Chapter 4: Sweet Words, Sharp Edges

 The first time she saw Christian, he was leaning against the railings beside the faculty building, laughing with a girl Zina didn't know.

There was something magnetic about him — the ease, the way people leaned into his presence like he carried some invisible light.

He was friendly. Too friendly.

He complimented Zina's smile. Remembered what she wore. Waited after lectures. Walked her to her hostel like he had nowhere else to be.

He said she was different. "Real." That her eyes carried more than her lips ever said. And for a while, she believed him.

Zina had never been this seen before.

He'd tell her, "You're special. You don't even know it." But soon, that sweetness began to sour.

 He needed books. Cream. Food. Money for "a small thing."1She wanted to help — it felt like love. Until it felt like loss. And when she stopped giving, he stopped pretending. He still came at night, not with flowers, not with affection — but with want. He never wanted to be seen with her during the day.

But at night, he clung to her like a secret.

 Empty classrooms. Quiet corridors. Shadows as witnesses, She hated how she let it happen. It wasn't romance. It wasn't even attention. It was silence wrapped in a boy's grin and a girl's ache for something kind, then came the threats.

"I have your pictures. I can show them to anyone. The school blog will love this."

Zina froze. The walls felt smaller. Her body — a weapon turned against her.

Until she told Andrew, her cousin didn't blink. He showed up the next day, looked Christian in the eye, and said words Zina never forgot:1"She's not alone. Try it — you'll regret it. "1Christian vanished from her life as quickly as he came.

But healing doesn't happen in order.

 That was when Frank arrived. Gentle. Book-smart. Funny in that quiet way that made Zina laugh more than she expected to.

And she fell. Hard.

Except he didn't. He collected her attention like a habit. Answered her calls less. Stopped replying altogether.

She waited. Made excuses. Blamed herself.

Until the silence spoke louder than the heartbreak.

Zina looked at her reflection one night and whispered, "Is it me? "1Maybe all the restrictions from home had left her too naive.

Maybe love was always a trick she hadn't mastered, maybe all she wanted was to be chosen.

But she was tired of begging for crumbs and calling it affection. So she closed her diary and promised herself:

No more loving people who don't see her.