Chapter 1
Badr’s POV
Past
I was flung terribly far back in my seat, my mouth widening into a yawn, eyes already soft with sleep. The teacher kept talking, a steady stream of words that stopped meaning anything the moment they reached me.
I hardly got two hours in last night. There was an itch in my skull that said just one more, just one more. I tried to focus, but without it I couldn’t, and that thought sat on my chest like a stone. I have always been an A student, but without that edge, I would fail. I can’t afford to fail.
My hand went into my bag. I felt the cool shape of the pill and felt the floor of my resolve set itself around it. Then a voice stopped me.
I sat up straight, as if posture could sharpen hearing. Instead my vision sharpened. My eyes landed on one bright thing in a room of gray: orange, so clean it looked lit from inside. A dress, a woman in an orange dress and a cream hijab. She was the only color that belonged where it was, like a little sun in a dim classroom.
I wanted to see her face, but she sat in front of me, turned away. I could, however, hear her, and the sound made me do a thing I had not done in weeks. I listened.
“Interesting observation Habiba, elaborate please.” The teacher commented.
Habiba.
Beloved
The name drifted through my head, loose and unguarded. Beloved. Someone loved. Someone worth gentleness.
Her voice was not from anywhere I could name. It had the roundness of someplace warm, the crisp edges of someplace far. Jamaican? Arab? Indian? none of those fit. I tried to attach a label and only found a shape that would not submit. The mystery did something to the itch in my head. Trying to place the accent pulled me toward attention. Trying to hear her made thinking possible. For the first time in a week, a thought came that had nothing to do with the pill in my bag. Who is she?
My mind, which had been a single needle-point of craving, widened. The classroom detail came back into frame, softer and kinder. Her voice, when it came, was small and private, like a bell you have to lean toward to hear. I wanted to say something, anything clever or stupid enough to make her turn. I imagined questions and challenges and little provocations, nothing academic, everything stupidly human.
My fingers loosened.
The pill in my bag lost its brightness. She made me feel awake in a way a chemical never did, electric and strange.
I was, undeniably, better than I had been five minutes ago, but exhaustion is patient. My friends crowded around, laughing and thumping backs, dragging me back toward the same map of obligations. They kept pulling me into their noise while I only wanted a sliver of quiet to slip away and be honest with myself for a second.
As soon as the bell sounded, I was out the door. They called my name, but not now. I rummaged through my bag as I walked, fingers scrabbling. I had one more, I knew the exact weight of it. When my hand closed around it, I smiled at myself the way people smile when they think they’ve won a small war.
I was about to toss it into my mouth when someone collided with me. I reached to steady it and watched it escape, tumble from my fingers and roll, slow and traitorous, into a puddle of melted snow.
“Are you serious?” I snapped, whirling to see whoever the hell had just ruined my day.
The first thing my eyes caught was orange. The dress. Her again. Habiba. She was crouched on the ground, one hand clutching her ankle. The world narrowed again, but this time not to a craving. It narrowed to orange, to the remembered sound of her voice.
I was ready to unleash another snap, but then she looked up and I had to pause. Maybe rewind, maybe double-check reality. I’m not much of a ladies’ man—truth is, I don’t even remember the last time I saw a girl I genuinely thought was beautiful. And yet here I was, staring like an idiot.
“I’m so sorry. I was in a rush. Did you drop something?” she asked, climbing to her feet. She glanced around as if she could help me find whatever I’d lost. “Hello?” She waved a hand in front of my face.
I couldn’t pin down what it was. Her brows? Her eyes? Her lips? Or just the harmony of her face altogether. Maybe it was the voice. It had to be the voice. Every word jolted me awake. My veins buzzed. Suddenly I wasn’t angry anymore.
“Are you okay? I didn’t mean to bump into you. Blame it on my heels, I wasn’t expecting the paving to be so rough. So Sorry.”
Definitely the voice.
“Hello?—”
“What accent is that?” I blurted.
“What?” Her brows drew in.
“Your accent. You have an accent. What is it?”
She stared at me, long enough for me to see the defences slide into place. “I don’t have an accent.”
I smirked, a scoff slipping out before I could stop it. “You might be confused, because if that’s no accent, I’d hate to hear what counts as one.”
She folded her arms. “I think you’re the one who’s confused. If I had an accent, I’d know.”
“I’m not confused.” I shook my head. “But I am fascinated. It’s not every day someone makes me forget what I was about to do.”
Her frown deepened. “Maybe you should go get a coffee. You look like you need it.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Get a coffee. Or three.” She glared.
“Fascinating observation. You’re a regular Sherlock, aren’t you?” I shot back, sarcasm dripping.
“Impossible,” she muttered under her breath. Then she turned and walked away.
I wanted to follow, to stop her, to stretch this moment thinner and thinner until it wouldn’t break. But I had a sibling to pick up from school. On the bus, I caught myself thinking not about the pill I’d lost, but about her.
While I waited for the last bell to ring, I slipped into the café across the road. Coffee had never intrigued me. Everyone was obsessed with it, swore by it, but I never cared. Now, suddenly, I wanted to try. Who knew, maybe this was the fix I needed.
“Good afternoon. What can I get you?”
“What’s the strongest coffee you have?”
“The espresso.”
“I’ll have that.”
When she set down a tiny cup, I thought it was a prank. I looked at her face, hunting for a smile, but there was none. So I lifted it carefully, let the steam rise, then leaned in for a sip.
My life shifted. That one sip peeled the film from my eyes. The streets outside sharpened, the sounds deepened, the air itself felt alive. But even in that little awakening, it still wasn’t the jolt I’d felt when she bumped into me.
The coffee was bitter and strong, something new on my tongue. But even then, all I really wanted was one more conversation with her.