Tqwlh Ana Khayfh Ant Btdws Jamd Bnt... | Thmyl- Albnt

(Girl...)

She was talking to Mariam. Mariam, who had always been the brave one. The one who climbed trees when they were children, who stole mangoes from the neighbor's garden, who once slapped a boy across the face for pulling Layla's hair.

"Don't," Layla whispered.

Layla reached out. Her fingers brushed the sleeve of Mariam's worn denim jacket—the one with the embroidered flower on the cuff, the one their mother had made before the cancer took her. thmyl- albnt tqwlh ana khayfh ant btdws jamd bnt...

"Thmyl..." (Imagine...)

Mariam looked down at Layla's hand on her sleeve. Then she looked at the void.

"Thmyl..." she breathed. Imagine.

Layla gripped the iron railing. Her knuckles were white. Her breath came in short, uneven gasps.

(You're stepping hard...)

Layla's voice cracked on the last syllable. She wasn't scared of the height. She wasn't scared of the drop. She was scared of her . Of Mariam. Of what Mariam had become in the three months since her older brother disappeared—taken by men in plain clothes, no charges, no phone call, just a black van and the screech of tires. "Don't," Layla whispered

"Then don't jump alone."

(I'm scared.)

Mariam took a step forward. Then another. Each footfall landed on the gravel rooftop like a judge's gavel. Jamd. Hard. Decisive. Irreversible. "Thmyl