At home, silence isn't peaceful — it's heavy.
The kind of silence that hangs in the corners of rooms, pressed between walls and words no one wants to say. We're a family of "I'm fine" and "pass the salt." Emotions live in the spaces between footsteps. Quiet sighs. Closed doors.
Mom is always tired. Work clings to her like a second skin, and even when she's home, she's not really here. Dad thinks everything is okay since we have food to eat. "I work hard to provide for you guys," he says, as if that fills the empty room.
My brother Kamal is 18 and l barely speaks unless it's to his game console. His door is always closed, and when it opens he moves like a ghost – headphones on, hoodie up and eyes down.
And me? I am safiya .I've learned to make myself small. Easy to ignore. Easier to forget.
That's probably why losing Zara feels heavier. She was my noise. My color. My reminder that I wasn't invisible.
I scroll through my phone, thumb hovering over our old chats — voice notes of laughter, random memes, a hundred tiny moments frozen in pixels. I want to send her something. Anything. But I stop.
It's not the same anymore. It's not us anymore.
Sometimes I wonder if people outgrow people... or if some people were just holding onto memories all along.
I try to focus on homework. Algebra blurs into thoughts. I remember how Zara used to call herself my "second brain" during math. Now I solve problems in silence. The wrong kind.
Downstairs, a plate clinks. Someone's watching TV too loud. Life goes on — with or without anyone noticing you're breaking.
In my notebook, I scribble something without thinking:
"You don't need a villain to feel abandoned. Sometimes, people just stop choosing you."
I stare at it for a long time. Maybe I'll text it to her. Maybe I won't.
Maybe this is what growing up feels like — not all at once, but in these small, aching goodbyes no one else sees.