Laila....
They say small towns are peaceful.
But no one tells you how loud silence can be.
My family moved to Ashwell after my father's job transferred him from the city. He said it would be temporary. Six months, maybe a year. Long enough to earn better money. Short enough not to grow roots.
Mama wasn't thrilled.
Neither was I.
But we came anyway — me, Mama, Baba, and my younger brother Hamza. We left behind the call to prayer echoing from rooftops, the busy streets, the scent of spices from our old kitchen. Here, the air smells of damp earth and chimney smoke. The kind that clings to your clothes and your prayers.
---
The town itself is slow — like it's still waking up.
People stare longer than they should. Not just at me. At anything unfamiliar.
Mama says it's because we're new. But I know it's more than that.
They stare at her hijab in the supermarket.
At Baba's beard at the petrol station.
At me in the school hallway.
We are quiet people. And in this place, quiet is not enough to go unnoticed.
---
My first day at Ashwell High was exactly how I imagined it:
Awkward. Cold. Heavy.
I didn't expect a welcome, but I wasn't prepared for the hush that followed me into the classroom. I kept my eyes down, chose a seat near the window. One boy muttered something under his breath, but no one laughed. They just watched.
I didn't look at anyone directly, but I noticed her.
The girl in the corner. Pale uniform, dark curls tied back, a cross necklace half-hidden beneath her collar. She looked like someone who didn't miss much — and didn't want to be noticed either.
Our eyes didn't meet. Not really.
But I think she saw me drop my books later.
And I think she chose not to help.
---
That night at dinner, Baba talked about gratitude.
"Alhamdulillah," he said. "Even in places where we feel like outsiders, Allah is still watching over us."
I nodded. Chewed slowly.
But I didn't tell him how heavy my heart felt.
Or how tired my body already was from pretending not to care.
---
I prayed before bed, facing the qibla marked on my phone.
Outside, the wind howled like something warning me.
Inside, I closed my eyes and whispered what I didn't dare say aloud:
> Ya Allah, give me strength here.
And if You have written loneliness for me, then at least let it be gentle.
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