Fire & Silence (Tarik's POV)

Trigger Warning:This chapter contains depictions of domestic abuse, including physical violence, emotional abuse, and a traumatic flashback involving child abuse. Please read with care.

Amina was still scanning my worksheet, pen tapping lightly against the table in that absentminded way she had when she was focused. She was tucked in close beside me, her knee brushing mine every so often, like she didn't even notice—or didn't care. My FK Sarajevo hoodie hung off her like a blanket, the sleeves almost covering her fingers. She'd stolen it after first period, tugged it over her head with a smug grin and dared me to try and take it back. I didn't. I never do. Her braid rested over one shoulder, a little loose by now, strands escaping around her face. Her eyes flicked across the page, sharp and steady. That concentration was pure Amina—silent, surgical, terrifying. Like she could cut you open with her focus alone.

I'd done well.

Not perfect, but solid. A few missed notations, maybe one labeling error—but nothing major. Nothing that would land me on Amina's hit list. And I could tell she knew it too, even if she didn't say a word. The corner of her mouth was twitching. That little smile she tried so hard to swallow. The one she hated letting show because it meant I'd won something.

She was proud. She never said it—but I didn't need her to.

That look on her face? That tiny, reluctant smile that slipped past her guard? That was all I needed.

Because this—me sitting here in an honors class, actually understanding chemistry, actually trying—this was her doing. All of it. She'd dragged me into this world and refused to let me drown. Screamed at teachers until they moved me up. Studied with me when she could've been out causing chaos. Made me rewrite every messy worksheet until my handwriting didn't give her a migraine.

Everyone saw her as loud. Reckless. Too much.

But I knew better.

Amina was focus. Pressure. Fire in my veins when I wanted to give up.

She believed in me before I had any reason to believe in myself. And now, even when she was just sitting beside me—wearing my hoodie, chewing on the cap of her pen, trying not to smile—I could feel it.

She was proud.

And that? That meant everything.

Then Talha checked his watch.

That was the signal.

"Let's go," he said, voice low.

And just like that, the light dimmed. The shift was instant—like someone snapped the joy out of the room.

I didn't argue. Didn't stall.

I was too tired to fight it.

Not from the worksheet—that had been its own kind of war—but from what came next.

What always came next.

Leaving this table. Leaving them.

And going back to hell.

I started stuffing things into my backpack.

Amina had already shifted across the booth, melting into Adem's side like she belonged there. His arm moved automatically to make space for her, head tilted toward hers as he muttered something only she would catch. Whatever it was, it made her grin—soft and easy, completely unbothered.

She didn't notice the shift. Didn't feel the air change.

She was still in their world—safe, warm, untouched.

And I was already halfway out of it.

"Thanks, monster," I muttered, leaning in to kiss the top of her head.

She didn't look up. Just smiled like she'd been expecting it. Like it was part of the routine.

I zipped up my bag. Adem was already holding out a hand.

We dapped up.

"Asalaam Aleykum," he said.

"Aleykum Selaam," I replied, low.

Amina finally glanced up, eyes bright."Asalaam Aleykum! Study again when you get home."

I rolled my eyes. "Aleykum Selaam," I called back.

Then, under my breath—"Fucking tyrant."

Talha laughed. Actual laughed. Low and real.

It caught me off guard.

He didn't laugh like that often.

But when he did, it was usually around her.Around us.

Like this was the only place he ever got to breathe.

We stepped out into the cold, the door shutting behind us with that soft click that always felt too final.

Talha hit the remote, and the Jeep chirped once—clean and sharp.He loved that sound.

It was more than a car to him.

It was his.

A gift from the Begovićs on his twentieth birthday—picked out by Amina and Lamija, down to the blacked-out rims and midnight gray paint that never looked the same under city lights. Imported, too. You couldn't get one like that in Sarajevo.

When they gave it to him, Talha didn't drive it for a month. Said he wasn't ready. Said it didn't feel real.

But I think it was because they got it right. Because they saw him—big, rough, quiet—and chose something that matched.

He treated it like it could feel things.

Not like his bike, though. That was different.

He'd saved for that himself. Bought it at sixteen. Paid in cash.

The bike was freedom.

The Jeep was safety.

He unlocked the doors, and we got in without a word.

I tossed my bag into the back and slumped into the passenger seat.

The silence followed us in.

He started the engine—low, smooth—and eased us into traffic like we had nowhere important to be.Like we weren't headed somewhere that got heavier every time we came back.

The heat kicked on as we pulled from the curb. Streetlights slid past the windshield in soft, broken patterns.

Talha drove one-handed, the other drumming lightly on the console like he was thinking.

He always asked once we were in the car.Once we were alone.That was the rhythm.

"H-how was sch-school?" he asked.

"Fine."

He nodded. Gave it a second.

"A-any h-homework?"

"Nah. Just the chem test tomorrow."

He didn't say anything to that. Just nodded again.He'd watched me study with Amina.That box was already checked.

"Y-you eat?"

"Yeah. Amina made me finish her fries."

A flicker of a smile ghosted across his face. Almost.

He turned down a side street.

"Y-you get to p-practice on time?"

"Early. Conditioning was hell."

"G-good."

His voice was soft, but the pride was there. The kind that made you sit up straighter without meaning to.

"C-coach say anyth-thing?"

"Said I've got good footwork. Still need to get stronger."

Talha glanced over, quick. "You w-will."

We stopped at a red light. He tapped the wheel twice.

"You been sl-sleeping okay?"

I blinked. That one was new.

"Yeah."

He didn't push. Just nodded and let the quiet take over again.

That was Talha.He didn't hover. Didn't nag.

But he noticed everything.Tracked every detail like it mattered. Like I mattered.

My school. My food. My sleep. My pace on the pitch.

He kept it all in his head like a checklist he couldn't afford to get wrong. Like if he missed one box, the whole thing might fall apart.

Maybe it would.

My phone buzzed in my hoodie pocket. I pulled it out, thumbed the screen without thinking.

It was from Amina.

A photo of my worksheet.

Circles and arrows everywhere.

Underneath it, she'd typed:

"You're close. Redo Q7, Q12, and fix your charges on the Lewis structure in 14. Don't half-ass it or I'll fight you."

No emojis. No sugarcoating. Classic Amina.

I grinned.

I turned the screen toward Talha.

He glanced at it, then at me.

"She l-loves you. She just sh-shows it w-with academic w-warfare."

I locked my phone and tossed it in my lap. The screen lit briefly before it went dark again.

My lock screen was still the same.

That picture of the three of us.

Me in the middle.

Amina squished into one side, making a face at the camera.

Adem on the other, pretending he wasn't smiling.

Talha had taken it last spring outside the school.

I didn't know why I'd kept it.

Maybe because it reminded me that there were still parts of my life where things felt okay.

Where I could laugh. Where I belonged.

Where she wasn't just the girl fixing my test grades.

She was my person.

My best friend.My sister in everything but blood.

"You're awf-fully close for just friends," Talha said, eyes on the road.

I groaned. "Don't start."

He didn't.

Didn't push, didn't look at me—just let the silence stretch.

I stared out the window, jaw tight.

We didn't talk much after that.

Didn't need to.

We pulled into the lot and both leaned forward at the same time.

No truck.

Alhamdulillah.

Talha didn't say anything, but I saw it—the way his shoulders dropped the second he killed the engine. Like his whole body let go without asking permission.

My own breath came easier. Like I hadn't even realized I'd been holding it.

That bought us time.

Time to breathe.Time to settle.Time before the weight came crashing back in.

We climbed out of the Jeep, shoes hitting the cracked pavement in near silence. Our apartment sat at the back of the building, third floor—same rusted stairwell, same flickering hallway light. The paint was peeling. Everything smelled faintly like cooking oil and damp carpet.

Inside, the air was warmer but tighter. One hallway. One bathroom. Two bedrooms that barely fit beds. A living room that doubled as a dining room that doubled as everything else.

We were scraping by. You could feel it in the walls.

The lights were on in the kitchen.

Our mother stood at the sink, back to us, washing dishes like it was any other night.

Like everything inside this apartment wasn't splintered and waiting for the door to open behind us.

"S-Selaam," Talha said softly, like he didn't want to startle her.

She looked over her shoulder. Smiled—tired, but real.

But not for him.For me.

"You're late."

"S-Sorry," he said. "T-Tarik was s-studying."

I didn't say anything. Didn't look at her.

I walked past them and into the bedroom, the one we shared. The overhead light was too harsh, so I left it off. Moved through the space by habit—shuffling around, kicking my cleats off, pulling a clean shirt from the dresser.

I didn't rush.Didn't need to.I was listening.

From the kitchen, I heard Talha's footsteps, soft but steady. Heard the way his voice dropped—low, careful.

"S-Sit, M-Mama."

She made a sound—half protest, half sigh.Already impatient with him.

He didn't back off. "Sit," he said again, firmer this time. "I-I g-got it. G-Go rest."

A long pause.

Then the faucet shut off.

Chair legs scraped tile as she finally obeyed.

And I hated that he still did this for her.Still softened his voice.Still washed her dishes.Still called her Mama like it hadn't been her silence that nearly killed him.

She stayed.After everything—she stayed.And he still made space for her.

Even when she never did the same for him.

"I'm out of money again," she said quietly.

Talha didn't answer right away.Just the sound of water running.A plate placed gently in the drying rack.Like he was giving her time to take it back.

She didn't.

Then, softly:

"I—I g-gave you f-five hundred m-marks. T-two days ago."

"I know," she said.Her voice was small.Worn."But… your father took it."

The silence after that felt thick.Familiar.

Then came the sound I knew too well—That long, slow exhale from Talha.The one that meant he was swallowing something.Something big.

I heard it from the doorway.Still barefoot, shirt in hand, heart beating louder than I wanted to admit.

"It's o-okay," he said.Even though it wasn't.Even though it never was.

"I'll fight Friday," he added, voice lower.

"I-I'll g-give you s-something after. E-enough to k-keep for y-you."

I walked down the hall toward the bathroom.

The tile was cold under my feet—always was.Cracked near the doorframe, like the apartment itself was trying to peel away from what lived inside it.

The overhead light flickered once when I reached for the switch. Buzzed faintly, like it hated being on.

I stepped inside and shut the door behind me. Slow. Quiet.Like maybe that would soften the weight pressing in from the kitchen.

The air was damp—sweat and old soap clinging to the walls. The mirror was streaked, the edges of the counter warped from years of steam with no ventilation. Our towels hung limp from the back of the door, stiff with overuse.

I peeled off my jersey. Still damp from practice and hours of sitting in it. It clung for a second before falling to the floor.

I stood there a moment.Bare chest. Cold tile.

Tired.

Tired of this place.Tired of pretending we were okay.Tired of hearing Talha offer to fix everything when none of it should be his to fix.

This apartment didn't feel like home.

It felt like something we were surviving.

Every damn day.

I barely had my socks off when the front door opened.

Then slammed.

Boots—heavy. Fast.

I froze.

"What the fuck is this?" our father's voice tore through the apartment."Washing dishes now? You a fuckin' maid?"

Silence from the kitchen.

"What's next?" he spat."Gonna walk around like a good little housewife while you stutter like a fucking halfwit?"

Still nothing.

Then, from Talha—quiet, steady:"I—it w-was j-just d-dishes—"

"Dishes?"He laughed. Loud. Ugly.

"You can't even say the word, you useless piece of shit."

Another pause.

"T-told you, y-you d-don't gotta—"

"Don't gotta what?"He barked it like a joke.

"Speak? Think? Breathe?"His voice dropped, poisonous now."You talk like your tongue's broken. Like Allah made you wrong and forgot to fix it."

I stood there, shirtless, fists clenched.The sink creaked. A chair scraped.

I didn't hear our mother say a word.

She never did.

She blamed him for this.For answering. For being seen.For offering to help.

"You hear me, boy?"

A pause.

Then:"Y-yes."

"Fuckin' embarrassment."

I turned on the shower.

Let the steam rise.

I stepped in, but I didn't wash.

My hand reached up—automatically—fingers brushed the rod.

And everything in me locked up.

I hadn't meant to think about it. I never do.

But that metal? The sound it made when it shifted under my touch?

It clawed the memory straight up my spine.

My throat went tight.

I could still hear it.Talha gasping.

Not crying—gasping.Because crying takes air. And he didn't have any.

He was fourteen.I was ten.

He'd shoved our father.Not hard—just enough to make him let go of me.

The first time Talha ever struck back.

And our father had smiled.Like he'd been waiting for it.

He dragged Talha into the bathroom.Didn't shut the door.

We all saw.We all watched.

Talha fought—hard.He swung first, even landed a punch. But it didn't matter.

Our father was faster. Meaner.He beat him until his legs gave out.Until he dropped, gasping, dazed.

Then he tied his wrists behind his back.Tight. Rough. Like he'd done it before.

Unbuckled his belt.Looped it around Talha's neck.Hooked it over the shower rod.

And pulled.

Not by the arms.By the fucking throat.

Talha's feet scraped for footing.His toes barely caught the rim of the tub—just enough to keep him upright.

Every time he slipped, the belt cinched tighter.And he'd choke.

No hands to help.No way to breathe.Just his toes, trembling, trying to hold on.

Shoulders twisted. Chest heaved.He couldn't scream.Just that awful, choking sound.

I remember the belt digging in.Talha kicking.Feet scraping tile that never gave.

Begging for air.Then for him to stop.Then—for her.

She never came.

That night, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, listening.

To the choking.The creaking metal.

When morning came, his voice was gone.The red mark stayed for weeks.The stutter never left.

And she still didn't come.

I don't remember hating her before that night.

He hung her son from a pipe.And she stayed.

And now he laughed at the damage—

like he hadn't caused it.

Like he hadn't broken Talha,

and then mocked the cracks.

I turned the water hotter.Let it scald my skin.

Let the burn drown everything else out.