The Quiet Realization
The library still lingered in my thoughts as I pushed open the door to my room. A hush followed me in, different from the heavy silence of the old shelves and candlelight, yet no less consuming. I let the door close behind me and stood there for a moment, motionless. The soft tick of the clock on my desk echoed in my ears, and for some reason, every tick seemed to bring her name back to me.
Iman.
I tossed my books onto the chair, loosened my collar, and finally collapsed onto the bed. The ceiling above me stared back, pale and blank, but all I could see was her face across the table in that library. The way she argued—sharp, precise, as though every word had been rehearsed a hundred times in her mind, and yet it carried the weight of a heart that believed. She never faltered. Not once.
I had gone there prepared to win, to prove her wrong, to show her that I could challenge her words and unravel them with mine. But instead… instead, she turned every one of my arguments back on me. It wasn't just her reasoning—it was her conviction. She wasn't speaking to win. She was speaking because she had to, because silence for her was a betrayal to the truth she carried inside.
I pressed a hand against my forehead, shutting my eyes. And yet, even in the darkness, her image stayed. That faint crease on her brow when she tried to piece two thoughts together. The slight curl of her lips when she thought she had caught me in a slip. The spark in her eyes when she spoke about something that mattered to her.
Why was I noticing all this?
I turned to my side, restless. My pillow had grown too warm already. I pulled it over my head, but it made no difference. Her voice was still there. Low. Calm. Then fiery. Then soft again. Like a storm that knew exactly when to strike and when to retreat.
No one has ever argued with me like that. No one has ever dared. They either step back, or step down, or worse, agree with me simply because they think I expect it. But her… Iman didn't care what I expected. She only cared about what she believed.
And it shook me.
I thought back to the moment I looked at her hands while she gestured mid-sentence—ink stains still faint on her fingertips from the notes she had been scribbling. Her bracelets had slid down her wrist, catching the faint light, but she didn't care about the sound or the glitter. She cared about making her point. There was an elegance in that unawareness, a beauty she wasn't even trying to wear.
A bitter laugh escaped my throat. Beauty. Since when did I start describing her like that? Since when did my thoughts linger on the sound of her laughter, the way her eyes darted around when she was about to say something daring, or the way her voice softened when she spoke to the professor?
Since today.
No—that wasn't true.
Maybe it was since the very first time our eyes met across the room, both of us stubborn enough not to look away. Maybe I had been waiting for this debate all along, not because I wanted to prove her wrong, but because I wanted to hear her. To watch her. To find a reason to keep her in my world longer than a fleeting glance.
The realization struck like a sudden chill.
I liked her.
No—more than that.
Every part of me, every restless thought tonight, every pull in my chest when she looked at me, every fire in my blood when she challenged me—it was all pointing to the same undeniable truth.
I was falling for Iman.
The words made me sit up straight. My chest rose and fell as though I had confessed it aloud. I ran a hand down my face, trying to push it away, trying to bury it under reason. But reason had lost the debate the moment she smiled at me, hadn't it?
I leaned back against the wall, staring into the dimness of my room. And then, uninvited, an image of her looking at me—just for that fraction of a second longer than necessary—flashed in my mind.
She knows.
The thought frightened me, thrilled me, consumed me all at once. Maybe she already knew. Maybe she saw through my anger, my stubbornness, my carefully woven words. Maybe she knew what even I hadn't admitted until now.
Iman.
Her name left my lips in a whisper. It tasted like truth, like something I could no longer hide from.
And though I had not said it to her, though I would never dare admit it so easily, I knew deep inside—
This was no ordinary realization.
This was the beginning of everything.
I lay there, half-turned on my side, staring at the cracks on the ceiling that my eyes had traced a hundred times before.
Iman.
Her name struck against me like a forbidden prayer. It wasn't just her words in the library that clung to me—it was the way her eyes lingered, not yielding, not bending, though they shook something inside me that I had built so carefully to never be shaken. I tried to reason with myself, tell myself it was just the heat of the debate, the natural spark of two people colliding on ideas. But my heart, damn traitor, it whispered otherwise.
I exhaled harshly, dragging my hand over my face. What was I doing? Since when did I allow anyone to enter this space in me, the one I kept barred, locked, sealed away from the world?
A sudden knock on my door tore through my thoughts. I flinched upright, heart hammering as though I had been caught guilty of something I had not yet confessed.
"Ahad," my mother's voice carried from outside, calm but laced with something that made my stomach knot. "Iman is here."
The words hit me like a stone dropped into still water.
I froze, every part of me alert, blood surging so fast I thought my skin might give way. My mind, sharp and restless, scrambled: Here? Why now? What does she want?
I stumbled to my feet, almost knocking over the chair, running a hand through my hair though it hardly mattered. My breath felt like it wasn't mine as I opened the door.
When I stepped into the living room, there she was. Simple, as if she belonged anywhere she stood, and yet she unsettled everything in me. She held out a notebook—mine.I rubbed my palms against my knees, trying to appear casual even to myself.
"You left this in the library," she said, her tone brisk, as though she had rehearsed to keep it short.I reached out, my fingers brushing the edge of the cover, and in that fleeting touch it was as though the air split. My skin burned where hers had lingered. I clutched the notebook, but the weight of it was nothing compared to the weight pressing inside my chest. "I see… so you came all the way just for this?"
She shrugged lightly, avoiding my eyes. "I thought you might need it."
"Hmm," I said, though my throat felt dry. "You could've kept it for tomorrow."
"And risk you accusing me of stealing your notes?" she retorted, half a smirk playing on her lips.
I wanted to laugh, but instead, I watched her more intently than I should have. "You think I'd accuse you of that?"
"You accuse me of worse in debates," she replied, this time her eyes finally meeting mine, and for a second, the world stilled.She shifted slightly, as if she was about to excuse herself. Something in me rebelled. I didn't want the moment to collapse so quickly, didn't want the space between us to close without a trace.
"I'll walk you out," I said, before she could turn.
She shook her head, already stepping back. "It's fine. I know the way."
But I followed, stubborn in my silence, until we reached the gate. The late afternoon air was softer now, tinged with the gold of a sun not yet setting. The shadows stretched long, like the pause between us. We stepped out, my mother's distant voice in the background fading as the world seemed to shrink to just our footsteps. The house was heavy with silence; even the shadows seemed to lean closer, aware of the fragile current binding us
"You shouldn't keep running off after just returning a notebook," I murmured, my voice lower than I intended.
She tilted her head, studying me for a moment, as if trying to read something I wouldn't dare confess. Then, with the faintest smile that almost undid me, she said, "Then stop forgetting your things."
.
At the gate, she paused. I should have spoken—anything, something to ease the pull in my chest—but the words lodged themselves deep, refusing to rise.
She turned slightly, her face catching the pale glow of the streetlight. "Goodbye, Ahad," she said simply, her voice gentler than the silence around us.
"Goodbye," I managed, though my throat tightened.
And then she was gone, her figure dissolving into the darkness of the lane.
I remained there, my hand resting on the iron of the gate, staring at the path she had taken. My heart beat with a rhythm that no longer obeyed me. Something had shifted tonight—no, something had revealed itself. I had been circling it unknowingly, denying it, disguising it beneath irritation and sharp words. But it stood before me now, clear, undeniable.
Iwanted her.
Not in the shallow sense of want, not the fleeting grasp of admiration. I wanted her presence, her mind, the fire that clashed against mine and yet stilled me in ways nothing else could. It was dangerous, reckless even—but I could not bury it anymore.
Inside my room once again, I pressed the notebook to my chest as though it were some sacred relic she had left behind. My lips curved, not quite a smile, but something raw, something real.
Iman.
And for the first time, I admitted it to myself: she was no longer just a part of my days—she was the shadow in my nights, the pulse in my silence, the one who had breached the walls I had sworn none could ever climb.