Amira didn't sleep that night.
She stared at the ceiling while the words echoed:
"She doesn't need to know everything. Not yet."
Who was that woman?
And what didn't she need to know?
Morning arrived, but peace didn't.
By 7:30am, Amira was at Zainab's door, no makeup, scarf barely tied, eyes clouded.
Zainab opened it in a hoodie, toothbrush in her mouth. "I know that face. Spill."
Amira walked past her, threw her bag on the couch.
"I called him."
Zainab froze mid-chew.
Amira turned around.
"And I heard a woman's voice. She said… 'She doesn't need to know everything. Not yet.'"
The toothbrush fell into the sink.
Zainab sat beside her, fully alert now.
"Are you sure it wasn't background noise?"
"No," Amira said firmly. "It was directed. Intimate. Like… she was in his house."
Zainab narrowed her eyes. "Could be the child's mother?"
Amira shook her head. "He told me the mother walked out on them. Years ago."
Zainab leaned back.
"So either he lied…"
"Or he's hiding something else," Amira finished.
The room went quiet.
Then Zainab leaned forward.
"Listen to me," she said carefully. "David might still love you. And maybe he's changed. But love doesn't survive in shadows. You don't walk into fire with blindfolds on."
Later that day, Amira opened the drawer she had locked for years.
Inside were old journals. Letters. A bracelet David had given her when they were still dreaming of a future.
And at the bottom — the sonogram photo.
The one from the pregnancy she lost when he was nowhere to be found.
She hadn't thought about it in a long time.
But now?
Now that little image felt like a warning from her past self.
"Don't forget what pain costs."
Meanwhile… at David's Apartment
David was pacing.
His phone in his hand. The last call replaying in his head.
He hadn't expected Amira to call — and definitely not to hear her.
Lydia.
The woman who had helped raise Safiya when her mother disappeared.
The woman who now thought she had more say than she did.
He should have told Amira.
But he panicked.
Now he could lose her all over again.
Back in her room, Amira picked up her phone.
Typed out a message.
Deleted it.
Typed again.
"We need to talk. No more secrets."
Sent.
Within seconds, the reply came.
"I know. But before we do, there's something I have to confess. Something you don't know… about the day you lost the baby."
Amira's heart stopped.
The screen dimmed.
And she whispered to herself—
"What did you do, David?"