Malik's laughter filled the house.
Bright. Carefree. Completely unaware.
The living room was crowded with balloons, streamers, and half-eaten cake. His friends ran around, shouting. Parents chatted quietly in the corners.
Everything looked normal.
But I couldn't breathe.
Because normal was the problem. Normal made me think there was a moment to intervene — a moment I couldn't waste.
He ran toward the corner to grab a balloon that had floated too high. I followed.
"Malik, careful!" I shouted, my voice sharper than I intended.
He turned, smiling, and ran faster.
I lunged to grab his arm — and he slipped.
The balloon popped. Loud. Everyone jumped. His friends screamed. My heart stopped.
I pulled him up quickly. "Are you okay?"
He nodded, eyes wide.
But then I heard it — quiet, inside me:
"It wasn't supposed to happen like this."
And it wasn't about the balloon.
It was about me.
The cake table wobbled. A chocolate cake tilted precariously. I froze.
"No, no, no," I whispered.
I rushed forward to steady it. Malik followed, hands out.
In my panic, I shoved him slightly to the side — hard enough to get him out of the way.
He tripped. His elbow hit the edge of the coffee table.
He cried out. Pain. Shock. Blood.
Everyone turned. Silence fell like ice.
I froze.
He lay on the floor, holding his arm, eyes wide and terrified.
I couldn't speak. I couldn't move.
Because the sentence had come true.
It wasn't the balloons. Not the cake. Not the car speeding past in my paranoia.
It was me.
I had caused it.
"Amara!" my father shouted, rushing over.
I couldn't look at him.
Malik's friends gathered around. Whispered questions. Tears in their eyes.
"His arm…" someone said.
I shook my head. Words wouldn't come.
Malik looked at me — the first time I saw fear in his eyes aimed directly at me.
"Why…?" he whispered.
I couldn't answer.
"It wasn't supposed to happen like this."
I sank to the floor beside him. My hands shook uncontrollably.
"I… I just wanted to protect you," I said, my voice breaking.
He looked away. His small face pale, lips trembling.
"I don't… I don't want to touch you," he said.
The words hit harder than any punch.
Not the pain in his arm. Not the blood on the carpet.
The words that broke me were:
I don't want to touch you.
Later, in my room, I sat in darkness.
The sentences kept coming.
"She's the reason."
"I shouldn't have left."
"It's too late."
I realized, finally, that my power wasn't a gift.
It was a weapon.
And I had aimed it at the one person I loved most.
The crack inside me that had been growing since I was thirteen widened into a chasm.
I wasn't just afraid of the future anymore.
I was afraid of myself.