Chapter 4: Phone Call Confession
The morning came softer than it should have. No alarm, no mother calling up the stairs, no brothers arguing through the thin walls. Just light bleeding through the lace curtains, turning everything gold, and Layla's phone buzzing against her pillow like a heartbeat.
She reached for it without opening her eyes.
"You're awake," Amir said. His voice was rough, sleep-stained, like he'd been up for hours and hadn't decided what to do about it.
"I'm not." She pulled the blanket over her head. "I'm dreaming."
"Dreaming about what?"
"You."
A pause. She could hear him breathing, could picture him lying in his bed across the city, the same gray scarf still wrapped around his neck because he was too lazy to take it off.
"You don't dream about me," he said. "You dream about world domination."
"How do you know those aren't the same thing?"
He laughed. Low and warm, like embers settling. It made her stomach do something stupid.
"Stay on the phone with me," he said. "I don't want to hang up yet."
"Who said anything about hanging up?"
Neither of them spoke for a moment. The silence wasn't empty—it was full of everything they hadn't said yet, the weight of last night pressing down like a hand on her chest.
Layla shifted under her blankets and pressed the phone closer to her ear.
"My parents know," she said.
The words fell out before she could catch them.
Amir went quiet. Not the kind of quiet that meant he hadn't heard—the kind that meant he was processing, recalibrating, trying to figure out how bad this was going to be.
"When?" he asked. Just that.
"Last night. When I came inside." Layla closed her eyes. "My mother was waiting in the kitchen. My father was in his chair. They'd both seen everything."
"Everything?"
"Not everything. God, Amir, not everything." She felt her face heat. "But enough. Enough that my mother sat me down and explained—in detail—the rules of this family. The rules about girls. About honor. About what happens to daughters who ruin their reputations."
Another silence. Longer this time.
"What exactly did she say?" His voice was careful. Measured. Like he was already trying to find the exit.
"She said I'm eighteen now. Said I'm old enough to understand consequences." Layla exhaled. "She said I'm old enough to know that once something's gone, you can't get it back. That if I'm not careful, I'll be the one who pays. Not you. Me."
"That's not fair."
"Since when has anything been fair for women in this family?"
He didn't have an answer for that.
Layla turned onto her side, tucking her knees up toward her chest. The quilt smelled like jasmine and mint, like the oils her mother burned in her room when she prayed. She'd spent hours under it, telling her secrets to the ceiling, dreaming about a boy who lived six blocks away and ten thousand miles from her world.
"You know what she asked me?" Layla said. "She asked if I was still a virgin."
"What did you say?"
"What do you think I said? I told her yes."
"Are you?"
The question hung there. Not accusatory. Just honest. Just him.
"No," she said. "Not anymore."
He exhaled. She heard it, the soft release of breath through the speaker, and wondered if he was smiling or breaking apart. Maybe both.
"Do you regret it?" he asked.
She didn't hesitate.
"Not for one second." In Arabic. The words came out rough, thick, wrapped in a language that held her whole history. Some truths only fit in her mother tongue. Some confessions couldn't be translated.
"I understood most of that," Amir said. "I think."
"You understood enough."
"Yeah."
Another pause. She could almost hear him thinking, could picture the way his brow furrowed when he was working through something complicated.
"My mother would kill me if she knew," he said. "Not literally—she's too peaceful for that—but she'd be disappointed. Which is worse."
"You didn't tell her about us either."
"Layla, I don't tell my mother anything. She thinks I'm still a virgin. She thinks I spend my weekends studying."
"Don't you?"
"I mean. Sometimes. Before you."
Layla laughed despite herself. "You're such a nerd."
"You're the one who wanted me."
"I didn't want a nerd. I wanted you. The nerd part is just... collateral."
He chuckled, and the sound loosened something tight in her chest. This was them. This was how they worked. Even in the middle of everything—the fear, the guilt, the impossible weight of wanting each other in a world that didn't want them to—they could still laugh.
"So what do we do?" she asked. "About all of it. About us."
Amir didn't answer right away. She heard him sit up, heard the rustle of sheets, then a lighter flicking. He'd started smoking again, she realized. He only did that when he was anxious.
"We're careful," he said. "That's what we do. We're smart about it."
"I don't know how to be smart about you."
It slipped out before she could stop it. Honest and raw and too much.
Amir exhaled smoke on the other end of the line. She hated that she wasn't there with him, stealing the cigarette out of his hand, telling him he was disgusting, kissing him anyway.
"Here's what I know," he said. "I know that I love you. I've known since we were kids and you punched me in the arm for stepping on your sandal. I know I'm not going to stop loving you just because your parents have rules. And I know that I'll figure out a way to make this work—whatever it takes—without making you choose."
"Amir—"
"I mean it. I'm not putting you in that position. I'm not making you pick between me and your family."
"That's dramatic."
"I'm serious."
"I know you're serious. You're always serious."
"Someone has to be."
She wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him she'd pick him every time, that her family could disown her and she wouldn't care, that love was supposed to be worth everything.
But she thought about her mother's face in the kitchen. The exhaustion. The fear. The way she'd reached across the table and squeezed Layla's hand, like she was holding onto something already slipping away.
"I can't hurt them," Layla said. "My parents. I can't."
"I know."
"The rules are stupid. The whole system is stupid. But I can't—"
"I know, Layla." Amir's voice was soft. Gentle. The way he always got when she was about to break. "That's why we're being careful."
"This is going to be exhausting."
"Probably."
"I'm going to hate it."
"Definitely."
"Are you going to be worth it?"
"When have I ever not been worth it?"
She snorted. The sound was ugly and unladylike and completely her.
"Your ego is out of control."
"Blame it on the girl who's been telling me she loves me since we were twelve."
"I never told you that."
"You told me last night. In Arabic. Don't think I didn't notice."
Layla's face went hot. "You weren't supposed to understand."
"I've been studying. Little by little. I wanted to know what you were saying."
"Amir—"
"I wanted to know everything you said. All of it. Every word."
She pressed the phone against her chest, like she could hold him through it. Her eyes stung. Her throat ached. She'd been holding this in for years—the wanting, the waiting, the endless pretending that he was just a friend, that she didn't think about him every night before she slept, that her heart didn't do that thing when he smiled.
"I love you," she said. English this time. Plain and simple and terrifying.
"Say it in Arabic."
"Amir—"
"Please."
She took a breath. Closed her eyes.
"Bhebbak," she whispered. "Ana bhebbak."
He was quiet for a second. Then he said, "I'm going to marry you one day."
"You can't know that."
"I can. I do. I've known since I was fourteen and you held my hand at your grandfather's funeral and told me it was okay to cry."
"You were crying, like, a lot."
"I was grieving."
"You were grieving your plans with friends that you had to cancel."
"Layla."
"Amir."
"I'm not joking."
She believed him. That was the terrifying part. She believed him completely, and she wanted it, and she hated herself for wanting it at eighteen, for being the kind of girl who dreamed about weddings and rings and a lifetime with someone she wasn't supposed to love.
"Say something," he said.
"I'm thinking."
"About?"
"About how we're going to do this." She opened her eyes, stared up at her ceiling. There was a crack there, thin and hairline, running from the corner to the light fixture. She'd memorized it years ago, the way she'd memorized everything about her room. The way she'd memorized him. "I think we need a system."
"A system?"
"You're a nerd. You like systems."
"I like systems that don't get me arrested."
"No one's getting arrested." She rolled her eyes. "We just... we need to be smart. We don't tell anyone. Not friends. Not siblings. Not even people we trust."
"Okay."
"I tell my parents I'm at university. I tell them I'm at the library. I tell them whatever I have to."
"Okay."
"You don't come to the house unless someone else is there. Someone who gives us cover."
"Okay."
"And we don't text anything that could be used against us."
"You sound like a criminal."
"I'm a Syrian girl in love with a boy my parents didn't choose for me. I'm pretty sure that makes me a criminal."
Amir laughed. It was a sad laugh, the kind that held more weight than mirth. "When you put it like that."
"I'm always right. You should know that by now."
"I do."
"So we're agreed. We're careful. We're smart. We don't get caught."
"Agreed."
"Good." Layla sat up, the blanket falling to her waist. The room was brighter now, the sun higher, the jasmine smell stronger. "Now tell me something nice. Something that has nothing to do with any of this."
"Like what?"
"Anything. I don't care. I just—I need to hear your voice saying something that doesn't hurt."
He was silent for a beat. Then he said, "I've got your lipstick on my pillow."
"What?"
"Last night. After you left. I came back to the room and found your lipstick on my pillow. It was pink. I put it in my pocket."
Layla blinked. "You stole my lipstick?"
"I didn't steal it. I found it. There's a difference."
"There's really not."
"I kept it."
"Why?"
"I don't know. It smells like you."
She felt her throat close up. Such a small thing. Such a boy thing to say. And yet it undid her completely.
"You're ridiculous," she managed.
"I know."
"Ridiculously romantic."
"I know that too."
"I'm going to need that back."
"I'm not giving it back."
"Amir."
"It's mine now."
She laughed. Real and full and helpless. "You're impossible."
"I'm yours. That's different."
"Are you going to say things like that all the time now? Because I don't think I can handle it."
"You started it."
"I started nothing."
"You told me you loved me first. In the car. Before I said anything."
"That was self-defense."
"Self-defense against what?"
"Against you being so... you."
She could hear him smiling through the phone. That specific smile—the one that crinkled his eyes, the one he only used on her, the one that made her want to kiss him until neither of them could breathe.
"I have to go," she said. "My mother's going to come looking for me."
"Okay."
"But I'll see you soon."
"This week?"
"Maybe. I'll figure it out."
"Layla?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm not giving up. Not ever. You know that, right?"
She closed her eyes. Held the phone like a lifeline.
"I know," she whispered.
"And you don't regret it? Last night?"
"Not for one second."
She hung up before he could hear the tremble in her voice.
The room was quiet again. Sunlight and jasmine and the weight of everything that had been said. She pressed the phone to her chest, felt her heartbeat through the screen, and wondered how long they could keep this up. Weeks. Months. Years. The lies stacked on lies, the careful choreography of two people who loved each other in a world that wanted them to be sensible.
She didn't care.
She swung her legs out of bed and went to the window. Berlin spread out before her, gray and glittering, full of people living their own impossible lives. Somewhere out there, Amir was putting on his jacket, making coffee, catching the train.
Somewhere out there, he was loving her from a distance, the same way she was loving him.
She opened her window. Cold air rushed in, sharp and clean, and she let it.
Then she smiled, and went to start her day.