The sun was beginning to set, turning the sky into a soft painting of oranges and pinks. The campus was quieter now, students already heading home. But I stayed behind, walking slowly beside Zahid.
For the first time, his mask was off.
His face wasn't just the face of a cold, mysterious man anymore. It was a face tired of hiding, weighed down by years of pain.
We walked in silence at first. The only sound was the soft rustle of leaves and our footsteps on the gravel path. I could feel his eyes on me — not with suspicion or coldness, but something softer. Something almost human.
He finally broke the silence. "I've worn this mask for so long, Rida. It's not just protection. It's my prison."
His voice was quiet, almost fragile. I reached out and took his hand. It felt warm, but his fingers trembled slightly.
"Maybe it's time to find a way out," I said softly.
He looked down at our joined hands and gave a small, almost shy smile. "I'm scared."
"Me too," I admitted.
We found a bench under an old oak tree, its wide branches spreading shadows on the ground. We sat down, and I saw the first crack in his armor — his eyes looked vulnerable, tired from battles no one else knew about.
Zahid began to tell me about his nightmares. About the faces he couldn't forget, the blood that stained his memories, and the betrayal that left him broken. His voice cracked as he spoke, showing me the boy behind the man — a boy who lost his family, his trust, and almost his hope.
I listened, swallowing the lump in my throat, feeling tears prick behind my eyes. Then I shared my own secret fears — how blood still haunted my dreams, how darkness wrapped around me like a cold blanket I couldn't shake off, and how the memory of that night still made my heart race.
He reached out and gently touched my cheek. "You're not alone in this."
For the first time, the coldness in his eyes softened completely. I nodded, my own tears falling.
"No, you're not."
We sat like that for a long time — two broken souls sharing their pain, without fear or shame.
In that quiet moment beneath the oak tree, I realized something important: love doesn't need perfect people. It needs two people willing to accept each other's broken pieces, willing to hold each other's fears and scars with care.
We stayed until the stars began to twinkle in the dark sky. The cold night air wrapped around us, but it didn't feel lonely anymore. It felt like a promise — a promise that maybe, together, we could find a way to heal.