I began pacing around the room, my heart racing in sync with my thoughts. What if he was angry? What if Mubarak had misread the situation? The uncertainty gnawed at me, making it impossible to stay still. I couldn't decide.

As I stood by the window, staring out at nothing in particular, Inna quietly entered the room. She had a way of moving without making a sound, like a shadow. "Are you okay?" she asked gently.

"I don't know," I admitted, my voice small. "Do you think I should call him?"

Inna didn't answer right away. Instead, she took out her phone from the pocket of her bubu dress, and handed it to me. "Do what your heart tells you," she said softly, then turned and left the room, leaving me alone once more.

I stared at the phone in my hand, my mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. Should I call him? What would I say? What would he say? The uncertainty was paralyzing. I closed my eyes, trying to steady my breathing, to calm the storm inside me. But it was no use. The urge to call him, to hear his voice, was too strong to ignore.

Finally, with shaking hands, I dug into my bag where I had hidden my SIM card. I carefully unwrapped it from the piece of paper I had tucked it into, feeling a pang of nostalgia as I did. This tiny piece of plastic held so much of my life—messages, calls, connections to the world I had left behind.

I took out Inna's SIM card from the phone and replaced it with mine. My fingers trembled as I dialed Al-Qasim's number from memory. Each digit felt like a step closer to a cliff's edge. My heart pounded in my chest, so loud I was sure it would burst.

I took a few deep breaths, trying to steady myself before pressing the call button. The phone felt heavy in my hand as I raised it to my ear. I held my breath, listening to the ringing, my pulse quickening with each passing second.

But then, a beeping sound cut through the air, jarring me out of my thoughts. I pulled the phone away from my ear and stared at the screen. The call hadn't gone through. A wave of confusion and panic washed over me. I tried again, more urgently this time, but the same thing happened.

He had blocked me.

My body went cold as the realization sank in. Telling me to stay, telling Mubarak he would wait for me—it didn't necessarily mean he wasn't angry. Maybe it was worse than anger. Maybe it was something I couldn't even begin to comprehend.

I felt a sharp sting of regret, my mind racing with possibilities. What if he was furious? What if this was his way of punishing me? My thoughts spiraled, and I couldn't stop them. I facepalmed, my frustration spilling over, and collapsed onto the bed, the phone slipping from my hand onto the pillow beside me.

I had wanted freedom from my suffocating existence, and now I had it. But at what cost? I lay there, staring up at the ceiling, feeling the weight of my choices pressing down on me. 

I closed my eyes, willing the tears to stay at bay. My heart felt heavy, torn between the man I had left behind and the uncertain future ahead of me. The relief I had felt earlier now seemed distant, replaced by a gnawing fear that I had made a mistake I couldn't undo.


-AL-QASIM-

As I sat on the leather seat of the private plane, the hum of the engines a constant backdrop, I tried to focus on anything but the suffocating presence of my mother. We were en route to New York, halfway through a grueling fourteen-hour flight from Abuja. My father had suffered a stroke yesterday evening, prompting this unexpected journey. They rushed him to New York in an air ambulance, and now my mother and I were flying to join him. Seven hours had passed, but it felt like a lifetime.

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