I didn't sleep that night.
Not because of the anonymous message.
But because of one sentence that kept circling through my mind.
Ask about the night five years ago.
I opened my conversation with Zayyen.
His name was still at the top of the screen.
His last message was still the same.
If I ever choose to pull away, don't think it's because of you.
I read that sentence again.
Then I read the message from the stranger.
Don't get too close to Zayyen Al Abbas.
I could've believed it right away.
I could've also assumed it was someone's attempt to scare me.
But I didn't want to do either.
I didn't know who had sent it.
And I didn't want to accuse someone based on a message from a person who wasn't even brave enough to say their own name.
I set my phone down.
The one thing I could do was find out from Zayyen himself.
Not from someone else.
The next morning, Zayyen came to class.
For the first time in several days, the seat beside me was occupied again.
I didn't turn to him right away.
I opened my notebook.
“Morning.”
I recognized his voice.
“Morning.”
A pause followed.
Zayyen looked at me for a few seconds.
“You okay?”
I almost laughed.
That was exactly what I wanted to ask him.
“I'm fine.”
“You look tired.”
“So do you.”
He gave me a faint smile.
“Then I guess we're even.”
I looked at him.
There was a change in his face.
He still looked tired, but this time he wasn't trying to hide it.
I wanted to ask about his family.
About the man I'd seen at the gate.
About five years ago.
But the professor walked in.
I put the questions away again.
When class ended, I waited until most of the students had left.
Zayyen was still putting his books into his bag.
I stood up.
“Zayyen.”
He turned.
“Yeah?”
“Can I ask you something?”
He stopped.
“Sure.”
I took a breath.
“What happened five years ago?”
His hand stopped above his book.
I saw a slight change in his expression.
Not surprise.
More like someone hearing an old door open after spending years trying to keep it locked.
“Why are you asking that?”
I didn't lie.
“I received a message.”
“From whom?”
“I don't know.”
“What did it say?”
I looked at him.
“It said I should ask you about the night five years ago.”
Zayyen fell silent.
For quite a while.
Then he sat back down.
“Hana.”
His voice changed.
“I want to explain.”
I sat in the seat in front of him.
“But?”
“But not here.”
I nodded.
In the end, we chose to sit in the small garden behind the library.
It was crowded, but quiet enough to talk.
Zayyen didn't start right away.
He stared at his own hands.
“Five years ago, my father died.”
I fell silent.
“I'm sorry for your loss.”
He nodded.
“I was only sixteen then.”
I watched his face.
“After my father died, my family's circumstances changed.”
He took a breath.
“My mother was sick. My younger sibling was still little. I started working after school.”
I didn't interrupt.
“I stopped thinking about college.”
“Then how did you end up here?”
“Someone helped me.”
“Who?”
Zayyen gave a faint smile.
“Someone my father trusted very much.”
I waited.
“But there was one night that changed everything.”
He paused.
“The night my father died wasn't simply the night we lost him.”
I felt that there was something bigger behind it.
“What do you mean?”
Zayyen looked at me.
“My father left behind a problem.”
“A problem?”
“Debt.”
I fell silent.
“Not ordinary debt.”
Zayyen lowered his head.
“There were people who believed my father had taken something that didn't belong to him.”
“What?”
“Money.”
I didn't understand right away.
“How much?”
Zayyen told me a number.
I fell silent.
It was far more than a college student could imagine.
“So all this time…”
“I've been paying it off.”
I looked at him.
“Why have you never told me?”
Zayyen gave a small smile.
“Because it's not something I wanted to bring into someone else's life.”
“Not even mine?”
He didn't answer.
I began to understand why he'd been keeping his distance these past few days.
It wasn't because he didn't care.
He was trying to resolve something that had weighed on his family for years.
But something still didn't fit.
“Then who sent me the message?”
“I don't know.”
“Do you have a guess?”
Zayyen stared into the distance.
“I do.”
“Who?”
He shook his head.
“I can't be sure yet.”
I looked at him.
“And the night five years ago?”
Zayyen was silent for longer this time.
Then he said,
“On the night my father died, someone came to our house.”
“Who?”
“A man.”
“The same person who's collecting your debt now?”
“I don't know.”
“Zayyen…”
He looked at me.
“I didn't see his face.”
I furrowed my brow.
“Why?”
“Because the power went out in our house that night.”
I waited.
“I only remember his voice.”
“What did he say?”
Zayyen took a breath.
“He told my father that if the money wasn't returned, someone from our family would pay for it.”
A chill ran through me.
“And after that?”
“My father died the next morning.”
I said nothing.
There were so many possibilities.
But I didn't want to draw conclusions without knowing whether they were true.
Zayyen never said that person had caused his father's death, either.
He was only telling me what he knew.
And that was exactly what made his story feel more real.
“Hana.”
“Hmm?”
“I don't want you to get involved.”
I looked at him.
“I'm not getting involved.”
“The message shows that someone has already been watching you.”
I fell silent.
“You need to be careful.”
I nodded.
But there was one thing I wanted to say.
“You should also stop carrying everything by yourself.”
Zayyen looked at me.
I continued,
“I'm not saying you have to tell me all your problems.”
“Then what?”
“At the very least, don't disappear just because you feel like you have to solve everything on your own.”
Zayyen gave a small smile.
“I didn't disappear.”
“Your seat was empty for four days.”
“That doesn't count as disappearing.”
“That is the definition of disappearing to a classmate.”
He laughed softly.
For the first time, I saw his face look a little lighter.
Then he said,
“I'm sorry.”
I nodded.
“Apology accepted.”
We fell silent.
The wind moved through the trees.
There were no romantic words.
No confession.
And yet something felt different.
I no longer saw Zayyen only as someone who made my heart race.
I was beginning to see him as a person trying to survive.
And maybe that was far more dangerous for my heart.
Because admiration could fade.
But when we began to understand someone's wounds, feelings could grow much deeper.
That afternoon, I went home.
I thought everything was clear enough.
It turned out it wasn't.
When I opened my bedroom door, I found a small envelope beneath it.
There was no sender's name.
I picked it up.
My hand stopped before I opened it.
I remembered last night's message.
Don't get too close to Zayyen.
I opened the envelope.
Inside was a single sheet of paper.
An old photograph.
I recognized Zayyen immediately.
He was still very young.
Maybe around sixteen.
Beside him stood a man I didn't know.
I turned the photograph over.
There was handwriting on the back.
“You've already asked about that night.”
I held my breath.
Beneath that sentence was another line.
“Now ask Zayyen about the person who saved his family.”
I read to the end.
Then there was one final sentence.
“Because that person is the reason his father died.”
I dropped the photograph.
My chest felt tight.
Not because I believed it right away.
But because Zayyen's story and the photograph didn't completely match.
Zayyen said someone had helped his family after his father died.
But that same person might actually have been connected to the night his father died.
I picked up my phone.
I opened my conversation with Zayyen.
My fingers typed:
“Who was the person who helped your family after your father died?”
I stopped.
I was about to send it.
But then I deleted the sentence.
Not because I was afraid.
I had simply realized that if I wanted to trust Zayyen, I had to give him the chance to tell me the truth in his own way.
I didn't want our relationship built on suspicion.
But I wasn't going to turn a blind eye, either.
I slipped the photograph into my book.
Tomorrow, I would ask him.
Directly.
The next day, Zayyen arrived late.
He came in after the professor had already started teaching.
His eyes immediately searched for his seat.
Then they met mine.
I didn't know what my face was showing.
But Zayyen's expression changed.
He sat down.
He didn't ask anything.
He didn't speak.
Not until class ended.
As soon as the students began to leave, he stood in front of me.
“What is it?”
I looked at him.
“What is wrong?”
“Me?”
“Yeah.”
Zayyen fell silent.
I took the photograph out of my book.
His face changed immediately.
For the first time since I'd known him, I saw Zayyen truly lose his composure.
He took the photograph.
His hands trembled.
“Where did you get this?”
“In my room.”
“Who gave it to you?”
“I don't know.”
He looked at the photograph again.
Then he looked at me.
“Hana…”
“I don't want to accuse you.”
“Good.”
“But I want to know the truth.”
Zayyen closed his eyes for a few seconds.
When he opened them again, there was something different in them.
Fear.
Not for himself.
For someone else.
“I have to tell you something.”
I waited.
Zayyen lowered his voice.
“The person who helped my family after my father died…”
He stopped.
I held my breath.
“…isn't the person you've thought it was all this time.”
“Who is he?”
Zayyen glanced toward the classroom door.
Then he looked back at me.
“He's the person who, for the past five years…”
His voice grew even quieter.
“…has been paying for my college tuition.”
I fell silent.
“And that person…”
Zayyen didn't finish the sentence.
His phone suddenly rang.
He looked at the screen.
His face immediately went pale.
I caught a glimpse of the name that appeared.
Uncle Haris.
Zayyen answered the call.
“Hello?”
I couldn't hear any voice from the other end.
But Zayyen's expression changed.
“Now?”
He stood up.
“Don't do anything until I get there.”
The call ended.
Zayyen slipped his phone into his pocket.
“I have to go.”
“Zayyen, who is Uncle Haris?”
He stopped in front of the door.
Then he turned around.
And for the first time, he said something that made the entire story from five years ago feel much closer to me.
“The man in the photograph.”
I stared at the photograph in my hand.
The man I had never known.
The man who was said to have saved his family.
The man who might know the real reason Zayyen's father died.
Zayyen walked away.
I remained standing there.
Then my phone vibrated.
An unknown number.
I opened the message.
There was only one sentence.
“Now you know his name.”
I hadn't had time to reply.
A second message came in.
“But you still don't know why he chose Zayyen.”
I stared at the screen.
Then a new photograph was sent.
It wasn't a picture of Zayyen.
Not his father.
Not Uncle Haris.
It was a picture
of me.
I froze.
Written beneath the photograph were the words:
“Don't continue asking questions, Hana.”
I stared at the screen with cold hands.
Because now I knew one thing.
This was no longer only about Zayyen's past.
Someone had begun pulling me into a story I was never supposed to know about.
And for the first time, I wasn't afraid because I liked Zayyen.
I was afraid because maybe
Zayyen himself still didn't know the whole truth about who he was.
— TO BE CONTINUED IN EPISODE 6 —