JULY 2016 – THE PRESENT
“You have to understand, Detective…” I begin, but the lump in my throat refuses to let the words flow easily. “…that I knew these boys personally, and my meeting with them in that room had a reason. But not the one you’re imagining, not because of the images you have in your head.”
Damn it, what am I even saying? Why should I tell this woman anything? Does wearing a badge give her the right to know everything? But then there are my parents… If I stay silent now, I’ll break their hearts. I can’t let that happen. They’ve poured so much time, so much love into me to shape me into a decent person. How could I ever look them in the eyes and admit that I’m part of this nightmare?
If I can prove my innocence, they’ll embrace me, full of relief and understanding. But what if I fail? What if everything shatters? What if the truth comes out and rips me apart? What if I end up in court? The thought alone is unbearable. Of course, I have to seize this chance to go home. But then… she would know everything. Would she understand what’s behind all of this? Could she even begin to grasp what’s happening inside me?
The detective stares at me, her brows tightly knit. Her right hand grips her cup firmly, as though she’s drawing strength from its warmth. Does she feel the pain? Or has she grown numb to it? She says nothing. Not a single word, no reaction, except for the faint scraping of her cup against the table, which grows louder the more the silence between us stretches. She’s waiting. Waiting for me to finally speak.
I know I’m misleading her, dragging out the truth, but I can’t help it. Her patience is hanging by a thread.
“Don’t you think life would be easier if it came with an instruction manual?” I ask the detective. She doesn’t reply, her gaze fixed unwaveringly on me. This game of hesitation is taking me nowhere. It won’t bring me back to my parents. And yet, I still feel something pulling me away from this reality—something dark, something unknown. Where is it trying to take me?
“Never mind…” I whisper at last. “I won’t keep you waiting any longer. Forgive me for being so rude…” What am I saying? She’s just accused me of murder, and now I’m apologizing for my lack of manners? “Anyway…” I take a deep breath. “This story didn’t have a particularly special beginning. Or maybe… maybe I just didn’t notice it.”
SEPTEMBER 2015 – THE PAST
“This child is going to drive me insane someday,” I hear my mother Maha’s voice in the hallway, not far from my bedroom door.
I pull the pillow over my head and try to burrow deeper under the blanket, but a moment later, the door bursts open as if pushed by an invisible storm. The pillow is yanked away, the blanket thrown aside, and I find myself staring directly into my mother’s stern face.
But she can’t maintain the image of an authoritarian woman for long. Her shoulders drop, and an exhausted sigh escapes her lips.
“Even on the first day of your final school year, you manage to oversleep,” she scolds, shaking her head in a mixture of disappointment and weariness. “Your sister is already in the kitchen, calmly having breakfast, while you’re still buried under the covers. Child, you need to refuel your energy too! Now get up, be downstairs in ten minutes.”
JUNE 2016 – THE PRESENT
“Your adoptive sister…” begins the investigator, her eyes still fixed on the documents in front of her. “What is your relationship with her?”
“Ayla is my sister,” I correct her sharply, emphasizing the last word. “Not adoptive sister. I don’t know how up-to-date your files are, but she is the daughter of Doctor Salman, who was highly respected in this city before he…” I pause.
The investigator nods as if she already knows the story. “Yes, of course. And how was your relationship with her before the adoption?”
“Ayla is my best friend. I hope she always will be,” I admit, and the thought of her brings a fleeting smile to my lips, even though I know this isn’t the moment for sentimentality. “I’ve never met anyone as understanding and genuine as she is. Äwer."
Ayla’s parents and mine attended the same university. They studied different fields, but somehow, they connected—whether through shared interests or pure fate remains unclear. My father, a passionate architect, and my mother, who pursued a career in psychotherapy after witnessing the trauma her own parents endured. Ayla’s father was a dedicated doctor, known for helping the less fortunate.
To this day, I can’t understand how my mother could have been friends with Ayla’s mother. That woman didn’t possess a personality anyone would describe as pleasant. She ran off with another man, leaving Ayla, only five years old, behind with her father. He had loved her completely, and when she left, it broke him. Less than six months later, he died of a drug overdose—officially listed as a heart attack to spare the family further disgrace.
Today, Ayla carries our name in addition to her own—Ayla Salman-Naseer. My parents didn’t remove her original surname, wanting to leave the choice up to her when she turned 18. To this day, Ayla and I have never spoken about it. And now I wonder if we ever will, especially if I never get to go home again.
SEPTEMBER 2015 – THE PAST
“Good morning, sleepyhead,” Ayla greets me with a smile that only she can wear so radiantly. Her eyes sparkle with joy as she gestures toward the cup sitting beside hers, waggling her eyebrows. “Oh, is that a coffee mug longing for its rightful owner?”
Shaking my head with a grin, I join her at the table. Just as I sit down, my mother walks in, covering her mouth as though she’s witnessing a miracle.
“Hold on a moment, Ayla, am I seeing this correctly?” she asks, her tone laced with mock shock. “Your sister actually managed to come downstairs in under ten minutes? Someone call the Secret Service; we have an alien among us.”
“I’m sitting right here!” I protest, but the joke hits its mark. Both of them burst into laughter. “Ha ha, very funny. I love my bed and my sleep. What’s so wrong with that?”
“This is your final year of school!” my mother reminds me, as though I could have forgotten. “When I was your age, it was the beginning of a whole new chapter for me. I could hardly wait for the last day of summer break!”
“Yeah, well, back then, you had no idea what the future would throw at you,” I reply with a shrug. “But I’m going to study architecture and work at Dad’s office afterward.”
“That’s your plan now,” my mother says, taking a slow, deliberate sip of her coffee. “You’re both still so young. You think you’ve got it all figured out, but no one knows what tomorrow will bring. That’s why I want you to enjoy every moment and make the most of it. Sleeping in is just wasting your precious time.”
“Yes, Mom,” I respond out of habit more than agreement, my thoughts drifting wistfully back to my cozy bed. “You’re right, of course. I’ll do my best to stop oversleeping in the future.” I can’t help but yawn loudly, quickly covering my mouth.
Ayla laughs again, her laughter infectious. “And if she doesn’t, we’ll just have to drag her to school ourselves,” she teases.
My mother nods, her expression softening into one of encouragement as she claps her hands. “Alright, kids, tell me this: what’s your goal for the year?”
My goal for the year? My eyes drift toward my phone sitting on the table beside me. It hasn’t rung once. I have a goal in mind, but it feels like a distant dream, one I may never reach.
“Maybe to get a boyfriend,” Ayla says, waving her hand playfully in the air. She can’t help but smile as my mother shoots her a scrutinizing look. “I’m at the top of the class in every subject, yet I’ve never had a boyfriend. Before starting university, I want to know what that’s like.”
My mother raises an eyebrow, placing her hands on her hips as she responds in a tone that is serious yet caring. “Relationships are fine, of course. But I want you to introduce us to this person first before you get serious. And you must know your worth. Don’t let anyone take advantage of you. You’re both smart girls.”
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Her gaze shifts to me. Ayla looks at me, too, waiting for my answer.
“I don’t have a goal,” I say, shrugging as if it doesn’t matter. “Why bother? Besides, Ayla isn’t top of the class in everything. I’m miles ahead of her in math!” No sooner have I said it than Ayla pinches my thigh, giggling. “It’s true! I have to beat my perfect sister at something.”
I pause before adding, “Anyway, back to the question: no, I just want to have a good time. With you, with Mom, with Dad. Whatever happens, as long as we’re together.”
My mother smiles gently, and for a moment, the room is suspended in a kind of still, loving atmosphere. She strokes my hairline softly, then tucks a stray lock of hair behind Ayla’s ear.
“I’m so proud of you both,” she says, her voice trembling slightly. “I love you more than words could ever express. And I know you’ll make the best of your lives. Never forget, your father and I will always be here for you.”
In that moment, time feels frozen, as if the world outside has ceased to exist. Yet I know, deep down, that this moment will inevitably pass.
After our mother bids us goodbye, Ayla and I leave the house, heading to the nearby bus stop that will take us to school in about eight stops.
As we walk, I keep glancing at my phone. My heart races every time, as if there might be a message waiting for me. But each time, the screen only shows the picture of Ayla and me at the beach last summer. We’re drinking iced coffee, our skin darker than usual, as though the sun itself had held us in its embrace.
“He hasn’t messaged you since that day, has he?” Ayla asks suddenly, startling me out of my thoughts. “You were lost in your head again.”
I reach into my bag, where my phone is tucked away, without pulling it out, and let out a loud sigh.
“No,” I say, my voice sounding oddly hollow. “It’s like he’s vanished off the face of the earth. I just… I wish I could talk to him. Get some clarity.”
“Give him a little more time,” Ayla suggests gently, rubbing my back. “If he doesn’t reach out, maybe it’s fate removing him from your life.”
Her words come so easily, I almost envy her. When Ayla lost her parents, she was only five, but I feel like a part of her is still with them. At that age, the brain might not be fully developed, but I know certain memories live on in the subconscious. Has she always hidden her pain from me? Of course not! Ayla has no reason to conceal her feelings from me. We tell each other everything.
“Should I message him?” I ask, hoping Ayla will support my foolish idea.
But instead of agreeing, she snatches my phone from my hand, giving me a look that says more than words ever could. “If you really want to make a fool of yourself, go ahead. But as your sister and best friend, I’m saving you from that embarrassment. The last time you saw him was a week ago. And then your brother ran into him and started yelling at him out of nowhere. Why do you think Aryan overreacted like that?”
JUNE 2016 – THE PRESENT
“Aryan Naseer... your brother,” the inspector says, her gaze drilling into me. She scrutinizes me as if searching for something I haven’t yet found myself. “Tell me—how is your brother connected to this case? That boy, the one who didn’t reply to you back then—was he one of the victims?”
For a moment that feels like an eternity, I can’t look away from her eyes. In them, I see my own reflection—pale, fragile, desperate. My brown hair, usually styled carefully into soft waves, hangs limp and disheveled now. The mascara I once applied so meticulously streaks down my face in black lines, silent witnesses to my tears. Were this not an interrogation but instead some teenage drama, I’d likely find myself plastered across social media as the perfect embodiment of “drama” and “weakness.” But this isn’t Instagram, nor is it a world that twists the truth. This is reality, and here I must bear the weight of everything that has happened because of my choices.
“Which one of them was it?” she asks again, her voice slicing through the silence.
“Matthew Lee,” I whisper, barely more than a breath.
The name feels like a thousand knives stabbing me, each one carving an indelible mark deep within me. Just thinking of him shatters my heart into pieces that will never fit together again. Despite the serious, often distant expression he wore in public, I can only see him smiling in my mind. That smile stays with me, even now, through to his final breath.
A smile that was never meant to outlast time, just like him.
SEPTEMBER 2015 – THE PAST
I ponder for a long time, unable to find a convincing answer as to why Aryan would forbid me from staying in contact with Matthew. It feels as though an invisible wall stands between me and the truth.
“Even as a kid, he never wanted his friends to come over to our house or for us to meet them,” I say quietly, tapping my cheek thoughtfully with my finger, as if the answer might materialize from thin air.
“But it wasn’t always like that,” Ayla reminds me, her tone carrying more knowledge than she’s willing to share. “You’ve loved him since you were little.”
“That’s true!” I exclaim almost in relief, as if a forgotten piece of the puzzle has been handed back to me. “But even after a while, he stopped coming over to play with Aryan. Would it be a bad idea to ask my brother about his reasons?”
Ayla shakes her head firmly, as though the answer is already buried deep within her. “He’d just lecture us about how his friends are none of our business. You know how your brother is.”
I’ve long noticed the sparks between her and my brother, even though she constantly complains about him. A fleeting smile crosses my lips, and I silently hope Ayla doesn’t catch it. Because if she does, her sharp gaze would pierce right through me, and I’m certain I’d be on the receiving end of her own lecture in no time.
JUNE 2016– THE PRESENT
“What happened between Matthew Lee and your brother Aryan?” the woman asks, her tone a mix of curiosity and sharpness. Her hand hovers over the pen clipped to her folder, poised to jot down my every word. “Did they argue?”
I hesitate, but my response comes quicker than I expect. “If you think my brother had anything to do with this case, you’re mistaken.” My voice is calm, but inside, I’m battling the lump in my throat. Matthew’s words flash through my mind, and my heart tightens so painfully that I almost forget to breathe. Yet I show no outward sign. The detective cannot put Aryan on her radar. “He flew abroad a week before the school year started to prepare for his studies.”
“Then why did your brother yell at Matthew Lee when he saw you with him?” she presses, her sharp eyes poised to catch any trace of uncertainty.
I shrug, though my thoughts race wildly. “My brother has always been reserved when it comes to his friends. He never explained why. Not even to our mother. He never lied to us—no, never—but we knew he was hiding something. Now, I know the reason for his behavior. The behavior that eventually drove Matthew and me apart.”
“And that reason would be?” she asks, her pen ready as though she could extract the truth from my words.
I shake my head firmly. “If I told you the reason now, you wouldn’t believe me.” My voice drops to a near whisper. “That’s why I’ll start from the beginning. I met Matthew that summer.” I emphasize the last word, a bittersweet smile flickering on my lips—a mask barely concealing the truth beneath.
“Didn’t you mention earlier that you’d met Matthew Lee as a child?” the detective interjects, her eyes narrowing with suspicion.
I raise my finger slowly, the faint clinking of handcuffs accompanying the movement. “You’re absolutely right.” I pause, gathering my thoughts, forcing myself to speak evenly. “But after Aryan stopped inviting Matthew over to our house, his face slowly faded from my memory. Years later, when I met Matthew again, he’d changed so much that it never occurred to me he could be the same boy from my childhood. Suddenly, he was this charming stranger with whom I spent an entire summer. The idea that he could be the mischievous boy who used to tease me—it just… wasn’t an option. I only found it peculiar that I’d encountered two boys named Matthew. It wasn’t until Aryan spelled it out for me, bluntly, that I realized they were the same person.”
The detective pauses briefly, but her gaze remains unyielding. “After that confrontation between your brother and Matthew Lee, you had no further contact with him.” She jots something down before fixing her eyes on mine again. “How, then, did the two of you reconnect?”
SEPTEMBER 2015 – THE PAST
The bus arrives right on time at our stop, accompanied by a gentle hissing as the doors slide open. Ayla and I step off, our pace calm, almost sluggish, as though the day itself hasn’t quite decided to wake us fully. Yet with every step we take closer to the school gates, my heart suddenly begins to race—a restless pounding I can’t ignore.
What is this? Why is my body reacting like this while my mind remains completely still? My last thought about this school year had been a nonchalant shrug in front of my mom and Ayla, a deliberately feigned indifference. And yet... now it feels as though something inside me is rebelling, though I don’t know why.
“Do you think Samira will be here today?” Ayla’s voice cuts through my thoughts. Her eyes flick over the display of her phone. “She ignored us all summer—no messages, no calls, nothing. It was like she erased us from her life.”
“As far as I remember, didn’t she say she was going to her parents’ home country?” I reply, searching my memories for anything that could explain her sudden absence. “Maybe she didn’t have internet there?”
Ayla furrows her brow, skepticism etched into her features. “No internet? For two months? Samira? That’s as likely as you voluntarily doing physics homework.” Her voice drops, but the doubt lingers. “There’s got to be more to it. And besides... she was completely silent on social media. Not a single picture, no status updates. And this is Samira, who can’t breathe without attention.”
Our footsteps lead us toward our classroom. An email a few days earlier had informed us that the room hadn’t changed—just like every year for the past four years. But something about this morning feels... different.
“She’s probably already there,” I mutter, more to myself, waving a hand dismissively. “She’s probably dying to tell us about her terrible vacation experiences and ask how much we missed her.”
But as we step into the classroom, the air is knocked out of me. The chatter around us fades into the background, and my gaze locks onto a scene that tightens my throat.
There stands Samira—smiling, radiant, perfectly composed as always. But she isn’t alone.
My eyes freeze on the boy standing next to her. Matthew.
And before I can form a coherent thought, I see her press a kiss to his cheek.
The sound of laughter and voices around me bounces off my ears as my surroundings blur.
A fleeting moment—and yet it feels like something within me has shattered irreparably.