The first light of dawn cast a soft glow over Fariya’s room, but sleep had eluded her. The previous night’s events, marked by Dayyan’s intense reaction and their subsequent confrontation, loomed heavily in her mind. She tossed and turned, her anxiety knotting tighter with each passing minute. Despite her turmoil, her mother, Asmara, had insisted she prepare breakfast for Dayyan. Fariya knew she had little choice but to comply, her own wishes yielding to her mother’s demands.
In the kitchen, Fariya moved with mechanical precision. The sizzle of the pan and the fragrant aroma of breakfast did little to alleviate her internal chaos. Every sound seemed amplified—the clinking of cutlery, the bubbling of the coffee pot—each one a reminder of the strained atmosphere she would soon face. Her eyes
