The Day We Started Over

CHAPTER 9 - THE STORM BREAKS 2

The mango tree swayed gently in the afternoon breeze, but the calmness of their secret place was deceptive. The weight of the day still lingered, pressing down on Kamal in ways Aisha couldn’t fully comprehend yet. He flipped to a fresh page in his sketchbook, but instead of the flowing, jagged sketches from earlier, the lines were harsh, fragmented, almost violent — sharp angles, heavy shadows, the kind that clawed at the paper like they were clawing at him.

Aisha leaned closer, her heart tightening as she glimpsed the images. A boy huddled in the corner of a room, shadows creeping over him, hands clamped over his ears. The walls seemed to close in, drawn with jagged strokes, windows cracked, the floor uneven. One figure loomed — faceless, massive, oppressive. The kind of figure that didn’t need to speak to terrify a child.

“Is that… you?” Aisha asked gently, her voice barely audible.

Kamal froze, pencil hovering in midair. His fingers trembled. He pressed his lips together, fighting to keep the words down, as if speaking them aloud might make them real.

“Yes,” he finally admitted, voice barely more than a whisper. “That’s… that’s what it was like at home.”

Her chest tightened. She wanted to reach across and hold him, to say it would be okay, but she didn’t. She knew from experience that some storms needed to be witnessed, not fixed with words.

Kamal’s hands gripped the sketchbook so tightly the pages bent. He drew rapidly now, erratic lines, shapes forming over shapes — a chaotic map of fear, pain, and darkness. Tears glistened in his eyes, but he didn’t let them fall. He couldn’t afford to.

Aisha’s voice broke the silence again. “Kamal… you don’t have to go through this alone.”

He lifted his head, eyes wide, raw, haunted. “I’ve been alone my whole life,” he whispered. “Even when someone was supposed to be there… even when I begged… no one came. They never did. And now… now I don’t know if I can trust anyone, even you.”

Her heart shattered, but she refused to step back. She leaned closer, voice firm but soft. “You can trust me. I’m not going anywhere. Not now, not ever.”

The tension was unbearable. Kamal’s breaths came fast, shallow, each one trembling like a fragile flame in the wind. He closed his eyes tightly, pressed the sketchbook against his chest, rocking slightly.

“I… I can’t stop seeing it,” he admitted. “The bruises… the yelling… the shadows… all of it… it’s still in me, even when I’m far away. Even here.”

Aisha reached out slowly, gently placing a hand over his trembling one. The touch was electric — grounding, protective, but tender. “Then let me help you carry it,” she said softly. “You don’t have to bear it alone anymore.”

His eyes snapped open, dark pools swirling with fear and vulnerability. “I don’t know how,” he confessed. “I’ve never… never had anyone like you before. Someone… who doesn’t run away when it gets too dark.”

Her chest ached. She wanted to say so much more, to promise the world, to shield him from every shadow, but words weren’t enough. So instead, she stayed. She stayed, hand in his, presence unwavering, silent, letting him know that he was not alone.

Minutes passed. The air was thick with unspoken emotion, heavy with the weight of a past neither of them could fully erase. Kamal’s pencil moved again, slower now, more deliberate. The jagged lines softened slightly, the shadows less aggressive, but the story of pain remained — unflinching, raw, real.

Aisha watched, understanding that this was part of his healing — part of the trust-building — and she didn’t interrupt. She just stayed, a quiet witness, offering strength through mere presence.

Hours slipped by unnoticed. The sun began to lower, casting long golden shadows across the grass. For the first time that day, Kamal’s breathing steadied. The tight knot of panic inside him loosened just a fraction, enough for him to glance at her with something almost like gratitude, almost like relief.

“You… you’re not like the others,” he said finally, voice rough but steadying. “You… actually see me. And you… you stay.”

Aisha’s lips curved softly into a small, reassuring smile. “I told you… I’m not leaving.”

For the first time, Kamal let himself feel the faintest flicker of hope. It was fragile, almost laughably small compared to the storm raging in his chest, but it was there.

The silence between them stretched comfortably now, broken only by the rustle of the leaves, the distant hum of the city, and the occasional scribble of his pencil on paper.

Then, without warning, Kamal flinched violently. A memory, sharp and sudden, seemed to hit him like a punch. His hands clenched the sketchbook tightly, nails digging into the pages. “No… not again…” he whispered, almost to himself.

Aisha’s eyes widened. “Kamal… what is it?” she asked, voice trembling.

He shook his head, tears finally spilling down his cheeks. “I can’t… I can’t… it’s like… it’s still happening… even now… I can’t—”

Aisha didn’t speak. She didn’t try to reason or fix it. She simply wrapped her arms around him, letting him tremble against her, offering the only thing she could: her presence, her warmth, her unwavering support.

Minutes passed. Hours, maybe. Time blurred. The storm in him raged silently, violently, but gradually, slowly, it weakened. Breaths came less ragged, tears slowed, and the smallest hint of calm returned.

Kamal lifted his head, his eyes meeting hers, raw and vulnerable. “I… I don’t know if I can do this,” he admitted. “I don’t know if I can survive… survive being seen.”

“Yes, you can,” Aisha whispered, gripping his hands firmly. “Because you’re not alone. And because we’ll face it… together. Every storm, every shadow — together.”

He nodded slowly, tears still clinging to his lashes, lips pressed into a thin line of determination. “Together,” he echoed, voice steadier now, but still fragile.

The sun dipped lower, painting the sky in streaks of orange and crimson. Their shadows stretched long across the grass, tangled together in a quiet symbol of newfound trust and fragile hope.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Kamal allowed himself to believe — if only a little — that the storm could eventually pass.