Chapter 3

The treehouse used to be hers. Theirs.

Now it was haunted—with memory, with silence, with his absence.

Lina sat in the corner where she used to draw as a child, knees pulled to her chest. She had come up here to scream, to cry, to do anything that would stop the ache inside her.

But when she heard footsteps on the ladder—soft, hesitant, familiar—her heart leapt and her stomach sank.

Ayaan.

She didn’t turn.

He climbed in slowly, hoodie hanging off one shoulder, face shadowed and breath short.

She waited.

He sat across from her, resting his back against the wall like he used to, but everything felt different now. Tense. Unsaid.

Finally, she broke the silence.

“Why did you leave me here?”

Ayaan blinked. “What?”

“The last time we were up here. You said nothing. Then you vanished. Like I meant nothing.”

“I didn’t vanish,” he said, low. “I ran.”

“Same thing.”

He looked at her for a long moment. “I was afraid.”

“Of me?”

“No.” He swallowed. “Of what I feel for you.”

The words slammed into her. She exhaled, shaky, unsure if she heard him right.

But he kept going.

“I tried to pray it away,” he said. “I tried to fast. I read Qur’an, I made du’a, I even asked Allah to replace it with something easier. But Lina…” His voice cracked. “It never left. It only got louder.”

Tears welled in her eyes.

“Ayaan—”

“I’m not your brother.” His voice turned sharp, desperate. “I never was. They said we were siblings, but my heart never listened. Not when you were twelve and you fell asleep on the couch next to me. Not when you were sixteen and wore your first black abaya and I couldn’t breathe because of how beautiful you looked. Not even now.”

Lina’s lip trembled.

“I thought it was haram,” she whispered. “I thought I was disgusting for feeling the same.”

Ayaan shook his head quickly. “It’s not haram to feel, Lina. That’s what the Imam told me. We’re not blood. Not fostered. We’re mahram only by assumption—by how the world sees us. Not by what’s real.”

She stared at him, speechless.

“I love you,” he said softly. “I think I’ve loved you since I was fourteen. Maybe earlier. I just didn’t have the words back then.”

Lina moved slowly, crawled across the wooden floor to him. She sat in front of him, knees touching his. Her hands trembled as she reached up and touched the side of his face.

His breath hitched.

“Say it again,” she whispered.

“I love you.”

She leaned forward, forehead against his. Her scarf brushed his jaw. For a moment, all the noise of guilt and shame faded.

And then—he kissed her.

Not out of desire. Not recklessly. But like he’d been holding his breath for years and only now remembered how to exhale.

Soft. Short. Trembling.

Lina gasped, pulling back, heart racing. “We shouldn’t have—”

“I know.”

“Then why—”

“Because I wanted to remember it. Before I let it go again.”

She stared at him.

He smiled, brokenly. “I’m not touching you again, Lina. Not until I can do it in the open. In front of Allah. I want to fix this the right way.”

Her chest ached.

“You mean… marriage?”

“Eventually. When we’re ready. When our parents aren’t blindsided. When your wali approves. But I’m not hiding anymore.”

Lina’s throat tightened. “You really think they’ll let us?”

“I think Allah already did.”

And in that moment, she believed him.

Because the pain between them had never come from the feeling itself.

It came from the hiding.

The pretending.

The lies they told themselves to keep the peace.

But now they had truth. And that was a start.

---

That night, she didn’t cry herself to sleep for the first time in months.

Instead, she wrote in her journal:

> “He kissed me. Then promised he wouldn’t touch me again. That’s how I know it’s love.”

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End of Chapter Three

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