Chapter 27- Do you think I'm handsome?
CHAPTER 27 – DO YOU THINK I'M HANDSOME?
Some promises stick to your ribs like bad food. Mom's was lodged so deep I'd wake at 3 AM choking on it—that damn vow to keep racing even when my hands shook at the starting line. A week after everything blew up, we moved. Both our houses hit the rental market like expired produce—no one wanted the baggage that came with them.
Qadira didn't just leave the street; she ditched the spotlight entirely. Her mom swapped her bike for some sensible sedan, probably hoping wheels without memories would help. Classes were up in the air, and now the whole university thing loomed over her like a bad punchline.
Zayd? Gone. No headlines, no updates—just silence. I caught myself scanning crowds for his red beanie before remembering. The only trace left was the ache in my calves from pushing harder than anyone else could. Qadira mentioned him once, said he gave her a proper goodbye. Emails still trickled in, but they were like those "thinking of you" cards people send when they don't know what else to say.
Things between us? Different. Not bad, just...distant. Like we'd become two people who used to know each other in another life.
---
I timed my breaths to the hum of the fridge—in for four seconds, hold for seven, out for eight. A perfect, mechanical rhythm. If I kept this up, maybe I'd forget how to feel anything at all.
Filming. Racing. Studying. Repeat. School was the only thing that made sense anymore. Without Zayd pushing me, the track felt like racing against ghosts. Layla backed off for a while, and then Erica stopped talking to me altogether. So there I was—just me, my thoughts, and a whole lot of silence.
Mom and I? Strictly business. No more heart-to-hearts, no more "how was your day?" She was around less, always tied up with Qadira's mom on some new venture. Qadira's mom hadn't changed, though. Still the same workaholic who treated her daughter like an afterthought.
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Then one day, Layla slid a tissue across my desk. "Sign this? A friend needs it."
The pen moved on its own, looping my name like it belonged to someone else. Another role to play: the charming star, not the kid eating ramen alone.
She hesitated, chewing her lip. "We're in 11th grade now," I said before she could start. "Don't ask me out."
She dropped into the seat across from me, undeterred. "One day, you won't say no."
"You can't make someone love you, Layla."
"It's not like that," she said, chin up. "You liked me once."
"That was before." I tapped the pen against the desk. Four taps. Perfectly even. "I don't like anyone now. Too busy."
She leaned in, voice dropping. "You like Qadira. You're just too stubborn to admit it."
"It was a stunt," I said, too quickly.
"God, you're dense," Layla muttered, stomping off before I saw her blink too fast.
---
The hallway reeked of whiteboard markers and sweat when Erica burst in, announcing the art kids' arrival. Our class shuffled out like we were about to face off in some nerdy showdown.
And there she was—Qadira, arms crossed, smirking like she'd already won. She'd swapped her runway-perfect ponytail for a messy bun, strands escaping like they couldn't wait to be free. When she laughed now, it reached her eyes—crinkling at the corners like she'd just discovered joy was allowed.
"Game on, lab rat," she grinned, cracking her knuckles. "This year? The art kids eat first."
Her class erupted. Someone started banging lockers like war drums. Qadira's finger against my forehead burned colder than the AC blasting overhead.
I caught her wrist. "Bring it on."
The bell rang, but the challenge hung in the air like the smell of cheap cafeteria pizza.
---
Mom cornered me that night with tea I didn't ask for. "How's school?"
"Fine," I said. "Since when do we do tea talks?"
She didn't smile. She zipped her suitcase slow, like she wanted me to stop her. Each tooth of the zipper sounded like "stay...go...stay..."
"I'm leaving for a while. But I'll still handle your work."
"How long's 'a while'?"
"I don't know." Her grip tightened on the cup. "I just...need space."
"Is it me?" The words slipped out before I could stop them.
"No." She wouldn't look at me. "This life—it's too much. You'll be fine. You've got money, you're practically grown—"
"I'm seventeen," I snapped.
When the door clicked shut, I counted the cracks in the ceiling until the numbers blurred. The envelope crinkled under my white-knuckled grip. Seventeen years old and I still wanted to wail like she'd left me at daycare.
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Qadira showed up at my crappy apartment with groceries and textbooks. "Your mom's idea," she said, dumping them on the counter. "She thought you'd starve otherwise."
"She's not wrong," I admitted. "But I'll survive on takeout. Keep the food."
"Suit yourself." She turned to leave. "Oh—Erica's dragging me to Raees's party. You're...probably not invited."
"Right. Famous people ruin the vibe." I forced a grin.
She paused. "My mom's cooking for you next week. If you're free."
Then she was gone.
---
Next day, scholarship sign-ups were a zoo. The principal raised an eyebrow. "You don't need the money."
"I need the competition," I said.
Behind me, someone whispered, "Try-hard." The pen felt heavy in my hand.
Later, Erica shoved her phone in Qadira's face. "Movie trailer's out!"
Qadira grabbed it, eyes widening. "Since when do you have—"
"Abs!" Erica crowed. "Snob's got a six-pack!"
"Role requirement," I muttered, suddenly aware of my body under their scrutiny.
Qadira rolled her eyes. "You? Handsome?" But her fingers lingered a heartbeat too long when she flicked my shoulder, and when Erica dragged her away, she looked back. Just once.