Zuhra rushed into her room, trying to hide the tears streaming down her face. She tossed her bag aside and sat on the bed, staring blankly at the wall — her heart heavy with turmoil. This was not the life she had dreamed of: a life without her parents' care, without their full support.
She pressed a hand to her chest; her heartbeat pounded fiercely. No matter how much she loved singing, her father stood firmly against it, clinging to the belief that he would never allow his daughter to stand on a stage.
"Why does life feel so heavy on me? I want to sing, but it feels like I'm facing the whole world alone."
She slipped off her shoes and lay down, but her heart kept racing, echoing with heavy questions:
"Why do I feel like I'm not enough? Why is there no one who understands me — or stands by my side?"
---
Elsewhere…
Munir looked at Kamal with pity.
"Kamal," he said gently, "despite all your struggles, one day you'll realize you'll never find peace until you let go of alcohol and chase women."
Kamal took a deep breath and turned to his friend. His eyes carried the longing for a different life, but his soul was weighed down. Even with Munir's support, peace always eluded him.
After a pause, Munir glanced at his watch and said:
"Let's head home. Mama said she's preparing something special for my birthday."
Kamal's face tightened.
"You mean you're dragging me to Mr. Perfect's house? Did you forget your father doesn't even want me near your gate?"
Munir laughed.
"Stop that, Kamal. Baba doesn't hold grudges the way you think. It's my birthday today — you're part of my life."
With hesitation, Kamal rose, slipping his phone into his pocket.
"Alright, but God help me. If Mr. Perfect raises his voice at me, you'll be the one to defend me."
Munir chuckled wearily.
"Relax. Baba's softer now — especially since you've stopped bringing trouble or drinking around the house."
---
They stepped outside; Kamal revved his motorbike and Munir climbed on behind him. The road to Munir's home wound through the wealthy district, lined with gardens and the scent of flowers.
As they entered the compound, Kamal bit his lip. A cold resentment filled his chest — against his own parents, and against Munir's father, whom he mockingly named: Mr. Perfect.
"Look at this place — flowers, order, spotless. As if he's never made a mistake in his life," Kamal muttered under his breath, only loud enough for Munir to hear.
Munir smiled faintly, saying nothing.
---
In the living room, they found Munir's father — Tariq — reading a newspaper. Seeing them, he set it aside and looked up with a calm smile.
"Munir, welcome. And you, Kamal…" he paused slightly before adding, "…sit down. How's school?"
Kamal shut his eyes briefly, answering softly:
"Fine… Mr. Perfect."
Tariq narrowed his gaze, catching the remark, but chose silence. Instead, he turned to his son:
"Your mother's in the kitchen. Go help her before your friends arrive."
Munir grabbed Kamal's hand.
"Come on. But, wallahi, tonight you'll be part of this gathering — even if your heart is still full of thoughts of Zuhra."
Kamal managed a faint, weary smile. He knew the words "Mr. Perfect" hadn't been kind — but they were the truth of how he felt. Tariq was a man of order and honor, the model his own father admired. But Kamal, cast aside for his drinking and womanizing, carried the weight of rejection in his heart.