Too many home
SITARA
I cannot believe Tia is here.
No, seriously. I keep blinking at her like she might glitch out and disappear the way she does on my phone screen when the network decides to betray me mid-rant. But she doesn’t. She’s still sitting across from me, legs tucked beneath her, hair tied in the same messy bun she’s had since school, fingers wrapped around a cup of chai like this palace drawing room is just another café we accidentally occupied. She’s the only friend I have been capable of making in the entirety of my twenty-five years of life.
It’s been two hours.
Two whole hours of talking nonstop. About her exams. About the wedding drama. About how absurd it feels to saymy husbandout loud. About how her dorm food has somehow gotten worse, which we both agree should be illegal at this point.
And still—it doesn’t feel like enough.
Seeing your best friend in real life after four years does something strange to your chest. It expands and tightens at the same time. Like your heart has been holding its breath without telling you, and suddenly it remembers how to exhale.
I feel… elated. Light. Loud on the inside.
Tia didn’t even go to see her parents first.
That part makes something fierce and proud bloom in my chest.
She came here instead.
Which—knowing her parents—means everything.
I’ve never liked them. That’s the polite version. The honest version is uglier. I hate the way they made her feel like they were doing her a favor by letting her study further. As if her education was some luxury item she had to earn extra gratitude for. As if being a girl automatically meant she should be thankful for scraps of freedom.
So seeing her here, choosing herself in this small but powerful way, makes me want to clap and cry at the same time.
“I still can’t believe you’re actually here,” I say for the fifth time, grinning like an idiot.
Tia rolls her eyes, lips curling. “If you say that once more, I’m charging you per sentence.”
“I missed you.”
Her teasing expression softens immediately. She reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “I know.”
We fall into a comfortable silence for about twelve seconds before she breaks it, because of course she does.
“So,” she says slowly, eyes sharpening with interest, “I haven’t even met the man yet, and I already know things.”
My stomach drops.
“What things?” I ask carefully.
She leans back, crossing her arms. “For starters, you haven’t stopped smiling like a fool since I got here. Which is suspicious.”
I scoff. “I smile all the time.”
“Sitara,” she deadpans, “you smile when you’re either extremely happy or extremely uncomfortable. This is not discomfort.”
Heat crawls up my neck.
She squints at me. “Oh my God.”
I immediately shush her. “No.”
“Oh my God,” she repeats louder.
