The night pressed down on the forest like a velvet curtain, thick and suffocating, the scent of pine and damp earth curling into every crevice. The truck rattled along the uneven dirt path, headlights slicing through the darkness in jagged lines, until the beam wavered, tilting dangerously.
Ababeel's eyes narrowed first. Habeel's knuckles were white on the wheel, his eyelids drooping, the truck edging toward a tree like a toy teetering on the edge of a table.
"Habeel, stop the truck," she demanded, voice sharp, taut with fear and authority.
"I'm fine," he mumbled, slow blinks heavy on his face.
"Stop. The. Truck." Each word struck like a whip.
"I said I'm—"
"If you don't stop in three seconds, I SWEAR I will grab the wheel and crash us into the nearest tree!"
He slammed the brakes. The tyres protested against the dirt with a long, scraping groan.
"…You're insane."
"Good. Now move over."
He hesitated. She yanked the keys out of the ignition with precise force.
"You're evil," he accused, disbelief and exhaustion threading through his voice.
"You're feverish," she countered, stepping out. "Big difference."
She climbed into the back, rifling through crates with quick, practised hands until she found the first-aid kit and a few cans of food. Habeel slumped in the driver's seat, body leaning against the door, sweat glistening on his pale, fevered face.
When she returned, the fire in her eyes met the dull sheen of his fever. "Up," she ordered.
"I don't wanna," he muttered, a stubborn child in an adult body.
She pulled him anyway, guiding him to a fallen log near a small clearing. His legs wobbled violently, threatening to collapse with every step. She knelt to gather wood, striking sparks until the fire leapt to life—small, warm, defiant against the cold, endless night.
Canned beans heated in a metal cup, steam curling lazily. She handed it to him. Habeel inhaled dramatically, an exaggerated flourish that almost made her snort.
"Oooo oo—this is gourmet," he announced, voice cracking with humour that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"It's literally warm beans," she muttered, rolling her eyes.
"Beans crafted by a master chef," he declared, deadpan.
"That master chef literally kicked a soldier's face earlier," she reminded him, voice edged with both horror and admiration.
"Exactly. Flavour of victory," he said solemnly, biting into the beans.
She knelt beside him, rolling up his sleeve with careful, deliberate hands. "Let me see," she murmured, inspecting the wound. Relief flickered across her face. "Thank GOD it's not infected."
Habeel flinched. "Then why am I dizzy and feverish?"
"This isn't a movie," she snapped gently, pressing the wound. "You don't pull a bullet out of your ARM and walk around like the freaking Terminator."
He chuckled weakly, the sound breaking the tension like a fragile shard. "I have a question."
She glanced up, curious. "What?"
"Judging by how you made a fire like a pro—where a normal human like me would've burned down the entire forest—were you a scout or something?"
She shrugged, focused on her task. "My father pushed me into my school's girls' scouting program. First aid, basic survival. Though yes…" she hesitated, "…this was the first time I stitched a real human."
Habeel smirked. "You say that like you're not human."
She pressed the wound a little harder. "AHH! HEY!!" he yelped, clutching the blanket.
"That's for mocking me."
He groaned dramatically, but a trace of laughter surfaced, fragile. "You're enjoying this."
"Maybe," she admitted softly, eyes focused on her careful work.
A hush settled, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the distant whisper of the forest. Then she spoke, voice low, tentative.
"Since we're playing show-and-tell… why were you clutching your family photo so tightly? Do you… Regret something?"
His face darkened immediately, shielding the photo with trembling hands.
"Hey! I'm playing doctor, you can't shove me away," she said sharply, her eyes burning into his.
He froze. A deep inhale. And then slowly, painfully, he exhaled, voice cracking under the weight of unshed tears.
"Look… you saw what I went through. I didn't tell you everything, but… You can guess. I talked about my family too. I joked about my brother's stupid fart face. Teased my sister. I am relieved about my parents, and brother… but I don't know if my sister and her family, any of them are alive," she confessed, voice trembling, pain mirrored in her own synesthesia.
Habeel lifted his eyes—broken, haunted. "Ababeel… I'm a lone survivor right now. Why else would I hold that photo as my life depends on it?"
She reached out tentatively, resuming the careful cleaning of his wound. The firelight painted shadows across his face, highlighting the rawness of his grief.
"I…" he swallowed hard, voice tight with anguish. "Didn't you ever wonder why I came to rob you?"
"I thought… You looked well off. I didn't understand," she whispered.
He exhaled shakily. "The day before… I found out my father's company shut down. Inflation, restrictions, everything after COVID… it killed us. Fired everyone. Even him."
Her eyes softened. "I… understand."
"NO YOU DON'T!" His voice cracked, raw and ragged. "My father begged me to give up my dream university because we couldn't afford it. He needed the savings for my siblings."
Her chest tightened. Mirror-touch synesthesia hammered her, the grief of his memories slicing through her own.
"So I snapped. I said terrible things. I told him… I wished I were their only child, maybe then he'd appreciate me instead of the little brats who annoy everyone. I stormed out. Came to your house to rob you. To pay for my dreams. To be selfish."
"I wished they were dead… I wished they were never born…" His body shook violently, words barely audible above the crackle of the fire.
"And now… I'd give anything—ANYTHING—just to know they're alive. I just want to tell them I'm sorry. I don't care about the university anymore. I just… want them back."
Ababeel's hand hovered over his back, then pressed gently, a fragile tether grounding him. "Hey… It's okay. I'm sure they'll be okay." She wiped her own tears quickly, forcing her own grief back.
She finished bandaging his wound with deliberate care. "Lie down," she murmured, guiding him into the truck's back.
Exhausted, broken, he curled around the photo, blanket pulled tight. His breathing was shallow, uneven, a chaotic mix of fever, sobs, and heartbreak. Within minutes, he drifted into a ragged, fitful sleep.
Ababeel leaned against the truck tyre, the fire's flickering warmth playing across her face. She hadn't eaten, hadn't moved—only watched over him, guarding his fragile life through the endless, starless night, her eyes heavy but unwavering, heart anchored to his survival.
The forest whispered around them, indifferent, but in the small clearing, amid the crackle of fire and the weight of shared grief, two broken souls clung to life—together, haunted, and fiercely alive.