A heart bleeding with love

It was a spacious room with a delicate, feminine air; a blend of white and pink hues reflected the gentle nature of its occupant.

Bathed in soft white furnishings, the room was visited by golden sunbeams that crept in to tease the eyes of the girl sleeping soundly on her plush bed.

She squeezed her eyes shut in mild annoyance, quickly raising a hand to shield them from the intrusive light.

She shifted restlessly in the expansive bed—large enough to hold three people—her own petite frame looking tiny and completely out of proportion against its vastness..

She remained seated, gazing up at the ceiling and the crystal chandelier hanging in its center—a fixture her mother had insisted on installing, despite her own intense dislike for such things......

She half-rose, gathering up the gold chain nestled within her long tresses—which cascaded well past her waist—in a casual, hurried motion as she prepared for the start of a new day.

A broad smile instinctively spread across her lips at the mere thought of the novel’s ending—a story she had been engrossed in for two nights, finally finishing it just last night.

She recalled how the hero had confessed his love to the heroine after much persistence and stubbornness;

her joy was genuine, as if she were the one being wooed rather than the heroine. Unbidden,

his image sprang to mind—as it always did—conjuring up the very figure that had so completely captivated both her heart and her mind.

For a moment, she imagined *him* in the hero’s place, confessing his love to her—though with a slight difference:

the novel’s protagonist was merely a fictional character on paper, whereas Murad was a hero unlike any other of his kind. Her heart pounded violently at the mere thought; what, then, would happen to her if it actually came true? She would surely slip into a temporary coma or suffer a shock that would leave her utterly speechless... Her rosy reverie was interrupted by her mother’s sudden entry—as usual, she seemed to have no concept of a

"door." In fact, hardly anyone in the house seemed to know what a door was for; in the year she had lived there, she had never once heard anyone knock before entering. It was a chaotic household, yet she loved it.

Siham’s eyes widened in astonishment; she simply couldn't believe her daughter had woken up on her own—without the entire neighborhood having to hear her voice as she forcibly roused her every day

. She stepped closer, raising an eyebrow

: "Good morning... someone pinch me, I can't believe it. Did you really just wake up all by yourself?" Radwa smiled, revealing her neatly aligned white teeth.

Siham moved closer, sat beside her, and felt her forehead, asking again in disbelief

: "Do you have a fever, my dear? Are you sick? Is something wrong? I’m not used to this; the whole street is waiting to hear me shouting to wake you up. They’ll find this strange and start worrying about us."

A small laugh escaped her. Was she really such a heavy sleeper? Did she sleep that much? To be fair, yes.

Her mother had every right to be shocked—looking as though she had just seen aliens dancing on the table. She was incredibly lazy, truly. But why not? She was at the start of her summer break;

didn't she have the right to get her fill of sleep? It wasn't as if sleep was going to run away from her. Damn it, what a lazy girl...

She spoke simply, shrugging her shoulders

: "It’s no big deal, Soso. I thought I’d spare you for once and wake up on my own. Besides, have you forgotten that today is Friday?"

"Really? As if you actually revere the household’s traditions or customs, girl."

She rolled her eyes in boredom and said in a calm tone

: "That’s assuming I actually belong to this household in the first place—to revere its customs or traditions?"

At this, her mother’s face clouded with distress; she knew that this particular topic upset her mother, yet it was the truth—an inescapable one.

Siham reproached her with a sorrowful gaze, then spoke

: "Haven't I told you a hundred times not to say that again? This is your home, just as much as it is your siblings'—please, don't upset me."

She moved closer, taking the girl's hand in hers and patting it with genuine tenderness, asking in a gentle voice

: "Is someone upsetting you or making you feel like an outsider? Why do you say that?"

She shook her head in response to her mother’s last words. In truth, she did not feel like a stranger among them; they treated her kindly, as if she were truly part of the family.

Yet, a lingering ache still clouded the serenity of her life there by their side: no matter what happened, and no matter how kindly or affectionately they treated her, she could not help but feel—against her own will—like an outsider in their midst.

She spoke up to end the conversation, not wanting to see that glint of sadness in her mother’s eyes.

Kissing the hand that held her own small palm, she said with a cheerful smile

: "I’m sorry, I won’t say that again—just please don’t be upset."

"I could never be upset with you, my darling. I just don’t want you to feel like an outsider. You aren't one; this is your home, and your future is here. For my sake, don’t think like that again."

She nodded, replying

: "Alright."

Then, shifting the subject, she asked about her two sisters

: "So, where are Ayten and Arwa? I don’t hear a sound from them in the apartment."

"They went downstairs to your grandmother’s place a while ago. You should get up, change your clothes, and go down too. I left them getting the food ready and came up to wake you."

Her mother rose, and she followed suit, getting up from her bed; the messy knot in her hair came undone, allowing it to cascade down her back.

How bothersome that long hair was—she couldn't stand it, especially in the sweltering summer heat; it was a constant source of vexation. She thanked God, at least, that it wasn't heavy—its length was burden enough;

had it been heavy, she surely would have found a way to get rid of it. In truth, she detested long hair and preferred it short, but her hands were tied;

her mother stood guard like a sentinel—if she dared cut even a single strand, her mother would hang her from the front door downstairs as a cautionary example to all...

She nearly tripped over the large cushions scattered across the floor—ones she had put out the night before when she’d wanted a change of pace and thought she’d sleep on the floor.

But no, nothing could hold her quite like her beloved bed; sure, she might sprawl across it like an octopus lost in the ocean, but it was her sanctuary in the end.

She was being dramatic—so dramatic... Just as she was about to step into the bathroom, her mother poked her head through the doorway, offering a word of caution before she left:

"Sweetheart, please—no short clothes. We aren't in Morocco here. You’ve been here a year, yet you still can't seem to adjust. We don't need any more comments from Nader like the ones last Friday; let's just get through the day smoothly."

She froze in place, a look of annoyance crossing her face the moment her mother mentioned Nader’s name. She looked at her mother and let out a huff that betrayed her anger:

"What business does that jerk have with me, anyway?"

"But he is your cousin..."

Those words only fanned the flames of her anger—words that drove the other woman to the brink of madness. She snapped back furiously

: "I told you, Mom, he isn't my cousin. My cousins ​​aren't even here—which is why you get upset whenever I speak up. Yet, you insist on dragging me into their affairs against my will. That wretched Nader has no right to speak to me at all, and you really ought to put him in his place."

Siham sighed helplessly, responding in a calm tone to soothe her daughter's rage. She knew her daughter had inherited a fiery temper—just like her father. It was the only trait she had passed on; thank God she hadn't inherited anything else, for a hot temper was something natural and manageable—unlike the other traits.

"He wants to protect you from them, my dear; the way he controls you is simply because he worries about you—nothing more. This is a working-class neighborhood, Radwa, and people talk..."

She exhaled in frustration, then sighed and nodded. She stepped into the bathroom, and her mother closed the door behind her before heading downstairs, where the whole family was gathering. While Friday might be an ordinary day for everyone else, for the Al-Jayyar family, it was anything but; it was the day the family came together—and by 'family,' what is meant here is...

They are the family of the late Haj Abdel-Hamid Al-Jayyar—women, men, and grandchildren alike—gathering to share lunch and spend the day together. Some view it as a special, enjoyable occasion; for her part, the daughter-in-law, Mrs.

Hanan, cherishes the day as a tribute to the memory of her late father-in-law—a tradition he himself established—a sentiment shared by her son, Mourad. Others, however, find the gathering tedious and pointless. When it comes to boredom,

Radwa tops the list; she invariably finds the event dull, preferring to stay in her room, immersed in the world of her novels and books. As for the young men—her husband’s nephews, Nader and Tariq—they, too, do not care for these gatherings.

❈-❈-❈