Twisted Threads

Chapter 3: Gossamer Dreams

Zahra’s POV

The morning felt lighter than any in months, as though the air itself had decided to forgive me. Sunlight poured through the half-open curtains of my bedroom, painting golden stripes across the rumpled sheets where I’d spent half the night replaying Rami’s voice in my head. Graduation was only weeks away—a finish line shimmering on the horizon—and with it, the promise of something new, something entirely ours. Rami had whispered about it last night over the phone, his voice low and conspiratorial, the way it always got when he spoke of the future: “After the ceremony, habibti, we’ll leave this place behind for a weekend. Just us. No hiding. No glancing over our shoulders.”

The thought of it—of waking beside him without fear, of his hands on me in daylight, of lazy mornings tangled in sheets that smelled only of us—sent a warm, liquid thrill through my body that lingered even now, pooling low in my belly.

I lingered in bed a few moments longer than I should have, letting the memory wash over me. His words had been soft, but the promise beneath them was fierce. We had been careful for so long—stolen hours in the garden behind my family’s villa, hushed conversations in the back rows of lecture halls, texts deleted the moment they were read. The weight of secrecy had become its own kind of ache, sharp and constant. But soon, soon, it would be over.

Eventually I forced myself up. The mirror caught me as I passed—cheeks flushed, eyes brighter than they had any right to be. I dressed with deliberate care, choosing a pale blue abaya that caught the light like water rippling over stone. The fabric was light, almost weightless, whispering against my skin with every movement. Beneath it, the lace lingerie set I’d bought on a reckless whim during a solo trip to the mall—delicate black lace, barely there, scandalously expensive—made me feel secretly alive. It was for him. Only ever for him. I smoothed the abaya over my hips, imagining his fingers doing the same later, and felt heat rise in my cheeks.

The drive to university was a blur of sun and music. I rolled the window down, letting the hot wind tug at the edges of my hijab, whipping loose strands across my face. The city rushed by in familiar flashes—palm-lined boulevards, gleaming glass towers, the distant call to prayer drifting from a nearby mosque. I turned the radio up, some upbeat pop song I didn’t even know the words to, and smiled at nothing in particular. Today felt like possibility. Like the world had finally decided to lean in my direction.

When I stepped onto campus, the energy was electric. Clusters of students gathered under the palms, voices overlapping in excited bursts about final exams, graduation robes, future plans, the parties already being plotted in group chats. Everyone was drunk on the nearness of freedom, the sense that childhood— or at least the version of it we’d been forced to live—was finally slipping away.

Lina spotted me first, waving wildly from our usual bench beneath the jacaranda tree, its purple blossoms scattered like confetti across the stone. “Zahra! Finally!” She pulled me into a hug scented with vanilla body spray and strong coffee. “We thought you’d vanished into one of your paintings again.”

Soraya and Amal were already there, notebooks abandoned in favor of iced lattes and gossip. I dropped onto the warm bench beside them, the sun-warmed stone seeping through my abaya, and let their chatter wash over me like a familiar tide.

“Did you submit your cap design yet?” Amal asked, eyes bright behind her glasses. “I heard they’re letting the art majors decorate theirs however we want. Mine’s going to be covered in tiny embroidered flowers—my mother nearly had a fit when I told her.”

“I did,” I said, grinning as I remembered the late nights spent painting it. “Midnight blue with silver constellations swirling across it. Rami says it’s pretentious.” I rolled my eyes fondly, and they all laughed.

“Rami says everything you do is perfect and you know it,” Lina teased, nudging my shoulder. “He’s so whipped. It’s adorable. Speaking of—have you two decided what you’re doing after graduation? He’s top of the political science cohort; he’ll have offers pouring in from every ministry and NGO in the country.”

My cheeks warmed beneath my hijab. I took a sip of the iced latte Soraya passed me, buying time. “We’ve talked about it,” I admitted finally. “Maybe a trip first—somewhere quiet, just the two of us. A little beach house up the coast, or maybe in the mountains where it’s cooler. Then… we’ll see.” I didn’t mention the apartment he’d hinted at more than once, the way he’d traced lazy circles on my stomach in the dark and murmured about mornings with no curfew, about cooking breakfast together while the city woke up outside our windows. Some dreams still felt too fragile to speak aloud, as though saying them might jinx everything.

Soraya leaned in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “You’re glowing, by the way. Disgustingly in love. It’s unfair to the rest of us single mortals.”

I laughed, but the glow was real—undeniable. It radiated from somewhere deep inside, a quiet certainty that had been growing for months. All day, the conversation circled back to graduation like an inevitable tide. In our morning literature lecture, we passed notes about post-ceremony plans—who was hosting the first party, who had already booked hotel rooms for family coming from out of town. During lunch under the shaded arches of the humanities building, we debated beach houses versus mountain cabins for the inevitable group trip, arguing over swimming at night versus stargazing without the city lights drowning everything out.

Every mention of the future felt laced with Rami—his hand in mine as we crossed the stage together, the proud smile I knew he’d wear when my name was called, his mouth on mine once the robes came off and we were finally, truly alone. I could almost feel the weight of his graduation gown against my skin, the way we’d laugh about how ridiculous we looked before everything else fell away.

Even in my afternoon studio session, alone with canvases and the sharp tang of turpentine, I couldn’t focus. The professor had given us free time to work on our final portfolios, but my brush moved without direction. I sketched absentmindedly: the strong curve of a shoulder that might have been his, the sharp line of a jaw I told myself belonged only to him, the suggestion of dark eyes that seemed to look straight through me. The lace between my thighs grew damp with anticipation, a secret pulse that kept time with my heartbeat and made it impossible to sit still. I shifted on the stool, pressing my thighs together, and wondered how I would survive the hours until I saw him again.

Memories flooded in unbidden—his mouth on my neck in the garden two nights ago, the way he’d whispered my name like a prayer when he slid inside me, the desperate grip of his fingers on my hips as if he was afraid I might vanish. We had been so careful, always so careful, but the need between us had only grown sharper, more insistent. Graduation wasn’t just an ending; it was permission. Permission to stop hiding. Permission to choose each other openly, without fear of judgment or consequence.

By the time the sun dipped low, painting the sky in rose and gold and deep indigo, I was floating. My friends hugged me goodbye beneath the jacaranda tree with promises to finalize party details tomorrow—guest lists, playlists, who would bring what food. I walked to my car slowly, savoring the ache of happiness in my chest, the way it seemed to expand with every breath.

Rami’s text lit up my phone as I slid into the driver’s seat, the leather still warm from the day’s heat:

**Thinking about you in that blue abaya. Counting the hours until tonight. I can’t stop imagining what’s underneath.**

I pressed my thighs together again, heat blooming low and sweet, spreading through every limb. Tonight he’d come to the garden again, climbing the back wall the way he’d done a dozen times before, or maybe—if we were brave—he’d risk the short drive to my apartment while Khalid was away on one of his mysterious business errands in Dubai. Either way, I would have him—his mouth tracing fire along my skin, his hands mapping every inch he’d come to know by heart, the weight of him inside me until the world dissolved into nothing but sensation and whispered promises.

I started the engine, smiling into the rearview mirror at the woman looking back—flushed, alive, unafraid.

Graduation was coming and Rami was coming.

And for now, that was everything…