The Other Name

They say nobody’s good at everything. I’ve spent my whole life proving them wrong. The hall was packed again. Another prize, another name being called.
“Azra Kailan,” the announcer said, voice clear and proud, “daughter of Faris Kailan.” I stepped onto the stage, same as always. Applause came, but I didn’t look at the crowd. I looked straight ahead. The medal was cool against my neck. My name, engraved again. One more to the shelf. Faris Kailan. That’s my father. He taught me how to tie my shoelaces, throw a punch, and never second-guess my own voice. He never stood in the spotlight, but every time someone said my name, they said his too. He raised me with precision, like he was building something he didn’t want the world to break. People ask who trained me. Who made me this focused, this sharp. I just smile. If they knew how early I started sparring, or how many nights I spent doing push-ups on the kitchen floor while he watched silently from the doorway, they’d stop asking. Karate was never a hobby. It was muscle memory, like breathing. Academics were no different. Top of the class, year after year. I didn’t compete to prove anything to anyone. I competed because I liked the sound of being called first. Most people saw me as too much. Too serious. Too intense. Then there was Isla.I remember the first time I met her. I was arguing with a teacher about a math answer, and she was drawing planets in the corner of her notebook. She looked up once, caught my eye, and smiled like she already knew me. She had long, tangled curls that always looked like they'd just been brushed aside by the wind, and soft brown eyes that seemed to see more than anyone ever said out loud. Her uniform was always a little undone—collar crooked, sleeves pushed up, ink stains on her fingers. She moved like she wasn’t in a hurry to be anywhere, and yet somehow, she was always exactly where she needed to be. She never asked questions. Never tried to match my pace. Just walked beside me, always knowing when to speak and when to be still. She has a quiet kind of wisdom that can’t be taught. The kind of friend you don’t brag about. You protect. She was the only person who never flinched at how intense I could be. If I snapped, she shrugged. If I won something, she celebrated like it was hers too. We never needed long conversations. Just shared glances, half-smiles, and the occasional nudge when I got too wrapped up in being perfect. Everything made sense. My path was straight, my goals in place. I knew what came next. Or I thought I did. Some moments come quietly. No warning, no sign. Just a ripple in the day, so small you almost miss it—until everything that follows comes crashing down. If I had walked a little faster. If I had kept my head down. If I had ignored him, just this once. But I didn’t. I turned. I reacted. I stayed. And maybe that was where it all began. Not where it ended—but where the path twisted into something I couldn’t undo. It’s strange how something so small can carry the weight of everything that comes after. A few careless words. One second of silence. One punch. I didn’t know, then, what was waiting for me just a few streets away. How could I? The last bell had rung, but we hadn’t made it far from the classroom. The corridor was still buzzing, students dragging their bags and shouting across lockers. Isla and I were walking quietly, side by side as always, when Jonah Hale decided he had something to say. He was leaning against the wall just outside the door, that smug expression already fixed on his face. Jonah liked to provoke people—especially people like me. And today, he aimed for the person I cared about most. “Does Isla ever do anything on her own?” he said, loudly enough for the passing crowd to hear. “Or does she just follow Azra around and nod when told?” The words hung in the air, petty and sharp. Isla stopped beside me. I felt her silence before I saw it—the way her steps froze, the way her chin dipped just slightly. She didn’t turn to look at him. She didn’t need to. I did. I turned slowly, setting my bag down, my fists already curling before I even realized it. Jonah raised his eyebrows, like he thought he was funny, like he thought I wouldn’t do anything in front of everyone. I didn’t give him time to finish whatever insult was forming next. My fist connected with his cheek with a clean, satisfying thud. His head snapped sideways, his back hitting the lockers with a hollow clang. He staggered forward, one hand flying to his mouth, the other reaching for the wall to steady himself. A few gasps broke the hallway noise. Someone laughed, startled. Isla whispered my name, sharp but not panicked. Then came the footsteps. Heavy, fast. A teacher must’ve seen. Maybe someone ran to get one. It didn’t matter. Within minutes, we were both sitting stiff-backed in the History room, across from Ms. Halden, who was already disappointed before she even sat down. She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t have to. “I expect better from you, Azra,” she said slowly, folding her arms as she leaned against the desk. “And I know you think you were right to react. But this isn’t about being right. This is about control. And I don’t see any.” Her gaze shifted to Isla. Softer now. “And you, Isla... I know you’re not the one who threw the punch, but friendship doesn’t excuse everything. Loyalty should never become a shield for violence.” Neither of us replied. Outside the window, the sun had slipped low in the sky, casting long streaks of amber and rust across the trees. The school building looked dipped in firelight. Even the dust in the air glowed. Skateboards in hand, we stepped out of the gates just as the corridors behind us emptied into silence. The kind of silence that only came once the last bell had stopped ringing and the last footsteps had faded into echoes. Isla kicked off first, gliding ahead with the kind of easy rhythm that made it look effortless. I followed a second later, pushing into the pavement, letting the wind slip past my ears like soft whispers I didn’t need to understand. The sky that evening didn’t look real. It was a slow-burning orange, fading into gold near the rooftops, with streaks of mauve stretched across the clouds like brushstrokes. The air smelled faintly of dust and leaves. The sun hung low, too bright to look at but too beautiful to ignore. And yet, something in my chest felt... wrong. Not sharp, not loud. Just a quiet tightness beneath the ribs, like something had curled up there and refused to leave. I kept glancing at Isla, who was humming something under her breath, completely at ease. I tried to shake it off. The world looked too soft to carry bad news. We turned onto our street. I remember the sound of our wheels humming against the road, the way my hair whipped into my mouth from the wind, the way we laughed about something—probably Jonah and his swollen face. Everything felt light again, almost back to normal. We skated into the wind, Isla a little ahead, her sleeves flapping like soft wings. The road hummed beneath our wheels, warm and worn, scattered with brittle leaves that chased after us like shadows. The sky above was still that fierce orange, smeared with violet at the edges, like the day was quietly bleeding into night. I could smell rain, even though the air was dry. I could hear my breath, even though I wasn’t tired. That unease in my chest hadn't gone. It had grown heavier, as though the wind wasn't pushing past me anymore—it was pressing against me, holding me still. And then something made me slow down. I don’t know why. A flicker of movement. A break in the corner of my vision. Across the road, someone was crossing. A familiar figure. A coat too large at the shoulders, a paper bag balanced in one arm. The way he walked—unhurried, grounded—like he belonged in the moment and trusted it not to betray him. My foot eased down against the pavement, the board beneath me slowing to a soft roll. I squinted into the golden light, trying to make out the lines of his face. His head turned slightly, the outline of his profile catching the sun just right. I knew that jaw. That walk. That ease. He was looking straight ahead. Not at me. Then— A sound. A mechanical snarl. Something fast. Something wrong. A silver blur shot in from the left. I don’t even remember the headlights—just the shape, the motion, the inevitability of it. And I couldn’t move. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. My board slowed to a stop. Time stretched thin. The car didn’t brake. Didn’t even hesitate. I saw it hit him. It was almost graceful, the way his body lifted off the ground—like the wind had caught him, like he was flying—but it wasn’t flight. It was force. Cruel and sharp. He hit the pavement with a sound I never want to hear again. The bag he was carrying burst open. A carton rolled into the gutter, spinning in place. Something red—tea, maybe, or something else—seeped into the cracks of the road. I still didn’t move. My knees had locked. My fingers were stiff. The street was loud and empty all at once. Isla’s voice broke the stillness behind me, but it sounded distant, like it came from underwater. I felt her grab my arm, but my body didn’t respond. He wasn’t moving. Not his fingers. Not his chest. Not anything. My lungs were screaming, but I hadn’t taken a breath. The world had narrowed to that spot in the road. The place where someone I loved more than anything had just… disappeared. Not gone, not yet. But the kind of stillness that makes you feel like something has already been taken. There was no scream in me. No tears. Just a silence that split me open from the inside. It happened fast. But what followed moved like it was underwater. A man from the tea shop ran out first, shouting something I couldn’t hear. Someone else rushed from the corner store. A woman screamed. Then more voices. Doors opened. Feet hurried. I was still standing there, rooted to the ground. My skateboard had rolled to the side and stopped against the curb. People started gathering around him—too many, too fast. Their bodies formed a circle, bending over him, calling his name, calling numbers. I could hear words now. Ambulance. Pulse. Stay with us. I tried to move forward, but someone’s arm brushed me back without even looking. Someone else stepped in front of me. The circle was closing, and I wasn’t inside it. I couldn’t see him anymore—just elbows and backs and moving hands. “Let me through,” I whispered, but no one heard. I wasn’t loud enough. I wasn’t strong enough. Isla was beside me, breathless, face streaked with tears. She was crying the way people cry when they don’t know what else to do—loud, sudden, no rhythm to it. Her fingers were clutched into the fabric of her school shirt, her body shaking with every breath. “He’s going to be okay,” she said over and over, to herself more than to me. “Azra, he’s going to be okay, right? Right?” I couldn’t answer. I couldn’t even look at her. My eyes were locked on the space where he should have been, the space I couldn’t reach. Someone was shouting for an ambulance. Someone else was yelling at the driver, who had stumbled out of the car, pale and trembling, saying, “I didn’t see him—I didn’t see—” over and over, like that changed anything. Everything felt far away. Like it was happening behind glass. Like I had been pushed out of my own life and now I was just watching it collapse through a window. I tried again to move closer. I needed to see him. I needed to tell him I was there. But the crowd was too thick, and I was too small inside my own body. My voice didn’t work. My limbs didn’t listen. Isla grabbed my hand tightly. Her fingers were cold. She didn’t say anything this time. She just stood there with me—two girls in school uniforms, frozen at the edge of something they didn’t know how to name. The wind kept blowing. The sky kept burning. And all I could think was—he was just crossing the street. That was all. Just crossing. Like he had done a hundred times. Like nothing could ever happen in the middle of such an ordinary act. But the world doesn’t ask permission before it changes everything. It just does. People were everywhere. Faces, arms, voices—too many of them. Moving in slow motion, and yet somehow too fast. I couldn’t breathe through them. “Baba!” I didn’t realize I’d screamed until the crowd parted, just a little. My voice broke through the thick air like glass. I pushed someone aside. Another hand grabbed my shoulder. I didn’t care. I kept pushing. Running. I didn’t feel the skateboard slip from my hand. Didn’t notice the sting on my knees as I dropped down beside him. There was blood. There was so much of him, so still. “Baba, no—no, please.” My voice cracked. I didn’t know what I was saying. I couldn’t even tell if he could hear me. His chest wasn’t rising. His hand was open, empty. I curled over him, bent myself around the air, the blood, the panic. I think Isla was saying my name. I think she was crying too. I couldn’t hear her. Everything was cold. Everything was hot. My eyes stung. My throat felt like I had swallowed smoke. Then strangers were pulling me back. Hands I didn’t know. Telling me to move. To let them help. But I didn’t want help. I wanted him. I didn’t even notice they took him away. I just remember the flash of red and white, the sound of doors slamming, and Isla holding my arms like I might break apart if she let go. Then the blur began. White walls. Pale floors. A chair that creaked beneath me. A doctor saying something I didn’t understand. A police officer’s calm but distant words drifted through the haze, asking for a statement I wasn’t ready to give. Then the hours collapsed. His body was taken. Wrapped. Closed. Buried. I watched it all happen like it was a film. Like someone else’s story. Like I could pause it if I just found the remote. But I couldn’t. They let me hold onto his jacket. I don’t remember who handed it to me. I don’t remember the drive. Or the faces. I just remember how quiet his absence was. Like the air had changed its shape. I don’t remember much about the burial. Only fragments. People’s shoes sinking into soft earth. The thud of the coffin being lowered. Isla holding my hand so tightly it hurt. And silence. Not the quiet kind. The kind that roars in your head because something is missing—forever. By the time I looked up, it was already done. The earth was flat again. Like he had never been there. Like he hadn’t raised me. Like his laugh and his voice and his arms hadn’t held my whole world together. He was gone. And then she came. Arabella Anouk. Of course she didn’t show up when it mattered. Not during the burial. Not when my knees gave out or when Isla was the one holding me up, whispering that I could still breathe, even when it felt like I couldn’t. No. She arrived when the dust had settled—perfectly dressed, heels silent on the stone path, carrying that air of importance she always wore. The scent of expensive perfume. Hair tied back like every piece of her belonged exactly where she had placed it. As if grief could be entered like a board meeting. Her eyes landed on me like I was a project she was being handed back. She nodded once to the few people lingering, then came toward me—deliberate, unhurried. “Azra,” she said. It sounded like a formality. Like the start of a speech. Like I wasn’t her daughter—just someone she’d been assigned to collect. I didn’t answer. I didn’t move. She stood there, assessing me. And I hated that she looked so calm. Like nothing had happened. Like she hadn’t missed everything that mattered. “I’ve made arrangements,” she said finally, like this was all a transaction. “You’ll be coming with me.” That was when something in me cracked. I stepped back, my breath catching. I could still smell my father's jacket on me, still feel the sting of my knees from where I’d fallen earlier trying to reach him. “You don’t get to say that,” I whispered. Arabella tilted her head. “Excuse me?” “You don’t get to come here—after everything—and take me like I’m a file on your desk.” “You’re my daughter.” I almost laughed. It came out broken, more like a choke. “And where were you all this time? When he stayed? When he taught me to ride a bike? When I got my first medal? When I cried at night because I thought you didn’t love me anymore?” Her face didn’t move. Not a twitch. “Your father and I had an agreement. He chose to raise you.” “No,” I said, louder now. “He didn’t choose it. You left. You left me.” Her lips pressed into a fine line. “Regardless, he’s no longer here. You need someone. I’m the only one you have.” “I had someone,” I said. “And now he’s under the ground. And you are just a stranger with the same blood.” She stepped forward. “We leave tomorrow morning. Pack whatever you need.” My fists clenched. I wanted to scream. I wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shake her until she felt something. Anything. But she’d already turned away, already pulling out her phone, already speaking to someone about travel plans. And just like that, the last piece of my old life slipped through my fingers. Not with a crash. But with the quiet click of her heels walking away. Arabella said nothing during the drive back. She was behind the wheel this time, hands steady, gaze fixed, as though the world hadn’t just shifted under our feet. Isla sat beside me, and every once in a while, our elbows would brush—small reminders that I wasn’t entirely alone. The moment we turned into our old street, I stopped breathing. The little gate still creaked when it swung open. The flowers Dad had planted were still there, reaching for the sun like they hadn’t noticed the silence. The curtains in the living room fluttered gently from a window someone had forgotten to shut. It looked the same. And yet, it wasn’t. I stepped out before Arabella cut the engine. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to. Her heels clicked behind me, sharp against the cobbled path. Isla stayed close. The front door opened with a sigh, like the house had been waiting too. Inside smelled like him. Faint but still there. Aftershave and the cinnamon tea he made every evening. The bookshelf leaned slightly to the right, still overflowing. His slippers were near the shoe rack, crooked the way he always left them. No one had touched a thing. I walked into the living room. The light slanted across the floor, warm and golden. I stood still, letting the silence wrap around me like a blanket too heavy to carry. Isla gently touched the corner of a framed photo. “He never changed this picture.” It was from my seventh-grade tournament. I was holding a gold medal, beaming so hard it hurt to look at. He was beside me, both thumbs raised, laugh lines deep and proud. “I’m going to pack your clothes,” Arabella said quietly, and disappeared upstairs. I opened the drawer near the couch. Notes from teachers. My drawings. A half-finished crossword in his handwriting. I lifted it carefully, fingers trembling. “Do you want me to help?” Isla asked. I shook my head. “Just give me a minute.” I sat on the floor. The place where we used to sit on winter nights, wrapped in quilts, watching action movies he pretended not to like. I could still feel the way he’d ruffle my hair after I nailed a karate kick. Could still hear his voice humming from the kitchen. Everything in this house had echoes. I sat on the floor of my old room, surrounded by pieces of him. His cologne still lingered faintly on his sweater, folded neatly in the box I could barely bring myself to fill. I hadn’t touched the photos yet. I couldn’t. It was too much. Everything was too much. The walls felt hollow now. Like even the paint missed him. Isla sat down beside me without asking. She always knew. Knew when to talk, when to wait, when silence was louder than words. For a while, we just stayed like that. Two girls in a room that didn’t know how to breathe without him. Then she said, quietly, “Do you remember what your dad used to say?” I didn’t respond. I didn’t need to. I could still hear his voice in my head. She leaned closer. “He always told you, ‘The world can throw shadows, Azra, but you—you carry the light. It’s inside you. It always was. Just let it shine.’” The ache in my chest cracked open. That was him. That was his voice. Not Arabella’s sharp orders or the sound of her heels on the marble floor, but his calm, steady warmth that somehow made even the worst days feel like nothing we couldn’t survive. “I miss him,” I whispered. “So much it hurts.” Isla pulled me close, her arms around me like a bandage. “I know,” she said. And that was enough. She didn’t try to fix it, didn’t try to say he was in a better place or that time would heal me. She just stayed. “I don’t want to live with her,” I said through clenched teeth. “I don’t want to be with Arabella. She wasn’t there, Isla. She left. I remember her yelling. I remember fighting. I remember Baba standing between us, trying to make it all okay. But it wasn’t okay.” “She doesn’t get to come in now and take over everything like she never left.” Isla didn’t argue. She didn’t defend Arabella or say it’s complicated. She knew better. “She wasn’t there when I needed her. And now I don’t need her.” I pressed my forehead against Isla’s shoulder, the tears finally slipping free. “I just want him back,” I choked. She held me tighter. “I know. But maybe… maybe now it’s your turn to carry his light.” I didn’t answer. My chest ached in places I didn’t know existed. The only thing that felt real was the weight of her arms around me and the smell of his clothes, the ones I refused to leave behind. The house felt empty now. But the emptiest part was me.