It started quietly.
A pause in conversation when Aisha entered a room.
A look that lingered half a second too long.
A whisper that stopped the moment she turned her head.
At first, she told herself she was imagining it.
She always did.
But by midday, the looks sharpened.
She stepped into the bakery to pick up supplies for the festival, and the bell above the door rang far louder than usual.
Two women near the counter fell silent immediately. One leaned closer to the other, murmuring something behind her hand.
“…that young girl…”
“…disgusting…”
“…old enough to be—”
Aisha’s stomach twisted.
She kept her head down, pretending not to hear, pretending the heat crawling up her neck wasn’t real.
She smiled softly at the cashier, as she always did.
“Hi,” she said. “Could I get—”
