Raya's POV
Oh my God, I can't fucking sleep.
My thoughts won't shut up. They keep looping, tightening, pressing against my chest like they're trying to escape. I turn onto my side, then my back, staring at the wall while the clock ticks too loudly in the dark—each second deliberate, accusing.
My heart races for no reason.
Or maybe for one I'm refusing to face.
I press the pillow over my face and groan.
I need to stop listening to Aaqib.
He makes everything loud. He makes me doubt. All my preparations to meet Him—all the prayers, all the silence I've been trying to grow inside myself—will unravel if I keep letting Aaqib in. He keeps pulling me toward life when all I want is quiet.
I have to end it.
Soon.
Before I lose what I truly want.
I sit up and reach for my book of poems. The spine is cracked, pages worn soft from restless nights. I flip it open and trace the words written in my own shaky handwriting:
The tree grows stronger when watered by silence.
The roots reach deeper when tears become rain.
I exhale slowly. Maybe these words are the only part of me that still understands itself.
The alarm rings, sharp and sudden.
I turn it off and whisper, "Time to pray."
The prayer mat is cool beneath my knees. I lower myself carefully, speaking softly—asking for forgiveness, for peace, for release from the noise inside my head. When I finish, I stay there longer than usual, eyes closed, breathing as if stillness might swallow me whole.
Later, I sit at my vanity. My reflection looks tired, distant—like someone already halfway gone. Same dark circles. Same fragile smile.
Was I really going to break things off with Aaqib?
He was the only one who still talked to me like I was alive. But he also made me question everything—my plan, my faith, my certainty.
He wanted me to fight for life.
And I… I just wanted rest.
Aaqib comes later.
He doesn't sit down.
He stands near the doorway, arms crossed, like he isn't sure whether he's staying or leaving. The room feels smaller with him in it—heavy with things we haven't said.
"You've been avoiding me," he says.
"I've been busy," I reply, eyes fixed on the floor.
"With what?"
"Thinking."
He exhales, tired. "You're always thinking, Raya. That's not the problem."
I look up. "Then what is?"
"You," he says quietly. "The way you disappear when things get real. The way you talk about peace like it doesn't include anyone else."
My chest tightens. "You wouldn't understand."
"I'm tired of hearing that," he snaps, the calm finally cracking. "You keep pushing me away and calling it faith. You keep choosing silence and acting like it's holy."
"That's not fair," I whisper. "You think this is easy for me?"
"I think you don't want to be here," he says. "Not with me. Not anywhere."
The words hurt because they're too close to the truth.
"I never asked you to stay," I say.
"No," he replies. "But you let me believe there was an us."
"There was," I say weakly.
He shakes his head slowly, like he's already mourned this.
"No. There never was, Raya. There was me reaching—and you already halfway gone."
Something inside me splinters.
"So that's it?" I ask. "You're done?"
"I'm exhausted," he says. "I can't keep fighting for someone who's already chosen to disappear."
I swallow hard. "Then go."
He looks at me for a long moment, like he wants to say something kinder—but chooses honesty instead.
"I hope you find the quiet you're looking for," he says. "I just wish it didn't cost you everything."
Then he leaves.
The door closes softly behind him.
And that hurts more than if he'd slammed it.
That night, sleep doesn't come the way it usually does.
It slips in sideways.
I lie on my back, staring at the ceiling as rain begins to tap against the window. When my eyes finally close, it isn't darkness that meets me.
It's ash-gray light.
I stand barefoot on ground that isn't ground—smooth, reflective, like black glass. Mist curls around my ankles. There's no sky. No walls. Just endless quiet.
I know where I am.
Not because I was told.
But because my heart goes still.
"Raya."
The sound of my name feels intimate—dangerously so.
I turn.
He stands a few steps away, wings folded tight behind him, formed of shadow and smoke. His eyes hold centuries—and something unsettlingly gentle.
"You came," he says.
"I didn't mean to," I whisper. "I was just… tired."
A faint smile touches his lips. "You always are."
I should be afraid. Every prayer warned me about this place. About him. But instead, I feel pulled—like gravity has finally chosen me.
"You're not supposed to want this," I say.
"And yet," he murmurs, stepping closer, "you ache for it."
The space between us tightens. My breath catches. His gaze doesn't roam—it anchors.
"You let him go," he says.
"I had to."
"Because he saw you," he replies softly. "And I let you hide."
His hand lifts, stopping just short of my cheek. The nearness burns—reverent, unbearable.
"If you stay," he says, voice low, "I will never ask you to be more than you are."
"And what am I?" I ask.
"Mine," he answers—not possessive, but inevitable.
The word sends a tremor through me.
"No noise," he continues. "No mirrors. Just quiet. Just me."
"And life?" I whisper.
A pause.
"Peace always asks for a price."
For one terrible moment, I want it—the stillness, the way he looks at me like I'm already understood.
Then I see Aaqib's face. Tired. Hurt. Letting go.
"I'm not ready," I say.
Something unreadable crosses his expression. Not anger. Not disappointment.
Patience.
"You will be," he says.
The ground beneath me fractures gently.
I fall—
I wake with a sharp inhale.
The room is dark. Silent.
Too silent.
My skin hums where he almost touched me. The mirror across the room catches my reflection—and for a heartbeat, I swear I see wings behind me.
I press my hand to my chest.
Whatever that was… it wasn't just a dream.
Outside, the rain begins again.
And somewhere deep inside me, the poison tree stirs—
not in pain—
but in longing.