Asif slaps his face for his own stupidity.
'Even if my life's not worth living, my sister's is. What would happen to her if I die?... I'm such an idiot.'
Asif was eight when his parents died. They didn't own a home or leave any inheritance. His parents had struggled just to feed them.
At first, people showed sympathy at the funeral. But as money ran out, their true colors showed. Even relatives acted like strangers.
They were kicked out of their rented home and lived on the streets for days until Asif started doing manual labor. His perseverance and quick learning skills eventually secured them a shanty in the slums—barely stable, but shelter.
Even after years of struggle, he never let his younger sister work outside. Partly out of overprotectiveness, partly because they lived where even 10-year-old girls got raped.
"I'll be there in a bit."
Asif brushes his teary eyes with his palms. The past always makes him weak, but to survive the present, he has to make himself strong.
He approaches Ayra with a smile. Seeing her arrange plates on the table, he walks over silently and hugs her.
"Ayraaa! Did you forgive your brother for not bringing chocolate? I promise I won't forget tomorrow."
"Get your hands off me, you perv!" Ayra protests, her face flushing. "I'm already fourteen—don't treat me like a child!"
Asif doesn't reply, just kisses her forehead and sits at their "dinner table"—a worm-eaten table propped against the wall.
'I was blinded by love. My sister has to live all day surrounded by these cracked walls, and here I am, chasing after a skirt I'll never get.'
When both of them sit on the bench, it starts shaking. Without warning, the bench collapses onto the brick floor.
"Ayra, did you get hurt? Let me check."
"Don't worry bro, it's okay. Just a scratch."
When Asif looks carefully, he notices her hand is twisted - probably from landing on it.
"What's okay? You're clearly injured. You might've even broken your hand."
Ayra looks away from Asif, trying not to cry while forcing her mouth to stay silent.
'She's far stronger than me. I cried over rejection, while she won't even whimper with a broken hand.'
The hardened look on his sister's face makes Asif want to cry.
"Brother, let's eat first. You haven't even eaten breakfast today."
"Okay, but let me feed you, okay?"
She doesn't protest this time, though the shy look remains. The meal is nothing special - just plain rice, lentils, mashed potatoes, and salad. Most ingredients were bought cheaply from leftover groceries, especially on Thursday evenings when shopkeepers clear their shelves.
Ayra chews silently. She doesn't complain, not about her injury nor the meager food. She cooked it herself, though Asif bought the ingredients.
While feeding her, Asif notices her swollen joints. 'Her hand's swelling up. She needs treatment. I have to get medicine.'
After feeding Ayra and eating some himself, Asif goes to his room. 'There should be emergency money here. Enough for treatment.' In reality, he only has 150 taka ($1.20) - worthless during this inflation crisis.