Zarah didn't wake — she resurfaced.
Like someone rising through cold, heavy water, lungs already aching. Morning wasn't gentle today. The room felt unfamiliar, too quiet, too still, like grief had rearranged the air overnight.
Her pillow was damp.
Her throat was sore.
Her chest felt bruised.
She sat up slowly, palms pressing into the mattress as if testing whether the world could carry her weight. Then she made her bed — smoothing wrinkles, tucking corners, fixing the pillow — not because it mattered, but because order was the only thing she could control.
When she finished, she lowered herself onto her knees.
The prayer didn't start immediately. First came silence — shaking shoulders, tight breaths, bitten lips. The kind of crying she didn't want anyone to hear.
"God..." she whispered, voice cracking, "please keep him. Please."
A tear slipped down her jaw and hit the sheet.
"I still need my father."
No poetry, no dramatic pleading — just a daughter begging the universe not to take the only man who had ever loved her gently.
When she finally stood, her legs felt stiff, like every emotion had settled in her bones. She showered, dressed, moisturized, tied her hair into a low bun — not because she cared, but because muscle memory carried her.
In the kitchen, Aishah sat at the island clutching a mug with both hands, eyes swollen from crying. Zarah forced herself to eat — small bites of toast she barely tasted. Neither spoke. Words felt like shards today — sharp, dangerous, unnecessary.
When she stood and picked up her bag, Aishah rose too.
"You're still going to work?" she asked, voice small.
Zarah nodded once. "If anything changes, they'll call."
Aishah nodded back, swallowing hard. "Come home tonight."
"I will."
Their mother wasn't there — bedroom door shut, pretending the world wasn't on fire. Typical.
Zarah didn't wait for anything else. She slipped on her shoes and stepped outside into cold, gray morning air that stung her awake.
She didn't order an Uber — she didn't want to sit still with her thoughts. She walked to the bus stop instead, hugging her jacket to her body. Each step felt too loud, like her grief echoed.
Her phone vibrated.
Alex Sinclair calling...
Her chest tightened. She stared at the screen for three seconds, then locked it and shoved it into her coat pocket.
She couldn't handle him right now — his kindness, his questions, his voice saying her name like it mattered.
The bus arrived. She got in, sat by the window, and watched the city move like life hadn't paused for her.
Halfway through the ride, her phone buzzed again — messages this time.
— Are you safe?
— Please talk to me.
— I'm here, Zarah.
— Don't disappear.
Her eyes burned, but she blinked hard until everything blurred dry again.
When she walked into the office building, people stared — not rude, not nosy — just cautious, sympathetic, unsure. She hated it. The pity. The softness. Like she was made of cracking porcelain.
She reached her desk, sat, opened her laptop, and stared at emails she didn't understand. The words rearranged themselves into static.
Her heart felt like it was beating everywhere — throat, temples, fingertips.
She tried to breathe through it.
She failed.
A message popped up on her screen.
Liam: Come to my office when you're free.
She didn't respond.
A knock sounded at her door anyway.
Liam leaned in, hands in pockets, eyebrows raised gently. "Hey. You good?"
She straightened her back. "Yeah, just— busy."
He looked at her untouched coffee. "Bullshit. You haven't taken a sip. You treat coffee like religion."
Her lips twitched — not quite a smile.
"Zee," he said softly, stepping inside, "you don't have to pretend."
Her throat closed. Her eyes stung. She shook her head quickly and stood. "I just need— just one second."
She exited before the tears could fall.
The bathroom was empty. Thank God.
She locked herself into the farthest stall, sat on the toilet seat, planted both feet on the ground, and finally let go.
It wasn't delicate crying — it was trembling, gasping, chest-collapsing panic. The kind of grief that felt like drowning from the inside out, like her ribs were trying to hold something too big, too painful.
She grabbed handfuls of her blazer, bowing forward, trying to breathe.
Her father's face flashed in her mind. The machines. The tubes. The doctor saying "critical." Her mother pacing and blaming the universe instead of facing reality.
A sharp sob escaped her throat.
"This can't be happening," she whispered, voice breaking.
She covered her mouth with her palm, but the sounds still slipped through — quiet, wounded, desperate. Tears fell fast, dripping onto her knees, mascara smearing across her sleeve.
She tried inhaling deeply, but the breath stuttered halfway and collapsed. Her hands were shaking so violently she pressed them between her thighs to steady them.
"Please don't die," she whispered to no one, to everyone, to God. "Please."
Her phone vibrated against her leg.
She didn't want to look. She already knew.
But she forced herself to check anyway.
Aishah.
Her blood turned cold.
She answered instantly. "What happened?"
Aishah's voice trembled. "The doctor just came out. Dad's getting worse. He says... he needs immediate surgery."
Zarah felt her whole body go weightless.
"Immediate?" she whispered.
"He said if we wait— he might not—" Aishah's voice broke into sobs.
Zarah stood abruptly, the world spinning around her. "I'm coming. I'm leaving work now."
"Hurry," Aishah cried. "Mom is losing it— I can't do this alone."
"I'm on my way," Zarah promised before hanging up.
She pushed out of the bathroom, wiping her face with shaking fingers, not caring about the streaks, not caring who saw.
She stormed into her office, grabbed her bag, almost knocking her laptop off the desk.
Liam appeared in the doorway, startled. "Zarah—?"
"My dad— he needs emergency surgery," she choked out. "I have to go."
"Do you need someone to—"
"No— yes— I don't—" Her breath stuttered, panic rising again.
"Okay, okay, breathe," Liam said softly, stepping toward her—
But another voice cut in.
"Zarah."
She turned.
Alex stood in the doorway.
His expression alone nearly shattered her—fear, worry, helplessness, relief that she was standing there.
He stepped forward slowly, voice gentle. "Give me your bag."
She didn't argue—she couldn't. Her body moved on instinct, handing it over.
"I booked an Uber," she whispered.
"Cancel it," Alex said. "I'm driving you."
She opened her mouth to protest, but no sound came out. Her throat was too tight, her vision too blurry, everything too much.
Alex guided her toward the elevator with a steady hand on her back—firm, protective, not possessive.
Liam watched, jaw tense, worry etched into his features—but he didn't stop them.
The elevator doors closed.
Inside the car, Zarah barely got her seatbelt on before the tears returned—silent, painful, unstoppable. Her breathing became uneven, chest rising too fast.
Alex reached over slowly, giving her enough time to pull away if she wanted.
She didn't.
His hand wrapped around hers—warm, steady, grounding.
"I've got you," he whispered.
That broke her completely.
"I'm so scared," she cried, voice shaking. "I don't— I don't know what to do."
"Then let me think for you," he said softly. "Just breathe."
The city rushed past but inside the car everything felt slow, suspended. He let her cry. He didn't interrupt, didn't rush her, didn't offer clichés. He just held her hand, thumb moving in slow, reassuring strokes.
At a red light, she whispered, "Why are you doing this?"
Alex looked at her—not pitying, not heroic—just human.
"Because you shouldn't have to go through this alone."
Her breath hitched.
They arrived at the hospital. Zarah practically ran inside, Alex close behind, staying near without crowding her.
Aishah spotted her immediately and collapsed into her arms. They held each other—crying, shaking, terrified.
"Where's Dad?" Zarah asked breathlessly.
"Still in the emergency unit," Aishah said. "Insurance won't cover the surgery. Mom's arguing with billing."
Alex's jaw tightened—subtle but sharp.
Their mother emerged from the hallway, mascara smudged, voice already raised before she reached them.
"Oh look who finally decided to care," she snapped. "What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be working? Or pretending to be important?"
Zarah flinched, exhausted. "Mom, not now—"
"Well, someone has to say it," her mother continued bitterly. "You pride yourself on being successful but can't even help your own father. Useless."
Aishah looked away, ashamed for her.
Alex stepped closer—not confrontational, just present.
Zarah's voice wavered. "Where's the doctor?"
"Right here," a voice answered.
The surgeon approached, expression tense, urgent.
"Mr. Malik's internal bleeding has worsened. If we don't operate within the next hour... he may not survive."
Zarah's knees nearly gave out. A sob ripped from her chest as she covered her mouth, shaking violently.
Aishah started crying again.
Their mother gasped dramatically but stayed frozen.
"How much?" Alex asked calmly.
The doctor gave the number—large, suffocating.
Zarah felt like she'd been punched. "We— we don't have that—"
"We can't wait for insurance to process," the doctor continued. "We need authorization now."
Alex didn't look shocked. Didn't hesitate.
"Start preparing him," he told the doctor. "I'll handle payment."
Zarah's head snapped toward him. "No— Alex— you can't—"
"Yes. I can."
"You barely know me," she whispered, voice breaking. "This isn't your responsibility."
He looked at her gently. "I'm making it mine."
"No. No— I won't let you—"
"Zarah," he said softly but firmly, "your father needs surgery. That's the only thing that matters."
Her mother scoffed loudly, rolling her eyes. "For God's sake, shut up and let the man help. It's not like you could ever earn that kind of money anyway."
Zarah froze—humiliation, rage, grief swirling into something sharp.
Alex's expression darkened—not anger, but protective disbelief.
Zarah inhaled shakily, eyes filling again.
Alex stepped closer, voice low, steady, for her only.
"You don't have to fight this alone anymore."
Her lips trembled.
Her shoulders collapsed.
She nodded.
The doctor rushed off to prepare the operating room.
Zarah broke—really broke this time—sobbing into her hands, chest heaving, body shaking.
Alex gently pulled her into his chest, holding her like she was breakable but worth holding anyway.
And in that crowded hospital hallway, surrounded by fear and fluorescent lights...
she finally let someone carry the weight with her.