Chapter – Ahad's Realization
When the professor's footsteps faded and the door shut behind him, the library felt heavier. The air carried her scent—soft, stubborn, familiar. She sat across from me, but it felt like she was pressed into my skin, my thoughts, my pulse.
I leaned back in my chair, trying to wear the mask I always do—smirk, tease, provoke. It usually works. With anyone else, it always works. But with Iman? Every time she answers me, every time her eyes flash fire, I feel the ground shifting beneath me.
"You'll deny it," I had said to her, "but today, you felt it too."
She didn't answer. And that silence did more damage to me than her sharpest words ever could.
God help me.
I ran a hand through my hair, pretending to look at the book, though the ink swam before my eyes. What did Almeida say? History isn't dead ink—it's alive in us. If that's true, then Iman is the spark dragging me into a history I never asked for.
She was still avoiding my gaze, her fingers resting lightly on the professor's book. The same fingers that had brushed mine only minutes ago. A single touch, accidental maybe—but I swear it burned hotter than fire.
"Iman," I said, testing her name on my tongue. It tasted dangerous.
Her eyes lifted, steady, guarded. She always meets me like that, as though we're fencing and I'm the one who will strike first.
I wanted to say something reckless—something like, you undo me. Instead, I settled for a safer battlefield. "You argued well today."
A faint crease appeared between her brows. "That surprises you?"
"No," I said, shaking my head. "It confirms it."
Her lips pressed together, trying not to smile. I caught the flicker, and it was enough to unravel me.
What the hell is happening to me?
This was supposed to be simple. I spar with her, she argues back, we walk away. But lately… it isn't just debate. It's the way she bites down on her words before releasing them. The way her voice drops when she's certain. The way her silences speak louder than anyone else's noise.
And today—today when her fingers touched mine—I knew I was no longer in control.
I leaned forward, unable to stop myself. "You know, for someone so certain Noor was fire, you look a lot like the lamp."
Her eyes narrowed. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"That you glow without trying," I said before I could stop myself.
The words slipped out too easily. My stomach dropped. I covered it with a smirk, but inside, I was reeling. What the hell did I just do?
She blinked, startled, then quickly busied herself with closing the book. "You're impossible."
Maybe. But I caught the way her fingers trembled ever so slightly, and that tremor sent a shiver through me.
I'm fucked. I know it.
Because it isn't just a crush—it's something deeper, something I can't laugh off or bury under jokes. Every argument with her sharpens me. Every glance pulls me closer. Every silence between us hums like it's alive.
And worst of all? She doesn't even realize. She's walking through my defenses as though they were never there, and I'm letting her.
The oak table between us felt too wide and too narrow all at once. I wanted to reach across, to tell her outright. But then I imagined the look in her eyes—shock, disbelief, maybe even rejection. That thought rooted me to my chair.
So instead, I let out a quiet laugh, shaking my head. "One day, you'll see what I mean."
She glanced at me, suspicious, her eyes too sharp to be fooled. "And what exactly do you mean, Ahad?"
I opened my mouth. The truth hovered there, reckless and hungry.
That I think of you when the library is silent. That I can't argue with you without falling deeper. That you terrify me because you're the one thing I can't control.
But I didn't say it. Coward.
Instead, I leaned back, smirk firmly in place. "That you'll admit I was right, eventually."
She rolled her eyes, but I caught the faintest tug at her lips, like she almost smiled.
And in that moment, I knew.
This wasn't debate anymore. This wasn't rivalry. This was something raw, dangerous, and far too big for me to hold.
I'm fucked, well and truly.
And God help me—
I don't even want to be saved.
The library grew quieter after our words settled into the old wood and dust of the shelves. Iman didn't look at me—her eyes were still on the heavy book between us, her fingers brushing against the margin as though she could hide her trembling in the pages.
I should have walked away. I should have closed the book, made some careless remark, and left before the silence became too heavy. But instead, I leaned closer.
"You know," I said slowly, my voice dipping lower, "sometimes the answers we search for in history… we already know them. Deep down."
Her head tilted, just slightly, suspicion flickering across her face.
"And what is it," she asked, steady but soft, "that you think I already know?"
My mouth went dry. I wanted to say it—that she knew, or at least must feel, what I feel when I look at her. That pull. That storm. But the words twisted in my throat, tangled with pride, with fear, with the knowledge that once spoken, there would be no way back.
Before I could find the courage, the shrill clang of the school bell shattered the moment. Chutti.
The sound of rushed footsteps and scraping chairs filled the corridors. Laughter spilled through the door as a group of boys stumbled in, loud and careless, their voices slicing through the fragile silence we had just shared.
"Arre, Ahad! Still stuck in books? Let's go, man!" one of them called, smacking my shoulder as he passed.
Another leaned against the doorway, grinning. "And look at this—Iman too! Don't tell me you two are starting a reading club now." The laughter that followed made my jaw clench.
I didn't answer. My eyes never left her face, watching how her lips pressed into a thin line, how she tried to mask the discomfort with that stubborn calm she always wore like armor.
More voices. Friends teasing, classmates brushing past. Some stopped to ask what we were working on, others just cracked jokes and left. Each interruption felt like a thief robbing me of something—something I hadn't even held properly yet.
Finally, the crowd thinned. The boys drifted away, their footsteps echoing down the hall. One last voice shouted, "Come on, Ahad! Don't get lost in those old books!" And then they were gone.
We were alone again.
The silence returned, heavier this time. She rose from her chair, tucking the book under her arm. "You should go," she said quietly, not meeting my eyes. "They're waiting for you."
But I couldn't move. My body stayed rooted in place, as though the floor itself had claimed me. Watching her, I realized the truth I had been trying to outrun, to laugh off, to bury under arrogance.
I was already gone.
And worse—she didn't even know.