier.

> “Today felt… normal. Almost too normal. The children were loud, the chalk dust got everywhere, and someone spilled juice on my skirt. But for the first time, I didn’t feel like I was pretending to belong.”

I pause, my pen hovering over the page. Then, before I can stop myself, I write his name.

> “Kabir came by. He said I looked lighter. I don’t know what he meant, but maybe he’s right. Maybe I am lighter.”

I stare at the words until the ink begins to blur. There’s something about him that stirs a part of me I thought was gone. Something unsettlingly familiar, something I can’t quite name.

> “He makes the silence in my head less frightening.”

I close the notebook gently and set it aside. Lying back on my bed, I stare up at the ceiling and whisper into the still air,
“Don’t get used to it, Hanifa. Don’t.”

But even as I say it, a small, traitorous part of me hopes that tomorrow, he’ll be there again — leaning against his car, coffee in hand, and that quiet smile waiting just for me.

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Heyy.

Chap 6....see ya.