Falling asleep, Falling in love

As I closed the door behind me, I stood in the entryway of our apartment for a good few seconds, clutching the grocery bag like it was the only thing keeping me tethered to reality.

"Seriously, what is going on with today?"

First a girl on the rooftop. Then another girl—or maybe fate again—colliding into me at the grocery store, only to reveal herself to be the same rooftop girl: Sara.

What are the odds?

I placed the bag on the kitchen counter, kicked off my sandals, and dragged myself toward the living room, flopping onto the old, creaky sofa. The ceiling fan spun lazily above me, but my thoughts were far from still.

She was just trying to be kind… right?

But then that voice crept in again. The one I thought I'd buried long ago.

"Can women really be trusted?"

That one question shattered the moment like glass.

A cold weight pressed on my chest. Memories I didn't want started surfacing again, uninvited.

My mother.

Or rather, the woman who was supposed to be my mother.

I was barely seven when she left us.

No goodbye.

No warning.

Just a suitcase, a stolen bank card… and my baby sister in her arms.

Gone.

Vanished.

For another man—someone richer, someone "better," I guess.

I remember the look on my father's face that night. He didn't cry. He didn't scream. He just… sat there, holding my little shoes, staring at the empty doorway like it had swallowed his world.

I remember asking, "Dad, when will mom come back?"

And he'd only said, "We have each other. That's enough."

Since that night, I'd quietly built a wall around my heart. A silent vow: Don't get attached.

Don't talk to girls.

Don't trust them.

Don't feel anything.

At first, it was just a defense mechanism.

But over time… it became me.

I sucked at conversations. I avoided eye contact. I froze up around people, especially girls. I convinced myself it was just who I was.

But today?

Today shook that.

I glanced at the wall clock—9:02 PM.

"Crap!" I jumped up. "The eggs!"

I rushed to the kitchen, threw on an apron, and began prepping like my life depended on it. Sliced the onions— almost cried—not emotionally, I swear— diced the unripe papaya, and cracked a few eggs into a bowl.

The aroma of frying onions filled the room. I added spices like I remembered Dad used to. It wasn't perfect, but it felt… right.

By the time I was done, the sticky rice was steaming, and the egg curry was bubbling gently in the pan.

Just then, I heard the lock click. The front door opened.

"Asif?" my father's voice echoed from the hallway.

"In the kitchen!" I called out, trying not to sound too proud of my culinary masterpiece.

He walked in a minute later, looking tired—his face covered in city dust, his shirt half untucked, his eyes weary… but the moment he saw me standing there in the apron, curry spoon in hand, he froze.

And then, he smiled.

Not the usual tired smile.

But a soft, proud one.

" You are cooking?"

I nodded, a bit awkwardly. "Yeah… Thought I'd give it a try."

He chuckled, wiping his face with a towel. "My boy's all grown up now, huh?"

I scratched the back of my head and looked away.

After he freshened up, we sat down at the small wooden table. I served the food. He took a bite and raised his eyebrows.

"Hmm… not bad. Needs a little salt, but not bad at all."

I smiled a little.

We ate slowly, the sound of the fan humming in the background.

"So," he said between bites, "how's school?"

"Fine," I replied.

He gave me a side glance. "You sure? You look like something happened."

I shook my head. "Nothing special. Just… a normal day."

He didn't push. He never did.

Instead, he leaned back after finishing his plate and looked at me with a strange gentleness.

"Asif… you're in high school now. Make friends. Talk to people. And if it happens… fall in love."

I choked a little on my rice.

"Wait… what?" I stared at him, stunned.

He smiled again. "You heard me."

I frowned. "But… how can you still say that? After everything…"

I didn't have to say her name. He knew exactly who I meant.

My father leaned back, arms crossed, eyes soft but certain.

"Because love… love isn't the problem, Asif."

He looked me straight in the eye.

"It's about the heart. My love was real, even if hers wasn't. And real love… doesn't become fake just because someone else couldn't carry it."

I sat there, wordless.

I'd never thought about it that way.

He stood up, patted my shoulder, and carried his plate to the sink. "So don't be afraid of it. Love's still worth it—even when it hurts."

I didn't know what to say.

I quietly finished the last spoon of curry and washed the plates.

When I finally returned to my room, I laid down on my bed, arms behind my head, staring at the ceiling fan spinning slowly above me.

"It's about the heart… even if hers wasn't real, mine was."

His words looped in my mind.

Sara's face came to mind again. Her annoyed eyes. Her soft voice when she introduced herself.

Then Ayesha. That graceful smile, and the way she said "Nice to meet you."

I closed my eyes.

And for the first time in a long while…

…I didn't feel so afraid.

Before I knew it, sleep gently took over.