Chapter 1: Bonfire Secrets and a Snapchat Notification
The fire snapped and popped, sending a shower of orange sparks spiraling into the darkness. Amira watched them rise, tiny embers pretending to be stars, before they flickered out somewhere above the cedar trees. The smell of charred wood clung to her hair, her clothes, the inside of her nostrils. She'd been sitting in the same folding chair for over an hour, legs crossed at the ankle, hands folded in her lap like a good girl.
The fire was too hot. It always was. Her uncles kept throwing more wood on, as if the flames were a competition, as if warmth could fix anything.
Behind her, the older women clustered near the house, their laughter sharp and knowing, trading gossip like currency. Someone's daughter got engaged. Someone's son dropped out of university. Someone's wife was probably cheating, but nobody would say it out loud. Amira let their voices wash over her without listening. She'd gotten good at that—existing in the same space as her family while keeping her real self locked somewhere far away.
Her mother had been watching her all night. Amira could feel it, that particular weight of maternal suspicion, even from across the yard. She'd worn the loosest shirt she owned, a dark gray tunic that hung past her hips. She'd barely eaten. She'd smiled at the right moments, nodded at the right jokes, and said nothing when her cousin Layla announced her pregnancy for the third time in two months.
Six weeks. That's how far along she was. Not that anyone had asked.
The phone in her pocket buzzed. Amira's hand twitched toward it before she caught herself, forcing her fingers to stay still. Nobody texted her this late. Nobody except—
She pulled the phone out, angling the screen away from the fire. The brightness stung her eyes. One notification. Snapchat.
Karim.
Her heart did something ugly, a hard lurch that made her stomach turn. She stared at his name, at the stupid cartoon ghost icon, at the message preview that just said "Open." She didn't open it. She couldn't. Not here. Not with her father twenty feet away, laughing at something Uncle Mahmoud had said, his head tilted back, his throat exposed, completely unaware that his daughter was—
"Amira."
She nearly dropped the phone. Her fingers fumbled, jamming it back into her pocket as she looked up. Her mother stood a few feet away, arms crossed, face half-shadowed by the firelight.
"You're not eating."
"I ate earlier."
"You ate nothing. I watched." Her mother's voice was flat, the way it got when she was storing ammunition for later. "Come inside. I made knafeh. Your father wants you to try it."
Amira's stomach rolled at the thought of anything sweet. "I'm not hungry, Mama. I'll have some later."
Her mother's eyes narrowed. She was a small woman, but her presence filled every room she entered, every silence she occupied. Amira had spent eighteen years learning to navigate that presence, to anticipate its shifts and weather its storms.
"You've been strange lately," her mother said. Not a question. An observation, filed away, waiting to be used.
"I'm tired. That's all."
"Then go to bed."
"I will. In a minute."
Her mother held her gaze for a long beat, then turned and walked back toward the house. Amira exhaled. The relief was temporary—it always was—but she took it anyway, letting her shoulders drop, letting her lungs fill with air that didn't taste like her mother's disapproval.
The phone buzzed again.
She didn't look this time. She couldn't. But her mind was already racing, already spinning through possibilities. Karim had been texting her for weeks, ever since she'd told him. He wanted to know what she was going to do. He wanted to talk about it. He wanted—
She didn't know what he wanted. That was the problem. She didn't know anything anymore.
Across the fire, someone laughed too loud. One of the younger cousins, maybe Faisal, who was fifteen and thought he was funny. The flames jumped and crackled, throwing shadows across the faces of the men gathered on the other side. Her father. Her uncles. Their neighbors, the ones who'd come from Aleppo last year and never quite stopped looking over their shoulders.
And Zayn.
Amira's breath caught. She hadn't noticed him before. He was sitting between his father and his younger brother, Tariq, his face turned toward the flames. Five years. It had been five years since she'd seen him, since his family had moved to Beirut for his father's work, since she'd stood in her family's living room and watched him walk out the door without looking back.
He looked different now. Older. Sharper. His jaw had filled out, and there was something in the way he held himself—a stillness, a patience—that hadn't been there before. He'd been a boy when she'd last seen him. A boy she'd loved in secret, in the way that only seventeen-year-olds can love: desperately, hopelessly, with no expectation of return.
She'd been thirteen. He'd been nineteen. He'd never known.
He turned his head, just slightly, and for a moment their eyes met across the fire. Amira looked away first. She always did.
The phone buzzed a third time.
This time, she couldn't stop herself. She pulled it out, cupping her hand around the screen, and opened the notification.
Karim's face filled the screen, a selfie he'd taken in his bedroom. He was lying on his bed, shirtless, hair messy, looking at the camera with that half-smile that used to make her knees weak. There was a caption underneath: "We need to talk. Call me."
She deleted it. Her thumb moved so fast she barely saw the screen. Delete. Delete. Delete.
When she looked up again, Zayn was staring at her.
Not at her face. At her hand. At the phone she was still holding, the screen still glowing, the Snapchat icon still visible.
His expression didn't change. That was the worst part. He just looked at her, steady and unblinking, and then he turned to his brother.
Tariq felt the weight of Zayn's gaze before he saw it. He'd been half-listening to his father drone on about the new restaurant opening downtown, nodding at all the right moments, his mind drifting somewhere between boredom and hunger. But Zayn's look cut through all of that like a blade.
Tariq followed his brother's eyes. Across the fire, Amira was shoving her phone into her pocket, her face pale in the flickering light. He knew her, sort of. She was the quiet one, the oldest daughter of his parents' friends, the girl who always sat at the edge of things and never said much. He'd never thought about her one way or another.
But he knew that look on Zayn's face.
He leaned closer, lowering his voice. "What?"
Zayn didn't answer right away. His jaw was tight, his hands clasped in his lap. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and flat.
"That was Karim."
Tariq blinked. "Karim? Our Karim?"
"Yeah."
"What do you mean, that was Karim?"
Zayn's eyes flicked back to Amira, who was staring at the fire now, her hands folded in her lap, her posture rigid. She looked like a statue. She looked like someone trying very hard to disappear.
"I saw his name," Zayn said. "On her phone. Snapchat."
Tariq frowned. Karim was his friend. Their friend. He'd known him since they were kids, since before the war, since before everything got complicated. Karim didn't know Amira. Karim had never mentioned her. Karim—
"Why would he be snapping her?"
Zayn didn't answer. He didn't have to. The question hung in the air between them, heavy with implication. Tariq felt something cold settle in his chest.
"Maybe it's nothing," he said, but he didn't believe it.
"Maybe."
They both looked at Amira again. She hadn't moved. The fire crackled and spat, and somewhere behind them, one of the aunties started singing an old song, her voice thin and reedy in the night air.
"The clinic opens at eight," Amira whispered to herself. The words were barely audible, lost in the noise of the fire and the laughter and the distant hum of traffic. "Eight o'clock. I just have to make it until eight."
She pressed her hand against her stomach, a gesture she'd been making for weeks now, a habit she couldn't break. There was nothing there yet. Not really. Just a cluster of cells, a possibility, a problem she didn't know how to solve.
But it was enough. It was enough to ruin everything.
Her phone buzzed again. She didn't look. She couldn't. Not with Zayn watching. Not with his brother's eyes boring into her from across the flames.
She'd been so careful. She'd been so goddamn careful.
And now, sitting here in the dark, surrounded by the people who thought they knew her, Amira felt the careful walls she'd built begin to crack. She could feel it happening, the slow collapse of everything she'd constructed to keep herself safe.
Karim was texting her. Zayn had seen. And somewhere in the back of her mind, a small, terrified voice whispered that this was only the beginning.
The fire popped. Sparks flew. Amira kept her eyes on the flames and waited for the night to end.
Across the yard, Zayn leaned over and whispered something to Tariq. His brother nodded, his expression unreadable.
They both looked at Amira.
She didn't look back.
But she felt it. She felt the weight of their attention, the silent question hanging in the air between them. She felt the ground shifting beneath her feet, the careful lie of her life beginning to crumble.
Eight o'clock. She just had to make it until eight.
She just had to make it until eight.
The words repeated in her head like a prayer, like a mantra, like something she could cling to when everything else was falling apart. Eight o'clock. The clinic. The appointment she'd made three days ago with a fake name and a prepaid phone number. Eight o'clock and then it would be over, and she could go back to being Amira, the good daughter, the quiet one, the girl who never caused trouble.
The fire popped again. Amira flinched.
"You okay?"
The voice came from her left, low and careful. She turned her head and found Zayn standing a few feet away, hands in his pockets, his face half-lit by the flames. He'd moved without her noticing. He'd crossed the yard, navigated the clusters of relatives, and appeared beside her like a ghost.
"I'm fine," she said. Too fast. Too sharp.
Zayn didn't react. He just stood there, looking at her with those steady eyes, and Amira felt something inside her chest tighten. She remembered those eyes. She remembered the way they used to follow her across rooms when she was thirteen, when she thought she was invisible, when she didn't understand yet that being seen was the most dangerous thing in the world.
"You're shaking," he said.
"I'm cold."
"It's ninety degrees."
She didn't have an answer for that. She looked away, back at the fire, back at the safe distance she'd maintained all night. But Zayn didn't leave. He didn't take the hint. He just stood there, patient and immovable, like he had all the time in the world.
"Can we talk?" he asked.
Amira's stomach dropped. "About what?"
"Just... talk." He glanced over his shoulder, toward the house, toward the cluster of adults who were too absorbed in their own conversations to notice anything. "Inside. Somewhere quiet."
She should say no. She should stay exactly where she was, surrounded by people, protected by the crowd. But her legs were already moving, already carrying her toward the house, and Zayn was following, and she didn't know how to stop any of it.
The kitchen was empty. The knafeh sat on the counter, golden and sticky, cooling in its tray. The lights were off, but the hallway cast enough of a glow to see by, and Amira stopped near the sink, her back to the window, her arms crossed over her chest.
Zayn closed the door behind them. Not all the way. Just enough to muffle the noise from outside.
"I haven't seen you in five years," he said.
"I know."
"You look different."
"So do you."
He smiled. It was a small thing, barely there, but it softened something in his face. Amira felt her chest ache. She remembered that smile. She remembered everything.
"Listen," he said, and his voice dropped, went serious, went somewhere she didn't want to follow. "I saw your phone. Earlier. The notification."
Amira's blood turned to ice. "What?"
"Karim. I saw his name."
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Her brain scrambled for something, anything, a lie that would hold, a story that would make sense. But Zayn was looking at her with those eyes, and she couldn't think, couldn't breathe, couldn't—
"He's helping me with a school project," she said. The words came out too fast, too flat. "That's all. He's good at math. I'm not."
Zayn's expression didn't change. "Karim. Helping you with math."
"Yes."
"At midnight. On Snapchat."
Amira's jaw tightened. "Why are you asking me this?"
"Because I know him." Zayn's voice was quiet, but there was something underneath it, something hard. "I've known him for years. He doesn't help anyone with anything. He's not that kind of guy."
"Maybe you don't know him as well as you think."
"Maybe." Zayn took a step closer. "Or maybe you're lying to me."
The words hung in the air between them. Amira felt her hands start to shake, felt the familiar burn of tears behind her eyes, felt everything she'd been holding together start to splinter.
"I need to use the bathroom," she said.
She didn't wait for his response. She pushed past him, through the door, down the hallway, her footsteps too loud on the tile. The bathroom was small and cramped, and she locked the door behind her with trembling fingers.
The knafeh. Her mother had made her eat it. Two bites, three, enough to satisfy, enough to stop the questions. But her stomach had been rebelling all night, and now it was done pretending.
She fell to her knees in front of the toilet and threw up.
It was violent. Ugly. The kind of vomit that came from somewhere deep, that left her gasping and shaking and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She flushed the toilet, leaned against the wall, closed her eyes. The tile was cool against her cheek. The world was spinning.
Through the door, she heard footsteps. Then a pause. Then a knock.
"Amira?"
Zayn's voice. Low and careful. She didn't answer.
"Are you okay?"
She pressed her hand over her mouth, willing herself to be silent. But her body betrayed her. Another wave of nausea hit, and she retched again, dry and painful, her whole body convulsing.
Through the door, she heard Zayn exhale. A long, slow breath.
"Amira," he said. Not a question this time. A statement. A recognition.
She closed her eyes. The tears came, hot and silent, sliding down her cheeks and dripping onto the floor. She didn't bother wiping them away. She just sat there, on the cold bathroom floor, and waited for him to leave.
He didn't.
"I'm not going anywhere," he said.
And Amira knew, with a certainty that settled into her bones like a sickness, that everything was about to change.
The bathroom door stayed shut. Zayn stood in the narrow hallway, his back against the wall, listening to the silence on the other side. The house creaked around him. Somewhere in the distance, the aunties were still singing, their voices rising and falling like waves against a shore he couldn't see.
He should walk away. He knew that. Whatever was happening with Amira, whatever she was hiding, it wasn't his business. They hadn't spoken in five years. They weren't friends. They weren't anything.
But his feet wouldn't move.
The hallway stretched toward the kitchen, dim and quiet. He could see the counter from where he stood, the knafeh glistening under the faint glow of the stove light. And next to it—
Her phone.
She must have left it there when she rushed past him. It sat face-up on the granite, a dark rectangle against the pale stone, and even from here he could see the screen light up with another notification.
Zayn's jaw tightened. He told himself to look away. He told himself it wasn't his problem.
He crossed the kitchen in four steps.
The phone was unlocked. Of course it was. Amira had been in a hurry, too panicked to think about something as basic as locking her screen. The notification hovered at the top: another Snapchat from Karim. But it was the thread beneath it that caught his eye, the string of messages that went back weeks, months, an entire history of secrets laid bare in blue and gray bubbles.
He picked up the phone.
He knew he shouldn't. He knew this was a violation, a betrayal of trust, the kind of thing that would make him no better than the gossipy aunties who traded secrets like currency. But his thumb was already moving, already scrolling, already reading.
I can't stop thinking about you.
When can I see you again?
My parents would kill me if they found out.
I don't care. I want you.
I think I'm late.
What do you mean late?
I'm late, Karim. I'm never late.
Shit.
What are we going to do?
I don't know. Give me time.
I don't have time. I have maybe two weeks before my mother starts asking questions.
Just figure it out. You're smart.
I'm scared.
Don't be scared. It'll be fine.
It's not fine. Nothing about this is fine.
I found a clinic. It's in the city. No one knows me there.
When?
Next week. I made an appointment.
Do you want me to come with you?
No. I'll handle it.
The messages continued, stretching back further, into territory that made Zayn's stomach turn. Late-night conversations. Stolen moments. A hotel near the university that Karim had booked with his father's credit card. Photos that Amira had sent and then begged Karim to delete. Promises that neither of them had any intention of keeping.
And then, the most recent messages. From tonight.
Where are you?
Family thing. Can't talk.
I need to see you. We need to figure this out.
There's nothing to figure out. I told you. I'm handling it.
Amira.
Don't. Just don't.
I love you.
No response. Amira had left him on read.
Zayn stared at the screen until his eyes burned. His hand was shaking. He wanted to throw the phone against the wall, wanted to watch it shatter into a thousand pieces, wanted to pretend he'd never seen any of it. But he couldn't. He couldn't unsee the messages. He couldn't unhear the desperation in her words, the fear, the loneliness.
She was pregnant. Karim's girlfriend. Karim, who was supposed to be his friend. Karim, who had never once mentioned Amira's name, who had sat across from him at cafes and laughed about the girls he was seeing, who had looked him in the eye and lied.
What the fuck.
Zayn's grip on the phone tightened. He thought about Karim's easy smile, his careless charm, the way he always seemed to float through life without consequences. He thought about Amira, thirteen years old, watching him from across rooms with those quiet, serious eyes. He thought about the girl she'd been and the woman she'd become, and the chasm between them that he was only now beginning to understand.
She was going to a clinic next week. Alone. She was going to walk into some sterile room with a fake name and a fake smile and pretend that none of it mattered, that she wasn't terrified, that she wasn't carrying the weight of a secret that could destroy everything she'd ever known.
And Karim was going to let her.
The back door creaked open. Zayn's head snapped up, his heart lurching into his throat. But it wasn't Amira. It was Tariq, slipping through the door with the quiet efficiency of someone who'd spent years sneaking in and out of places he wasn't supposed to be.
"Hey." Tariq's voice was low, conspiratorial. He glanced around the kitchen, his eyes landing on Zayn, then on the phone in his hand. "What are you doing?"
Zayn didn't answer. He looked down at the phone, at the messages still glowing on the screen, and then he did the only thing he could think to do.
He placed it back on the counter. Exactly where he'd found it. Face-up, unlocked, right next to the knafeh.
"Nothing," he said.
Tariq's eyes narrowed. He was quick, his brother. Too quick. He'd already seen the look on Zayn's face, already sensed that something was wrong. "You're lying."
"I'm not lying."
"You're a terrible liar. You've always been a terrible liar." Tariq stepped closer, his voice dropping even lower. "What's going on? Is it about Amira? I saw you follow her inside."
Zayn's jaw clenched. He wanted to tell Tariq everything. He wanted to pour it all out, the messages, the pregnancy, the clinic, the betrayal. But he couldn't. Not yet. Not until he figured out what he was going to do.
"I need to think," he said.
"Think about what?"
"Just—" Zayn held up a hand. "Give me a minute."
Tariq opened his mouth to argue, but something in Zayn's expression stopped him. He'd seen that look before, years ago, when they were kids and Zayn had found out their father was sick. It was the look of someone carrying something too heavy to share.
"Okay," Tariq said quietly. "But you'll tell me eventually."
"Yeah." Zayn's voice was hollow. "Eventually."
The bathroom door opened. Both brothers turned. Amira stepped into the hallway, her face pale, her hands trembling at her sides. She looked at Zayn, then at Tariq, then at the phone on the counter.
Her expression didn't change. But Zayn saw it—the flicker of fear in her eyes, the way her breath caught in her throat. She knew. She knew he'd seen something. She just didn't know how much.
"I'm going to bed," she said. Her voice was steady, but barely. "Tell my mother I wasn't feeling well."
She didn't wait for a response. She walked past them, down the hallway, toward the stairs. Her footsteps were measured, controlled, the steps of someone who'd spent her whole life learning how to disappear.
Zayn watched her go. His chest ached. His hands were still shaking.
Tariq looked at him, then at the phone, then back at him. "What the hell is going on?"
Zayn picked up the phone. He stared at the screen for a long moment, at Karim's name, at the messages that told a story no one else knew. Then he locked it, wiped his fingerprints off the glass, and placed it back on the counter.
"I don't know," he said.
But he did. He knew everything.
And he had no idea what to do about it.
The back door creaked open again. Their father's voice cut through the night, calling for them. Tariq shot Zayn one last look—part curiosity, part concern—and slipped back outside.
Zayn stayed in the kitchen. He leaned against the counter, his eyes fixed on the phone, and let the weight of what he'd learned settle into his bones. Outside, the fire crackled and the aunties sang and the world kept spinning, oblivious to the secret that had just cracked open in the dark.
He thought about Amira, alone in her room, carrying a burden no eighteen-year-old should have to carry.
He thought about Karim, laughing at some bar, ordering another drink, not giving a shit about the girl he'd left behind.
He thought about the clinic, the appointment, the quiet desperation of a plan that no one was supposed to know about.
And he thought about what he was going to do next.
The phone stayed on the counter. The knafeh stayed untouched. And Zayn stayed exactly where he was, frozen in the glow of the stove light, waiting for something—anything—to tell him what came next.
He didn't move for a long time.