ALMOST GONE
1124 Words
VELVET HOURS
CHAPTER 3: ALMOST GONE
“Even broken things deserve to be held.”
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The sky wept in torrents.
Rain crashed over the city like grief that had nowhere else to go. It soaked the asphalt, bled into gutters, and shrouded neon signs in a cold, colorless fog. Everything blurred—headlights, footsteps, time.
Haya stood at the edge of the bridge.
She wasn’t crying.
She hadn’t cried in two days. Not when she woke up in a stranger’s room with her skin aching in places she didn’t remember being touched. Not when her parents looked at her with cold eyes and said “We raised you better than this.”
Not even when she whispered to herself in the bathroom mirror, “I think I was r***d,” and couldn’t recognize the girl staring back.
But now, the railing was cold beneath her palms, and the wind lifted her hair like threads of forgotten prayers. Her toes hovered above the edge. Her breath came in shaky gusts.
There was no plan. No drama. Just silence.
The kind that fills you when there’s nothing left.
Her knees wobbled.
She closed her eyes.
One step.
Then—
Tires screeched. A door slammed. Footsteps.
A voice, rough and afraid:
“Stop! Please—don’t do this!”
Her eyes blinked open.
He was a blur at first. A silhouette against the downpour, his arms raised like he didn’t want to scare her further. His hair was wet, his jacket stuck to his chest, and his eyes—God, his eyes—were wide with something that almost looked like heartbreak.
“I don’t know you,” she said hoarsely.
“I know,” he said, voice trembling. “But I saw you. And I couldn’t just drive past.”
She didn’t move.
“Please,” he added, softer now. “Not like this.”
She turned back to the river. “There’s nothing left.”
“That’s not true,” he said, stepping closer. “You’re still here.”
“Barely.”
She was swaying.
“Let me take you somewhere safe,” he said, almost pleading. “Just tonight. Just one night, I swear.”
She didn’t know why she listened.
Maybe it was the rain. Maybe the way his voice cracked like it had known loss, too.
She stepped down.
Her legs buckled.
He caught her before she hit the ground, arms warm and trembling.
And for the first time in two days, Haya let herself feel.
---
Inside His Car – Later
He turned the heat on full blast. His jacket was draped over her lap, and a box of tissues rested between them.
She hadn’t said a word since the bridge.
She just stared out the windshield, watching raindrops race down the glass like tears she couldn’t shed.
“My name’s Jibraan,” he said quietly. “I live a few blocks from here. I can drop you at a shelter if you want. Or take you home.”
“I don’t have one,” she whispered.
Her voice startled him—quiet and hoarse, like it had been used too many times in the dark to beg for silence.
He looked at her gently. “Then come to mine. Just for tonight. I’ll sleep on the couch. You can lock the doors. No pressure. No questions.”
She turned to him. “Why are you doing this?”
He swallowed. “Because you looked like you needed someone.”
Her hands curled around the hem of his jacket. “I didn’t think anyone would stop.”
---
His Apartment – 1:00 AM
Jibraan’s penthouse wasn’t extravagant, but it was warm—dim lighting, soft colors, and shelves lined with old records and half-read books. It felt like someone lived here who knew what loneliness was.
He handed her a towel and a pair of sweatpants. “The shower’s yours. Take your time.”
She didn’t speak. Just nodded.
But when she emerged, clean and dressed in clothes far too big, she looked like a shadow of herself. Barefoot, hair damp, skin pale.
He made tea.
She didn’t drink it, but held the mug like it kept her tethered.
They sat in silence on opposite ends of the couch.
Finally, she said, “I was missing for two days.”
He looked at her gently, not pushing.
“I went to a clinic. I thought it was a check-up. But he...” her throat closed. “I don’t remember much. Only waking up somewhere else. I couldn’t move. My clothes were gone.”
Jibraan didn’t speak. But his hands clenched in his lap.
“I went home and my mother asked if I’d eloped.” Her lip quivered. “My father said, ‘God doesn’t forgive girls like you.’”
Jibraan’s voice was soft. “I’m so sorry.”
Her tears finally came—slow, trembling, ashamed.
And when they did, she cried not just for what had been taken from her, but for the girl who had no one to tell. No one who believed her. No safe place to land.
She didn’t know when she leaned into him.
She only knew that he didn’t pull away.
He wrapped his arms around her carefully, not claiming—just holding, like he knew she’d been broken in too many invisible ways.
Her head rested against his chest.
His heartbeat was steady. Real.
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Guest Room – Dawn
Haya lay awake as soft sunlight bled through the curtains. She hadn’t slept, but her body felt less heavy.
In the room next door, she heard the faint clink of dishes. A kettle whistling.
She stepped into the hallway, barefoot and wrapped in his hoodie.
Jibraan stood in the kitchen, frying eggs, still in his sweatpants.
He smiled when he saw her. Not wide. Just enough.
“Tea or coffee?”
She hesitated. “Tea.”
He poured it gently.
“I can leave after this,” she said.
He looked at her, serious now. “You can stay. As long as you want. No questions.”
“Why are you being kind to me?” she whispered.
He paused. “Because someone should’ve been.”
She blinked, then looked away before her eyes could betray her again.
“I still don’t remember all of it,” she said. “Only fragments. Pain. Cold. His voice.”
“Then forget him,” Jibraan said. “Remember this instead—rain, warmth, silence that doesn't hurt.”
She looked at him like he’d said something impossible. Something holy.
He didn’t reach for her.
He just waited.
And for the first time in days, she breathed.
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END OF CHAPTER 3
“ALMOST GONE”
- Writer
