I left her, how could I?

“Amira. Amiraa. Amiraaa…”

Her voice still echoes in my memory — soft yet desperate, trembling between command and plea.

I was only ten years old, too young to understand the full weight of danger, too weak to stop it. But even now, as an adult, I remember every detail. And I remember the one thing I didn’t do.

I didn’t look back.

My legs carried me faster than they ever had before. The air scraped my throat, my lungs burned, and hot tears blurred my vision as I wiped at my face with trembling arms. I ran blindly, as though the distance itself could erase what had just happened.

Fifteen minutes later, I stopped. My chest heaved, my knees nearly buckled, and for a moment I didn’t even know where I was. Then I recognized it — the pavement in front of my own house. Across the street stood Layla’s house, silent, ordinary, unchanged.

But everything inside me had changed.

I had left her.

The guilt sank into me like a stone. I wanted everything to stop — the running, the pounding in my chest, the images searing into my mind. My body shook with sobs that came out harsh and broken, sounds I barely recognized as mine.

Again and again, my mind replayed it. Layla and I had been in our favorite spot — the quiet streets at the edge of our busy little town. That place had always been ours, a refuge from noise and people. We thought it was safe. We believed nothing bad could reach us there.

But it did.

A shadow, a stranger, a sudden grip. He picked Layla up as though she were weightless. Her legs kicked, her arms flailed, her voice rose sharp and frightened.

“Go get someone, Amira!” she screamed.

Her words hit me like a command I couldn’t obey. My knees locked, my body froze, and inside me panic built like a storm. I wanted to help , but but fear paralyzed me, drowning out everything but my own racing heartbeat.

Then, without my consent, my legs chose. They ran.

Behind me, her cries turned muffled as the man tried to silence her. I can still hear it — the sound of her struggling, the crack of her voice as she called my name one last time. That angelic, desperate voice was the last thing I heard before silence swallowed her.

By the time I reached my house, guilt had already begun to devour me. I rushed inside, locked myself in the bathroom, and curled beside the bathtub. Tears poured endlessly. They weren’t only guilty anymore — they carried anger at myself, confusion over what I had done, and a worry so sharp it made my head spin.

I wanted to scream for help, but fear sealed my throat. What if I got in trouble? What if no one believed me? What if it was already too late?

Three hours passed in that locked bathroom. My ears rang with silence until the world returned all at once — footsteps, doors opening, voices calling out.

My parents were home. Ana, who should have been watching me, had woken from her nap.

And then came voices that made my blood run cold.

Layla’s parents.

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