Almara practically flew through the front door, the heavy mahogany shutting out the chaotic world of the Kuala Lumpur behind her. She slipped into her room unnoticed. Backed pressed against the cold wood of her door, she finally let out a breath she felt she'd been holding since she left the haveli. No one had seen her.
Her eyes immediately darted to her hand where the diary lay, its worn edges practically begging to be pried open. The urge to unearth its secret was a physical ache in her chest. But her stomach let out a treacherous growl, reminding her that her mind wasn't the only thing starving. Breakfast first.
When she walked to the dining room, the atmosphere was already thick with the clinking of cutlery and the low hum of family chatter. Everyone was gathered around the long marble table, waiting for her. Almara slipped into an empty chair, trying to blend into the background as she reached for a piece of toast, hoping the casual morning routine would ground her racing thoughts.
The quiet didn't last long.
"Biya, could you pass the orange juice?"
Shehriyar's voice cut through the morning chatter, casual and completely unbothered.
The entire table went dead silent. Forks hovered in mid-air. Almara paused, her hands freezing over the juice pitcher. She looked around, matching the confused, sharp glances of her cousins.
"Biya?" Almara blinked, looking directly at him. "Who on earth is Biya?"
Shehriyar offered a smirk, leaning back in his chair with effortless confidence. "I'm talking to Anabiya.
A collective gasp seemed to ripple through the room. Almara's eyebrows knitted together. "Wait . You say that like you've known her for a long time."
"Well, obviously" Shehriyar chuckled, taking a sip from his glass. "She's my cousin, isn't she?"
A Switzerland memory
As the cousins traded suspicious, bewildered looks across the table, a sudden rush of memory hit both Anabiya and Shehriyar, transportating them back to a crisp, snow-dusted summer vacation in Switzerland.
The alpine air had been freezing that afternoon. Anabiya had been walking briskly, down a cobblestone street, holding a piping cup of coffee to keep her hands warm, completely lost in her own world. Then—Crash.
She had slammed straight into a towering, stubborn wall of a man. The lid popped open, and a stream of dark, scorching liquid splashed right across his expensive jacket.
"Watch, where you're going, mister!" She had snapped instantly, her temper flaring hotter than the coffee.
"Me? You're the one running around like a storm!" He had retorted, his dark eyes flashing with equal arrogance.
They had exchanged furious, sharp words in the middle of the street, until Anabiya, thoroughly annoyed, stormed back. When she burst through the doors, her mother had casually mentioned, "Oh by the way, your cousin is arriving today."
Seeking comfort, Anabiya had changed into a cozy white wool sweater and a pair of classic blue jeans, tucking her legs under her as she sat on the plush living room sofa. Her parents had stepped out for a quick errand, leaving the house completely silent.
Until the front door clicked open.
A figure steeped into the warmth of the living room. Anabiya's eyes widened, and she stood up so fast her sweater caught on the cushion. It was him. The coffee guy.
Before her brain could process a polite greeting, her anger took over. She grabbed a heavy velvet cushion from the sofa and hurled it straight at his head with perfect aim.
But Shehriyar didn't even flinch. With lightning-fast reflexes, his hand shot out catching the cushion mid-air with an amused grin.
"Oh, so the coffee girl lives here?" He mocked, tossing the cushion onto a nearby chair.
"Oh, mister, this is my house!" Almara crossed her arms, glaring.
He stepped closer, reading the fiery defiance in her eyes, "Oh... so you're Anabiya. Right?"
"And you're a Shehriyar," she whispered, realization crashing down.
Shehriyar was initially supposed to leave after just one day, but fate had other plans. That fiery hatred quickly melted into banter, and banter turned into a deep, unshakeble friendship. A twenty-four-hour trip stretched into a full, laughter-filled week. It was during those late-night talks over hit cocoa that he had given her that exclusive nickname. Biya.
The weight of the present
Back at the dining table, the memory faded, leaving behind the heavy reality of the present. The other cousins were practically staring daggers at them, their eyes sharp with unspoken. Why did Shehriyar have a special name for her? Is they hiding something?
But Shehriyar didn't care about their stares. His confidence shielding him from their petty judgment.
Almara, however, couldn't take the suffocating atmosphere any longer. The moment breakfast declared over, she excused herself, her chair scraping sharply against the floor. She practically sprinted back. Looking her bedroom door behind her with a definitive click.
The house was quite again. Her desk was waiting. Taking a deep breath, Almara walked over, her fingers trembling slightly as she reached out to finally flip open the first page of the diary.