some fear the roses

chapter 3

​I I stepped out of the car, the air feeling heavy with the scent of a victory I had already tasted. The sun was setting, casting long, distorted shadows across the pavement—shadows that felt like the twisted lies I had been weaving for weeks. Yahya was standing there, his posture a mix of rigid principle and a newfound, trembling vulnerability. He moved to help me, lifting the bag from the back seat as if it contained something sacred. He was puzzled, his brow furrowing in that way I had come to find so easy to manipulate.

I let the silence between us stretch, just long enough to make his heart race. I watched the way his eyes searched mine, looking for a truth I would never give him. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, I opened the bag and pulled out the small, aged volume. The title, "Neighbors," seemed to shimmer in the dying afternoon light, its leather cover worn by hands much older than mine.

I looked directly into his eyes, ensuring my gaze was a masterclass in calculated charm. "I know you adore reading, Yahya," I began, my voice a velvety thread that tied him to me. "And I know about the secrets you keep in your desk—the drafts you haven't dared to show the world. I know how much of yourself you pour into those pages, the parts of you that are too pure for the noise of this campus. That’s why I brought this specifically for you. It’s not just a book; it’s a piece of a world I want us to share—a world where we don't have to hide."

Yahya stood frozen, the book in his hands feeling like a live wire. He looked stunned, his clinical defenses completely bypassed by the sheer audacity of my gesture. His eyes sparkled with a mix of adoration and a profound, touching bewilderment. He whispered, his voice thick with a sudden, overwhelming emotion, "You really are crazy, Celine! But this madness... it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever encountered. I am genuinely, utterly captivated by you."

I gave a soft, seductive laugh—the kind that lingers in a man’s dreams—and replied in a whisper laden with hidden meanings: "I want this book to be the first thing you touch tonight. Read it, Yahya. Let it change you, just as you think you’re changing me. Let the words sink in until you can't tell where your thoughts end and mine begin."

He smiled, a look of pure, unguarded affection crossing his face—the look of a man who had finally found something worth saving. "I will. Every word," he promised, his voice barely a murmur.

I blew him a kiss as I slid back into the driver’s seat, the engine purring beneath me like a satisfied predator. "I have to leave now... but I'll see you tomorrow," I called out, my heart racing with the intoxicating thrill of the hunt. I watched him in the rearview mirror as I drove away, a solitary figure holding a book that was as much a trap as it was a gift.

And then, the world began to fracture.

The smooth hum of the engine turned into a rhythmic, metallic thumping—the sound of a heart beating too fast, or perhaps a clock ticking toward zero. The expensive leather scent of my car dissolved, replaced by the sharp, sterile sting of bleach and cheap antiseptic. A wave of vertigo hit me, spinning my reality until the road ahead turned into a blank, white wall that felt like it was closing in.

The voice that broke the silence wasn’t Yahya’s warm, steady baritone. It was cold, professional, and terrifyingly close—a voice that belonged to a world I thought I had escaped:

"How is Celine today, Zainab?"

I forced my eyelids to open, but the sunlight was too bright, too artificial, stinging my eyes with a harsh, fluorescent glare. I wasn't behind the wheel of a luxury car; I was sitting in a hard, plastic chair by a window covered in a fine wire mesh that turned the world outside into a series of tiny, gray squares. The nurse, Zainab, was standing nearby, her face a mask of practiced pity as she spoke to the man in the white coat.

"She’s been in another world since the moment she woke up, Doctor," Zainab replied, her voice echoing as if from the bottom of a deep, dark well. "She just stares out that window, moving her hands as if she’s holding a steering wheel. She doesn't respond to her name. It’s like she’s living a whole other life behind those eyes—a life where she’s someone completely different."

A violent shudder racked my frame, a coldness so deep it felt like my bones were turning to ice. The doctor approached, his movements slow and deliberate, as if he were approaching a wounded animal that might bite. He placed a hand on my shoulder—a touch that felt heavy, suffocating, and far too real.

"Celine?" he called softly, his voice devoid of the affection I had just heard from Yahya.

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to find the road again, trying to find the weight of the book in my hand and the look of love in Yahya's eyes. But all I found was a screaming pain behind my temples, a jagged memory of white hallways, locked doors, and the smell of medication. The bet, the university, the way Yahya looked at me... was any of it real? Or was I just a girl in a white room, dreaming of being a queen because the truth of being a prisoner was too much to bear?

The doctor spoke again, his voice echoing in the hollow space of my mind, pulling me further away from the car and the sunset. "Your new hair color is exquisite, Celine. I didn't realize you had decided on a change. It suits the new person you’re becoming, don't you think, Zainab? Perhaps she's finally letting go of the old ghosts."

I didn't answer. I couldn't. The words were trapped in a throat that felt like it was filled with sand. In the distance of my mind, I could still hear myself promising to see him tomorrow—a tomorrow that felt like a beautiful, unreachable lie. But as the doctor’s hand tightened on my shoulder, grounded me in the cold reality of the clinic, I realized with a heart-stopping dread that 'tomorrow' was a place I might never reach.

Was Yahya waiting for me? Or was he just another character in the story I told myself to keep the walls from closing in? Every detail of the "Neighbors" book, every word of our agreement—it felt so vivid, yet so fragile, like a dream that dissolves the moment you try to touch it.

​