𝓜ackie

Both options felt equally unappealing, and frankly, a little extreme for what the was, at its core, a mundane problem: you were broke. Flat out. You were just another college student drowning in debt, tuition fees rising like clockwork, and your part-time gig at the campus café barely covering any of your basic expenses. Still, you didn’t fancy having your ass plastered on the internet, and suicide seemed a bit tedious if not dramatic. So there you were, perched on the rickety communal library computer, two minutes left on your internet credits, with the only things popping up on your screen were clearly scams or were posted by “Jessica” or “Alex” living 5km away who, shockingly, wouldn’t be resolving your financial crisis.

Then, as though God had decided to throw you a bone, you saw it: a post for a part-time video editor.

The job was listed by someone named Mandy, a vet who was working as a vet but also did YouTube on the side, and working full-time with animals didn’t leave much time for Adobe Premiere on her end. The pay was decent—more than decent, really—and seemed almost too good to be true. You clicked her socials out of pure paranoia, half expecting her to be some creepy guy with a burner profile and you realised then and there, in the library of your communal college, all the years spent in highschool doing edits would now finally pay off. Literally.

Without thinking twice, you messaged her and said you’d take the job.

The next day, she sent you a zip file with raw footage, and that’s when it all began.

Editing for Mandy became your saving grace. She sent you a few videos every other week, and you gradually got better at your craft. So much so, in fact, that Mandy stopped reviewing your work altogether. She uploaded everything you sent her without a second glance, calling your edits “art” like you were the second coming of Stanley Kubrick. 

Which was an odd thing really. The trust she had in your work - which she’d call ‘art’. It was nice how much she trusted you so much with something so important to her, yet she didn’t really you know you beyond your name, your availabilities and the fact you had a roommate and said roommate needed your help with schoolwork thus leading you to being a bit slower with the updates on a video.

It was kind of difficult not forming a weirdo pseudo-parasocial relationship with her, on your end - after all you’d edit her most intimate moments. Her videos consisted mainly of her and her boyfriend, who you’d come to find out name is Martin. You knew so much about her life - her quirks, her habits, her boyfriend, Martin. He was nice and easy-going. Funny even -  you remembered laughing when he noted his surprise that you were just some college student who did Justin Bieber edits back in highschool and not a certified editor. You laughed along, but his words stuck with you. You were just some college kid. And yet, you knew the most intimate corners of their lives—their inside jokes, their fights, the way Martin looked at Mandy when she wasn’t paying attention. Something about the love they had for each other stirred something ugly in you.

Eventually, she wanted to meet up with you. The message came a little out of nowhere. It was around 10am after you had just bombed a test, and you were bed-rotting in your dorm room when you felt your phone buzz and your eyebrows furrow when her caller-ID popped up. “I just feel bad,” she’d remarked in a over the call. In the background you could hear her dog Rudy, if you recall, playing in the background. “You’ve done so much for me, and I barely know you. Let me take you out as a thank-you.”  She followed up by saying she wanted to go somewhere downtown, cozy  - you rejected as, although it was sweet, but honestly being paid was a thank you enough (as well as the fact that you could barely afford some of the places she suggested) - but she was relentless in her generosity so you gave up, put on the most “I am not a broke college student and this restaurant you suggest will definitely not financially break me” outfit you could find in the depths of your, and your roommate, closet and met up with her. The dinner was…nice. Mandy was calmer than you’d expected, a bit blunt, but funny in a way that made you feel at ease. By the end of the night, after too many drinks and a waiter accidentally spilling pasta all over you both, you’d started to think of her as a friend.

You began hanging out at her shared apartment with her boyfriend, sometimes sleeping over with her in the same bed (her boyfriend, Martin, banished to the couch). You’d watch movies till the sun came up and helped yourself to breakfast without having the typical self consciousness of being a guest.

And then you met Hamzah.You’d gone to Mandy’s to pick up a bag of clothes you’d left behind. She’d given you a spare key ages ago—it was easier that way, she’d said—and you hadn’t thought twice about letting yourself in. You figured you’d grab your things and leave unnoticed.

As you walked past Martin’s office, though, you froze.

Sitting in one of the gaming chairs was someone you’d only seen in clips before. Hamzah.

He was leaning back, scrolling through his phone, a dab pen loosely held in one hand as he exhaled a slow cloud of smoke. He hadn’t noticed you at first, not until the floor creaked beneath your weight. His head lifted, brows furrowing as his eyes landed on you.

“Uh, hey,” you said, awkwardly waving.

Before he could respond, the bathroom door opened, and Martin appeared, wiping his hands dry on a towel.

“Oh, hey, Y/N!” Martin grinned. “Here for your stuff? It’s in the bedroom.”

You nodded, eager to move past the awkwardness, but as you left the room, you caught the brief exchange of looks between the two men.

“Who’s that?” Hamzah asked, his voice low but not low enough for you to miss.

“Mandy’s editor,” Martin replied. “You know, the one I told you about.”

Hamzah hummed, and though you were already walking away, you couldn’t help but feel his eyes trailing after you.

After you left, you weren’t really sure how to feel about seeing Hamzah. You knew you had to get used to him, especially considering he was just as close to Martin and Mandy as you were, if not even closer. It was strange, weird even. You knew a lot more about him than you should’ve - you’d seen him before, of course—in Mandy’s footage, in the background of videos you’d spliced together, laughing with Martin, rolling his eyes at a bad joke. But seeing him in person was something else entirely. You wanted to know more about him though, you weren’t sure if that was weird. The memory of his gaze stayed with you longer than it should have. You felt weirder about the fact that you didn’t feel weird enough  about it, that you did sometimes wonder what he was thinking of when tying strings of footage together. You found yourself replaying footage of where he smiled more than other pieces of footage. Maybe you were weird.

Martin and Mandy were throwing a get together. It was small, Mandy assured you when she noticed you wavered, picking up upon your your reluctance. “Me, Martin, and a few friends. Totally lowkey.”

You should’ve realised that meant he’d be there. 

Hamzah wasn’t exactly thrilled about the idea of a party, but the thought of hanging out with Martin made it tolerable. That, and the unspoken promise of weed, along with the fact that it wasn’t going to be some huge, overwhelming crowd. Just Mandy, Martin, Chase, Claire, and a handful of their friends who weren’t part of their usual social media circle.

What bothered him, though, was the mention of a “special someone.”

Martin had been annoyingly vague, but Hamzah knew. It had to be you.

He’d caught himself that day, when his eyes lingered on you far too long as you stood in the doorway of Martin’s office. The second he let it slip, Martin noticed. Martin always noticed. And once Martin had something like that to tease him with, it was game over.

To Martin, it was probably exciting—Hamzah showing genuine interest in someone for once, and not just anyone but someone in their circle. Hamzah, on the other hand, was already bracing for the sly comments, the well-timed nudges, the not-so-subtle efforts to push him into a conversation with you. By the time he was on his way to the party, he already had a headache from overthinking. Worse still, he could feel another one building as he tried - and failed - to think of something, anything, to say that wouldn’t immediately come off as awkward or disinterested. And what if he did mess it up?

The idea of talking to you shouldn’t have felt so monumental, but somehow, it did.

You walked into the party with your roommate, Candance, who was dying to meet the so-called Mandy who, ever since entered your life, seemed responsible for your sudden ability to start paying for your own drinks when you and her went out. Candance was buzzing with the need to socialise and almost immediately departed from you to talk to Mandy’s female friends, one of which being a girl who believed was named Clara or Claire? You weren’t really sure, you tried to avoid Mandy’s other friends, Not for any strange or unkind reason—it was just how you were. Conversations with Mandy’s friends always seemed to trip you up, words slipping out of rhythm, leaving you stranded in awkward silences. Even Mandy’s good-natured attempts to bring you into her group couldn’t quite shake the feeling that you didn’t belong - that you were simply a girl who just edited her videos.

So, you’d drifted, quiet and unnoticed, until you found solace on the balcony. The Toronto air was crisp, a faint chill weaving through the hum of the party inside. You laughed as you noticed someone, Martin probably, had started blasting Nettspend. You leaned against the railing, fishing a blunt from your pocket, and lit it with practiced ease. The first inhale hit like an exhale—something uncoiling in your chest as the smoke curled upward, vanishing into the dark. 

Hamzah stepped into the party, the familiar rhythm of low laughter and muted music settling around him. He made a beeline for the drinks, grabbing a red cup filled with liquid courage (something he’d need plenty of).

It didn’t take Martin long to corner him, practically bouncing with thinly-veiled amusement.

“So, where’s this ‘special someone’ you mentioned?” Hamzah asked, feigning casual indifference. 

Martin’s smirk was immediate, sly and deliberate, as he gestured toward the balcony. “Out there.”

Hamzah followed his line of sight. You were leaning against the railing, the soft glow of the city lights flickering against the smoke curling from your hand.

“What do I even say, man?” Hamzah muttered, suddenly too aware of the weight in his chest, the too-familiar flutter of nerves threatening to undo him.

Martin shrugged, already stepping away, his grin widening. “I don’t know. Maybe start with hello? Or ask for a hit?” Hamzah sighed. Hamzah sighed, half-resigned, as he watched Martin retreat into the party, clearly pleased with himself. He really needed to get Martin to stop meddling in his love life—or, as both Martin and Mandy liked to point out, his complete lack of one.

Still, here he was, stepping out onto the balcony before he could overthink it. You hadn’t noticed him yet, your attention fixed on the glow of the city beyond the railing. It wasn’t until the soft creak of the door closing behind him startled you that you turned, wide-eyed.

“Oh, shit,” you exhaled, clutching your chest. “I didn’t see you there.”

Hamzah raised his hands in mock surrender, a small grin tugging at his lips. “My bad.”

“Do you do this often?” you asked, recovering quickly. “Creep up on people?”

“Do I look like I creep up on people?” he shot back, a flicker of amusement in his tone.

You tilted your head, pretending to consider it. “I don’t really know you.”

“Fair point,” he conceded, leaning against the railing beside you.

When he gestured toward the blunt in your hand, you passed it to him without hesitation. He took a drag, and something about the faint taste of cherry on the filter made him pause, his heart betraying him with a quick flutter.

“So,” he started, exhaling slowly, trying to mask his nerves with feigned ease, “what do you know about me?”

“Your address,” you said flatly, with a nonchalance that made him blink in surprise.

“What?” His eyes widened, and he gave you a look that silently demanded an explanation.

“In Mandy’s videos,” you clarified, smirking as you watched his alarm shift into sheepish realization. “When they visit you, the background gives away your street and house number. I’ve had to edit it out and censor it.”

“Oh. Damn.” He winced, scratching the back of his neck.

“You’re welcome for not doxxing you,” you said with mock seriousness, plucking the blunt back from his fingers.

“Thanks,” he muttered, exhaling a stream of smoke that curled into the cold night air.

For a moment, the silence between you wasn’t awkward. It hung there, fragile and almost weightless, like the smoke that lingered before dissolving into nothing. 

You both stood there for what felt like an eternity, the air thick with the smoke, your thoughts muddled by the high creeping through your veins. The party had been loud, the music had pulsed in your ears, but out here, on the balcony, everything felt quiet. Just the two of you and the low hum of the city below.

Hamzah’s gaze was steady, yet unreadable. You could feel his presence in the space between you—close, but not close enough. It was like you both were hesitant, waiting for something to shift, to give you the sign that it was okay to lean in further.

“So,” he started, voice a little lower than before, “this is where you come to hide, huh?”

You half-laughed, half-sighed, glancing down at the blunt between your fingers before looking up at him. “Yeah. It’s easier to think out here. Or forget, I guess.”

“Forget what?” His tone was gentle, but curious. His eyes didn’t leave yours.

You paused, biting your lip. “Stuff. Life. Whatever.” The words felt a little too raw, too honest for this moment, and you quickly added, “I’m not a big fan of parties, anyway. Too much noise. Too many people pretending they’re happy.”

“Yeah, I get that,” Hamzah said softly, his voice seeming to drop even lower. He stepped a little closer, and you had to resist the urge to step back. His proximity didn’t feel intrusive—it felt electric, like you were both standing on the edge of something. “I don’t really do parties either.” He paused, looking down for a second before meeting your eyes again. “But I like the quiet. The realness. The moments where you can just... breathe.”

You swallowed, suddenly aware of how dry your mouth was. “Yeah, me too.”

There was a moment of silence, and it felt heavy in the air. Your fingers brushed his, the contact brief but enough to send a ripple of warmth through your chest. Your heart skipped a beat, and you found yourself wondering if he felt it too.

“Y’know,” Hamzah began, his voice even quieter now, “I never really thought I’d be sitting on a balcony with Mandy’s editor, talking about life.”

You smirked, trying to lighten the tension. “And yet, here we are.”

He chuckled, but the sound was low, almost intimate, and you noticed the way his gaze flickered down to your lips before darting back to your eyes.

Your heart raced in your chest, and suddenly, everything felt a little too much. The weed, the energy between you, the overwhelming urge to close the space between you.

“I—” You started, but your words faltered. You didn’t know what you wanted to say, only that something had shifted, something that felt too important to ignore.

Hamzah took a step closer. His hand brushed the side of your arm, his touch lingering, just enough to make your pulse quicken. He tilted his head slightly, studying you, as if searching for some kind of sign.

You could feel the heat rising between you, the weight of his presence pressing in. “You okay?” he asked, his voice soft, but you heard the underlying question—something more than just your state of mind.

You nodded quickly, but then your nerves caught up with you. You could feel the anxiety building, and before you could second-guess yourself, you blurted, “This is weird, isn’t it?”

Hamzah smiled faintly,  “not really, I think you’re nice.”

The words hung in the air for a moment, and then, without thinking, you found yourself leaning in closer to him. Your lips were so close you could almost feel the heat between them, but then—just before you closed the space—your nerves overtook you. You stopped yourself, your breath catching in your throat.

Hamzah froze too, his eyes locking onto yours, both of you so close yet not quite there. The moment was suspended, hanging in the air like a breath waiting to be exhaled.

“I…” You pulled back slightly, the tension between you thick and palpable now. Your heart pounded in your chest, and you could feel your face flush. Fuck you hated being high. “Sorry. That was… stupid.” You stepped back a little more, suddenly feeling too exposed, too vulnerable.

Hamzah didn’t move right away, his eyes still locked on you. He looked like he was weighing something, deciding something. “No, it’s not stupid,” he said quietly, his voice steady, but you could hear the hesitation there too. He ran a hand through his hair, as if trying to gather himself. “I just—don’t want to make things weird.”

You nodded, but the knot in your stomach didn’t loosen. The air felt charged, and you couldn’t decide if you were relieved or disappointed. “Right.” You cleared your throat. “I should go.”

Hamzah didn’t say anything, just gave a small nod, his expression unreadable. You turned away quickly, as if running from the tension, and walked back inside. The party felt suffocating now, the music and laughter too loud, the distance between you and Hamzah somehow stretching even farther despite what had just happened.

You could feel your heart beating fast in your chest, the weight of everything swirling inside you. Your mind raced, replaying the moment over and over. What if you’d leaned in? What if you hadn’t pulled away? 

You asked Candance if she wanted to go home, and naturally, with her charisma she had become good friend’s with one of Mandy’s friends and was knee deep in a tea-spilling session.

You wished her goodbye grabbed your things and hurried out of the apartment, your pulse still racing as you made your way home. The high was still with you, the dizziness mixing with the anxious energy that had taken root in your chest. You couldn’t shake the feeling of his presence, like an echo, lingering in your mind.

As you stepped into your dorm, you kicked off your shoes and collapsed onto your bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to make sense of the mess inside your head. Why the fuck had you tried to a kiss a guy you only know through your friend’s videos? You wanted to scream and kick.

You rolled onto your back, eyes closing, but the image of him, that near kiss, lingered in your mind like smoke—unwanted but impossible to shake.

Would he tell Martin? Worse, would he tell Mandy? Would she be mad that you nearly kiss Hamzah? Would you lose your job?

You glanced at the clock. It was late, and you were so tired, but the restlessness wouldn’t let you sleep. Instead, you reached for your phone again, scrolled through your messages, then stopped.

One new notification.

It was from Hamzah. 

“Hey, sorry if I was too forward earlier. I was a bit high. You cool?”

You stared at the message, the screen flickering under the dim light. Was he apologizing? Or was this just his way of dismissing it, making it nothing?

Your fingers hovered above the keyboard. Was he expecting an answer? What were you supposed to say?

Finally, you typed a response, only to delete it a moment later. It was easier to just lie here in the silence, letting the unanswered questions fill the space. You weren't ready for any of this.

Especially when sunlight filtered in through the blinds, it’s rays horizontally scattered through the room. Behind your body lay half your heart. Your partner, Hamzah. If you had told yourself from a couple months prior to the moment you were in that you’d have him just like this - soaking up your body in the early mornings, post a three hour marathon of love making, filling your shared apartment with ungodly moans - you would’ve scoffed. You were happy with the outcome of though, ultimately. It was nice. He was nice and he thought you were better than nice. Sometimes you felt a guilty that you could never match the love he had for you - but he assured you it wasn’t physically possible for someone to love as much as he loved you.

You could feel him move. His movements were slow and steady as he began to snake his arms under your shirt. He waited , gingerly, for an indication of discomfort from your end - to which there was none - before placing his hand around your boob. You giggled. You always admired how much he always needed you. Needed to hold you, needed to please you, needed to make you laugh - the list could go on endlessly.

“You really love my tits hmm?” You muttered, straining to turn your head over your shoulder to look at the boy. His skin was honeyed by the sunlight as his brown eyes bore lovingly into yours, as if looking past your flesh and into your soul and liking what he found. “Mhm.” He groaned in response.

“‘Mhm’ is all you have to say? Last night you were telling me about how you wanted to suck-” “I know what I said.” He interjected, as he nuzzled into your neck. His curls tickled your collarbone in a way you liked. “-the life out of them.” You finished, a smug smile blossoming on your features. “I’d still suck them.” “Fucking baby.” You giggled softly. “Goo goo gaga.” He sleepily joked, as he began to knead gently at your breasts.

You couldn’t help but laugh at the dumb joke as well simultaneously moan at the sensation which accidentally caused you to buck  backwards into his crotch. “Like that?” He asked you, his voice still husky. You couldn’t tell if it was from the typical voice deepening that men usually possessed in the morning or if his voice was hoarse from moaning your name and praise from hours on end. Either way you didn’t care and just wanted to continue to hear his voice. “I like you.” You replied. “I like you too.” “Ooh, someone has a crush.” You teased him. “Sure do.” He replied back.

The room felt into silence, except for the rythmic sound of Hamzah’s hand rolling your flesh, your soft but heavy breaths, the soft sound of the early birds and the cute, yet chaotic, meows of Red and Blue, presumably, play fighting. 

You liked the way he was touching you, and the way his left hand had gone from under your body to cup your left breast whilst his other hand had move to your thigh, rubbing circles. The sensation was soothing, causing you to lull back into a gentle sleep, waking up to him pressing soft kisses into your neck, about 10 minutes (according to the little analog clock that Mandy and Martin had gifted for your house warming) later.

“You up now sleepyhead?” He asked you. “Mhm, I fell asleep because the massage was nice.” You whispered. “This feel nice?” He asked you, through a mess of kisses as he began to circle your aerola and tit. This caused you, to, once again, involuntarily buck backwards. “Fuck,” you exclaimed. “That feels good.” “You feel good.” he admitted. You didn’t fully register what he meant until you felt his tented desire pressed against your thigh as you moved backwards again. You could feel him falter due to embarrassment. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to get like this. Having you just pressed like this just gets me going…” he whispered. 

“I’m glad I can get you all hot and bothered just from a cuddle session in which I was half asleep.” You assured him, snaking your own hand in his, giving it a gentle squeeze. “I know, but I just want you to know we don’t have to do anything with it. Especially after last night.” 

“…or we can.” You offered. “Baby, no. Last night was a lot. I was a lot on you, and to be honest you genuinely looked like you were going to crumble after your third orgasm and you’re still very obviously burnt out from that. I’m just happy to have you like this, in my arms.”

“Wow Mr Al-Emad turning down sex? Ladies and gentlemen we’ve truly seen it all!” You giggled, voice still groggy with the yearning for sleep. However the small wet patch blooming in your lace panties begged to counteract that yearning.

“Mhm, not even. I just don’t want to push you anymore than I did yesterday.” He whispered against your nape of your neck, his voice sending a little shockwave of desire throughout your body. You melted from the tone of sincerity and care in his voice. “We can still go. Maybe just a bit gentler?” You offerred. “Think about it…” and with that you began to grind against him, and tossed your head back against his shoulder. “Fuck.” he blurted, your actions clouding any prior inhibitions he had. He began to discard of his boxers and thanks to your habit of sleeping pantless, all he had to do was shift your little lace panty to the side. “Shit I think we’re out of condoms.” “I’m on birth control silly.” “I know but-” you gave his hand another squeeze of reassurance. “It’s fine. I want you now, like this.”

He nodded and inserted himself into you. He stayed there for a while, just wanting to enjoy how your pussy felt around his dick without the pressuring urgency to move.

“Fuck-” He blurted. “Fuckfuckfuck. You feel so good. Fuck you always feel good.” You could only breathily laugh in response. “It isn’t funny how someone can look, be and feel so perfect holy shit.” He began to fondle with your breasts again eliciting a string of curses from you as a response. “Baby I need you to move.” You whined desperately. He didn’t need you to repeat that order and began going in and out of you. “You always feel so good for me always.” He moaned.

“Always so good. Always so good f’me, always so ready for my cock, even if it’s at fucking crack dawn in the morning. Such a little slut, just for me.” One thing Hamzah loved about your relationship was the juxtaposition of character that he could only see. How everyone saw you as you as this innocent, cherubic person - but for him? You were this whiny little whore always begging for him. “Say it. Say how much you want this baby.” “I want this so bad.” You muttered, barely audibly between your whimpers . E

verything about seeing you like this and having you like this and his increased libido in the morning caused his body to begin to halt and shudder with the oncoming of his orgasms. His body stuttered, as the last remnants of his seed spilled into you. “That was nice.” You said, placing your hand behind your head to reach for his curls to play with them. “Not finished yet -  not until you’ve finished.” He said, as he tried to catch his breath post orgasm. 

“Baby it’s fi-” your reassurance was cut off by the sudden movement of him getting up and turning you from your side to being on your back. He dove under your the tail end of your duvet and began pressing kissing up your legs. You could feel like him lick long trails against your leg, taking in the wet mixture of your desire and his seed which was spilling down from your pussy. “Taste so good f’me.” He rasped, planting more kisses against your vanilla scented flesh. He eventually made it to the apple of his eye. Your pussy, which weeped for his touch.  He licked a long stripe against it which caused your breath to hitch and your legs to hike. Through the darkness of the blanket, his hand fumbled trying to find yours. He eventually found it and intertwined his hands with yours. For him smaller moments of intimacy, like hand holding or forehead kissing, really were the moments he treasured most. It reminded him that you weren’t just some girl he was hooking up with but you were his and he was yours. 

His nose bridge bumped against your wet, puffy clit causing you to thrash, overcome with pleasure. It felt as if you weren’t in your body anymore but rather of a vessel of pleasure to which you never wanted to depart from. He eventually substituted his pussy eating with pushing in two of his fingers inside of your aching pussy. “Fuck, the way you clench around me baby,” he said in a dazed, almost entranced tone. “So fucking soaked for me.” He begins to move his fingers back and forth. The slick of your desire lubricating his prodding fingers. “So fucking wet just for me.” “Just for you.” You manage to muster as a response through your desperate pleas.

Hamzah unclasps his hand for yours and places it over your clit, rubbing against it as he continues to curl his fingers, on his other hand, inside of you.

A rush of ecstasy, a fluttering inside of you and a final oozing of desire and he’s done it - he’s made you cum for the fourth time. He climbs up from under the blanket to meet your face. “You good?” He asks you, with the most shit (or rather pussy) eating grin. You shove his face away from you playfully. “Fuck you. It should be criminal to make me feel that good.”

“Fine! Arrest me, as long as we can arrange a conjugal visit or some shit.” He retorted back to you, his body collapsing next to you. And, in his unconscious desire to always touch you,  began to prod at different parts of your body. Your upper arm, your collarbone, your cheek. Anything.

“So even in jail you would wanna fuck me.” “Pretty much.” “Horndog.” “Says the one who released herself from sleep’s grip to get fucked.” You kicked his leg playfully. “Shut up, you’re making me out to be a slut.” “You are one I fear.” he said playfully, however taking a small pause of silence to scan your features for any discomfort at his words. He was never really a fan of calling you words like slut or whore outside of the context of sex. In fact he hated it. You were more akin to the love of his life. You on the other hand, didn’t really mind - you knew that he didn’t view you as one. 

“Well the jury’s out and decided that I’m a slut!” You giggled, playfully shrugging. “You’re not just a slut.” “Oh really?” “You’re also going to be my future wife one day.”

Not the firing from your part-time job last week (fuck Susanne and her fake smiles, her endless lectures about “professionalism” while she left you to deal with Karen after Karen). Not the exam you bombed, the one you’d stayed up three nights in a row trying to prepare for, only for the questions to feel like a foreign language. Not the missed assignment deadline, the one that meant an automatic zero, even after you begged your professor for an extension.

No, it was the papercut.

A single, thin line of red sliced across your finger as you rifled through the stack of unpaid bills on the counter. That tiny sting, sharp and mean, was all it took to rip the last fraying thread of your composure. And now here you were, slamming cabinets in search of a band-aid, tears stinging your eyes, feeling every bit as fragile as that stupid piece of paper.

Pathetic, you thought, the tissue pressed against your finger already dark with blood. Your chest felt tight, like a balloon stretched too far. “Fuck,” you whispered, slamming another drawer shut. No band-aids. No reprieve. Just you, the sting in your finger, and the weight of every mistake, every failure, every goddamn thing piling onto your back.

Hamzah’s laughter echoed faintly from the other end of the apartment, where he was recording one of his videos. His voice, so light and carefree, felt like a slap in the face. You tried to tiptoe around his filming room, unwilling to add another burden to his plate, but your quiet sobs must have carried through the thin walls.

You barely heard the creak of the door opening behind you as you found yourself sunken to your bedroom’s floor.

“Uh… hey, baby?” His voice wavered slightly, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to interrupt. The sound of it made your shoulders tense. You didn’t look up. Couldn’t.

Hamzah hesitated in the doorway, and for a moment, you thought he might leave. But then he shuffled closer, his footsteps hesitant and uneven, like he was second-guessing every step.

“Are you, uh… I mean, do you… need anything?” he asked, crouching awkwardly beside you. His hand hovered near your arm for a moment before retreating, like he couldn’t decide if he should touch you or not.

“I’m fine,” you muttered, though the crack in your voice betrayed you.

“You’re crying, Y/N. That doesn’t scream ‘fine.’” His words were gentle, but they hit harder than anything he could’ve shouted. He didn’t look away, like he was too scared that if he did, you might vanish into the mess of your emotions. “Please, baby. Let me in. I need you to let me in so we can talk this out.”

“I am talking,” you choked out, your voice betraying you with each word.

“No, you’re not,” he insisted, a tiny crack in his voice. His brow furrowed, his gaze soft but desperate. “I’m not used to seeing you like this. Let me in, please. I’m right here. I won’t leave.”

You didn’t know what to do with his words. You felt like you were drowning, but somehow, you couldn’t stop yourself from letting him see you. You swallowed hard, your throat tight.

“It’s just everything,” you whispered, your voice barely a breath. “It’s all falling apart. I don’t even know how to keep going.”

“Baby, I know,” Hamzah’s voice was barely audible, his hand hovering near yours, but not quite touching. “Everything can feel so heavy sometimes, like it’s crushing you from the inside out.” His voice faltered as if he was struggling to find words that wouldn’t feel like a lie. “But you’re not failing. You’re still here.”

You couldn’t even respond to that. You couldn’t even find it in yourself to do the thing you always did—brush it off with a sharp joke. You just couldn’t.

Hamzah exhaled a breath, his face tightening with something you couldn’t read. He reached out slowly, like he wasn’t sure you wanted his touch, but you needed it, even if you couldn’t say it. He tucked a piece of hair behind your ear, his fingers trembling slightly. “Everything feels wrong,” you muttered, the ache in your chest so deep you weren’t sure how you could still stand. “Everything’s falling apart. Nothing I do feels right.”

Hamzah’s hand finally found yours, his fingers warm against yours. “I know. I know it feels like everything’s slipping through your fingers. I’ve been there.” His voice cracked, just a little, and you caught the hint of vulnerability. “But, Y/N, I see you. I see you in everything you’re doing. Even when you don’t see it yourself.”

You shook your head, tears slipping down your cheeks. “I’m not even worth seeing.”

“Stop,” Hamzah said, his voice firm, but there was still that awkwardness in his tone, like he didn’t know how to make the words fit perfectly. “You are worth seeing. You’re so much more than all the shit that’s weighing you down right now.”

You could feel his words, even if you didn’t believe them. You could feel his care, his genuine want to help, but it felt like too much. It was suffocating, and you just wanted to curl up and disappear. “You don’t get it,” you muttered bitterly, your voice hollow. “You don’t know what it’s like to… to keep fucking shit up. To feel like you’re stuck, and nothing you do ever matters.”

“I do,” Hamzah said, and his voice cracked in a way that made you look up at him. His brown eyes were wet, and for a moment, you saw something break in him that made your chest ache. “I really do.”

You shook your head, closing your eyes to block out the tenderness in his face. “I failed an exam that… that’s going to ruin everything, Hamzah. And I lost my job. I can’t even keep a job right.” Your words came out in a broken rush, like they were clawing their way out of you.

His voice shook when he spoke again. “You’re not a failure, Y/N. I know you feel like you’re falling apart, but you’re not. You’re not broken.”

“Then why the fuck does it feel like I am?” The words came out before you could stop them, and suddenly everything felt louder—your breathing, your heartbeat, your thoughts. Like they were too much, too loud for your own mind to handle.

Hamzah didn’t have an answer. Instead, he just moved closer and the way he looked at you, like he could see right through the cracks in your soul, made you feel like you were being swallowed whole. His hand finally found yours, but it was gentle, tentative, like he wasn’t sure if he should hold on or let go. “Because it hurts,” he whispered. “I know. But you’re not failing. You’re not.” You let out a hollow laugh, one without joy, just despair.  “Hamzah,” you whispered, trying to breathe through the ache, “I don’t know how to keep doing this.”

He took a slow breath, his voice soft but sure. “You’re more than that one exam, okay? You’re more than the things you think are failures. And I know it feels like the end of the world, but it’s not. I swear.”

“You don’t know how this feels,” you muttered, pulling your knees to your chest, trying to make yourself smaller. “You’ve got your shit together. You always have. You don’t know what it’s like to feel like a complete failure.”

There was silence between you two, thick and suffocating. Then, finally, Hamzah spoke again, his voice barely above a whisper. “You think I’ve got it all together?” He let out a dry chuckle, a bitter edge to it. “You have no idea. I dropped out of college, Y/N. I didn’t know what the hell I was doing with my life. And even now, I’m not sure I do.” He paused, his fingers gently squeezing yours. “But you? You’re smart. You’re strong. And you’re doing the best you can, even when it feels like it’s not enough.”

You didn’t know what to say to that, but you could feel the shift in the air, the way his words tried to carve out space for something more. Something that wasn’t just pain. Something that could be better. Maybe not now, maybe not today—but someday.

“Hamzah,” you said softly, your voice breaking again, “I’m so tired.”

“I know, baby,” he whispered, his thumb brushing away the last of your tears. “I know.”

“I feel like a fucking loser,” you choked out. “You know I don’t believe that, right?” Hamzah’s voice was low. “But it feels like the end of me,” you whispered, almost pleading. “Like I’m falling into this hole and I don’t know how to stop it.”

Hamzah’s expression softened, his hand trembling slightly as he brushed a tear from your cheek. “You’re not alone in this. I’m here. I’m always here. And you don’t have to be okay right now. But we’ll figure it out. Together. We can find you another job, message your teacher to maybe get you to retake. We’ll figure this out.” You nodded against his chest. A lapse of silence followed. Hamzah scratched the back of his neck, clearly unsure what to say next. “Okay, uh… well, I brought you something because I guessed you got a papercut when I heard you walking around.” He reached into his hoodie pocket and pulled out a pack of Hello Kitty band-aids, the ones you’d bought as a joke months ago. He held them out to you, his expression halfway between sheepish and hopeful. “They’re not, like, super practical, but, uh, you know… cute, right?” Despite yourself, a small, wet laugh escaped your throat. “Hamzah…”

“What? They’re effective! They stick to your skin and everything,” he said, his voice lilting into an overly casual tone, like he was trying to downplay the effort it had taken to dig them out of the cluttered bathroom drawer.  “You are enough.” He whispered, as he planted a band-aid over your cut. “Okay?” You closed your eyes, letting his words wash over you like a gentle current, pulling you out of the darkness, if only for a moment. You didn’t know if you believed him. You didn’t know if you could believe him. You had no reply, just the weight of everything. You stared at the band-aid on your, the stupid Hello Kitty faces grinning up at you. What did it mean? Was this all you were? A band-aid, something to cover up the mess? Something to fix? No. You didn’t need a band-aid. You needed everything to stop feeling like this. “I don’t feel like I’m enough,” you whispered, so softly it was barely there.

“Y/N,” Hamzah said, his voice thick with emotion, as he pulled you into an embrace. “You are more than enough.”

Yet here you were, navigating the cluttered chaos of boxes - each one a Pandora's box revealing surprises that felt like the universe’s twisted jokes on your life’s trajectory. If you had told your ten-year-old self about something called a “credit check” just to secure a roof over your head, she would have frowned and asked, “What’s that?” Standing in the skeletal beginnings of your living room felt surreal, like a scene from a half-remembered dream. You and Hamzah had toiled like worked so hard to get yout home, pushing the boulder uphill in an economy designed to turn homeowners into a relic of the past. And here you were, cradling the fruits of your labour, and it was dizzying to think you could finally feast on them.

You took a laid-back approach to moving in, checking occasionally for the arrival of another truck or pacing through the house to affirm that this dream was indeed yours. Red and Blue were tucked away in the guest room, avoiding the tidal wave of change. Meanwhile, Hamzah was knee-deep in the intricate task of assembling your bed, his body hunched over the instruction manual like a treasure hunter deciphering hieroglyphs. This was the only piece of furniture spared from the convenience of Amazon’s next-day delivery—because sleeping on the floor wasn’t an option, and Hamzah had declared it “just not right.” You had no desire to argue that point; after all, you couldn’t imagine what hardwood floors would do to both your curls.

You leaned against the doorframe, watching him wrestle with the instruction sheet, his face a canvas of confusion painted with frustration. “Baby, how’s it going?” you called out, bouncing on your toes, feeling a pang of guilt for leaving him to fend for himself. “Not great,” he grumbled, forehead creased as his eyes darted across an endless loop of instructions that might as well have been written in ancient runes. “I think they shorted us on screws.”

“What? No way. Hand it over,” you insisted, stepping forward to snatch the manual from his hands. “No, there are enough screws; you just put them in the wrong part of the bed.” “But it says head of the bed,” he argued, his stubbornness as inflexible as the wood he was trying to piece together. You sighed, knowing that for all the reasons you adored Hamzah, his reading comprehension skills were not among them. “It says base of the bed. The head is a different section underneath. Your eyes must be skipping the important parts.”

“Probably,” he admitted, pulling himself up from the floor, stretching like a cat, his strong muscles flexing under the strain. “Why don’t you just make the bed?”

“Because I’m the girl,” you shot back, a smug smile creeping onto your face as he stepped closer, wrapping his arms around your lower back. "And besides I've been unpacking stuff." "Like what?" He asked, raising his eyebrows. "Like the alarm clock Mandy and Martin got us!"

“Really?”

“Mhm.”

“Shit like this brings the movement down; everyone’s a feminist until it’s bed-building time.”

You erupted into laughter, unable to contain yourself. “Did you seriously just quote Bo Burnham?”

“Sure did,” he replied, a grin lighting up his face, the corners of his eyes crinkling with mischief.

“You’re stupid,” you said, your heart swelling with affection.

“You’re hot,” he quipped, leaning in for a kiss that sent a spark through the air between you. It was only then that the creeping shadows caught your eye, the sun dipping behind the trees, casting elongated silhouettes that waltzed across your new room like ghosts of all the moments yet to come. “Shit, we’ll get to the kissing later—we should probably focus on making this bed.”

“Why? Got some plans for us on it?” he teased, tilting his head, curls falling in lazy cascades as he lowered his gaze to yours, his eyes glimmering with playful mischief.

“Yes, and those plans consist of my mandatory eight hours of sleep,” you replied, laughter bubbling up as you nudged him away playfully. “Let’s finish this bed.”

What was supposed to be a straightforward task devolved into a chaotic four-hour odyssey of flipping through the instruction manual and squabbling over every little detail. You found yourself checking on Red and Blue and, perhaps most challengingly, fighting the urge to kiss your boyfriend senseless, especially when he adopted that commanding tone while explaining the simplest of instructions. The way his muscles flexed as he pieced everything together was a distraction you could hardly shake off, like trying to focus while standing in front of a volcano ready to erupt.

But eventually, you triumphed. “Well, we did it,” you declared, surveying the finished bed with a rush of accomplishment, the chaos of the day melting into a sense of belonging.

“I dunno?” he replied, the rhetorical lilt of his voice betraying the playful smirk that danced on his lips. He knew exactly what was simmering beneath the surface; your fidgety energy gave you away, your eyes glued to him as he had assembled the bed like a magician unveiling his greatest trick. “What’d you have in mind earlier?”

“Continuing our kiss, maybe? Something more… I dunno,” you said, a mischievous grin spreading across your face as you mimicked his nonchalance, your tone dripping with playful defiance.

His body inched closer, an electric tension crackling in the air, and in one fluid motion, he scooped you up and plopped you onto the bed, laughter bubbling up between you like effervescent champagne. He leaned in, kissing the crook of your neck, and you giggled softly, the warmth of the moment enveloping you. It was sweet, a bubble of intimacy growing as you both leaned into the heat of the moment, getting hot and bothered in that perfect little world of your own.

And then it happened—the moment was ruptured by a creak, followed by a crack. Suddenly, all at once the bed collapsed in on itself, its stilts surrendering to the weight of your laughter and unexpected enthusiasm.

“What the hell?!” Hamzah exclaimed before you both burst of laughter mingling with the chaos as you stared at the tumbled remains of what was supposed to be your bed was underneath you both. “I can’t believe we broke the bed.” He grumbled, his voice a mix of irritation as well as amusement. Any traces of horniness had long dissipated due to the absurdity of the situation. “Wouldn’t be the first time we’ve done it.” You smirked. “True. But damn this has got to be a bad omen or some shit. Cock-blocking ass bed.” You couldn’t help but let out another laugh at that. “Look Hamzah, nothing is a bad omen with you.” You whispered as you pulled his head towards you as you gave him a deep kiss. “I know, but I should probably leave a review on it or something you know?” “Or maybe, Hamzah, you should actually try to read instructions properly.” 

“Maybe.” “I’m right.”

Especially when sunlight filtered in through the blinds, it’s rays horizontally scattered through the room. Behind your body lay half your heart. Your partner, Hamzah. If you had told yourself from a couple months prior to the moment you were in that you’d have him just like this - soaking up your body in the early mornings, post a three hour marathon of love making, filling your shared apartment with ungodly moans - you would’ve scoffed. You were happy with the outcome of though, ultimately. It was nice. He was nice and he thought you were better of nice. Sometimes you felt a guilty that you could never match the love he had for you - but he assured you it wasn’t physically possible for someone to love as much as he loved you.

You could feel him move. His movements were slow and steady as he began to snake his arms under your shirt. He waited , gingerly, for an indication of discomfort from your end - to which there was none - before placing his hand around your boob. You giggled. You always admired how much he always needed you. Needed to hold you, needed to please you, needed to make you laugh - the list could go on endlessly.

“You really love my tits hmm?” You muttered, straining to turn your head over your shoulder to look at the boy. His skin was honeyed by the sunlight as his brown eyes bore lovingly into yours, as if looking past your flesh and into your soul and liking what he found. “Mhm.” He groaned in response.

“‘Mhm’ is all you have to say? Last night you were telling me about how you wanted to suck-” “I know what I said.” He interjected, as he nuzzled into your neck. His curls tickled your collarbone in a way you liked. “-the life out of them.” You finished, a smug smile blossoming on your features. “I’d still suck them.” “Fucking baby.” You giggled softly. “Goo goo gaga.” He sleepily joked, as he began to knead gently at your breasts.

You couldn’t help but laugh at the dumb joke as well simultaneously moan at the sensation which accidentally caused you to buck  backwards into his crotch. “Like that?” He asked you, his voice still husky. You couldn’t tell if it was from the typical voice deepening that men usually possessed in the morning or if his voice was hoarse from moaning your name and praise from hours on end. Either way you didn’t care and just wanted to continue to hear his voice. “I like you.” You replied. “I like you too.” “Ooh, someone has a crush.” You teased him. “Sure do.” He replied back.

The room felt into silence, except for the rythmic sound of Hamzah’s hand rolling your flesh, your soft but heavy breaths, the soft sound of the early birds and the cute, yet chaotic, meows of Red and Blue, presumably, play fighting. 

You liked the way he was touching you, and the way his left hand had gone from under your body to cup your left breast whilst his other hand had move to your thigh, rubbing circles. The sensation was soothing, causing you to lull back into a gentle sleep, waking up to him pressing soft kisses into your neck, about 10 minutes (according to the little analog clock that Mandy and Martin had gifted for your house warming) later.

“You up now sleepyhead?” He asked you. “Mhm, I fell asleep because the massage was nice.” You whispered. “This feel nice?” He asked you, through a mess of kisses as he began to circle your aerola and tit. This caused you, to, once again, involuntarily buck backwards. “Fuck,” you exclaimed. “That feels good.” “You feel good.” he admitted. You didn’t fully register what he meant until you felt his tented desire pressed against your thigh as you moved backwards again. You could feel him falter due to embarrassment. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to get like this. Having you just pressed like this just gets me going…” he whispered. 

“I’m glad I can get you all hot and bothered just from a cuddle session in which I was half asleep.” You assured him, snaking your own hand in his, giving it a gentle squeeze. “I know, but I just want you to know we don’t have to do anything with it. Especially after last night.” 

“…or we can.” You offered. “Baby, no. Last night was a lot. I was a lot on you, and to be honest you genuinely looked like you were going to crumble after your third orgasm and you’re still very obviously burnt out from that. I’m just happy to have you like this, in my arms.”

“Wow Mr Al-Emad turning down sex? Ladies and gentlemen we’ve truly seen it all!” You giggled, voice still groggy with the yearning for sleep. However the small wet patch blooming in your lace panties begged to counteract that yearning.

“Mhm, not even. I just don’t want to push you anymore than I did yesterday.” He whispered against your nape of your neck, his voice sending a little shockwave of desire throughout your body. You melted from the tone of sincerity and care in his voice. “We can still go. Maybe just a bit gentler?” You offerred. “Think about it…” and with that you began to grind against him, and tossed your head back against his shoulder. “Fuck.” he blurted, your actions clouding any prior inhibitions he had. He began to discard of his boxers and thanks to your habit of sleeping pantless, all he had to do was shift your little lace panty to the side. “Shit I think we’re out of condoms.” “I’m on birth control silly.” “I know but-” you gave his hand another squeeze of reassurance. “It’s fine. I want you now, like this.”

He nodded and inserted himself into you. He stayed there for a while, just wanting to enjoy how your pussy felt around his dick without the pressuring urgency to move.

“Fuck-” He blurted. “Fuckfuckfuck. You feel so good. Fuck you always feel good.” You could only breathily laugh in response. “It isn’t funny how someone can look, be and feel so perfect holy shit.” He began to fondle with your breasts again eliciting a string of curses from you as a response. “Baby I need you to move.” You whined desperately. He didn’t need you to repeat that order and began going in and out of you. “You always feel so good for me always.” He moaned.

“Always so good. Always so good f’me, always so ready for my cock, even if it’s at fucking crack dawn in the morning. Such a little slut, just for me.” One thing Hamzah loved about your relationship was the juxtaposition of character that he could only see. How everyone saw you as you as this innocent, cherubic person - but for him? You were this whiny little whore always begging for him. “Say it. Say how much you want this baby.” “I want this so bad.” You muttered, barely audibly between your whimpers . E

verything about seeing you like this and having you like this and his increased libido in the morning caused his body to begin to halt and shudder with the oncoming of his orgasms. His body stuttered, as the last remnants of his seed spilled into you. “That was nice.” You said, placing your hand behind your head to reach for his curls to play with them. “Not finished yet -  not until you’ve finished.” He said, as he tried to catch his breath post orgasm. 

“Baby it’s fi-” your reassurance was cut off by the sudden movement of him getting up and turning you from your side to being on your back. He dove under your the tail end of your duvet and began pressing kissing up your legs. You could feel like him lick long trails against your leg, taking in the wet mixture of your desire and his seed which was spilling down from your pussy. “Taste so good f’me.” He rasped, planting more kisses against your vanilla scented flesh. He eventually made it to the apple of his eye. Your pussy, which weeped for his touch.  He licked a long stripe against it which caused your breath to hitch and your legs to hike. Through the darkness of the blanket, his hand fumbled trying to find yours. He eventually found it and intertwined his hands with yours. For him smaller moments of intimacy, like hand holding or forehead kissing, really were the moments he treasured most. It reminded him that you weren’t just some girl he was hooking up with but you were his and he was yours. 

His nose bridge bumped against your wet, puffy clit causing you to thrash, overcome with pleasure. It felt as if you weren’t in your body anymore but rather of a vessel of pleasure to which you never wanted to depart from. He eventually substituted his pussy eating with pushing in two of his fingers inside of your aching pussy. “Fuck, the way you clench around me baby,” he said in a dazed, almost entranced tone. “So fucking soaked for me.” He begins to move his fingers back and forth. The slick of your desire lubricating his prodding fingers. “So fucking wet just for me.” “Just for you.” You manage to muster as a response through your desperate pleas.

Hamzah unclasps his hand for yours and places it over your clit, rubbing against it as he continues to curl his fingers, on his other hand, inside of you.

A rush of ecstasy, a fluttering inside of you and a final oozing of desire and he’s done it - he’s made you cum for the fourth time. He climbs up from under the blanket to meet your face. “You good?” He asks you, with the most shit (or rather pussy) eating grin. You shove his face away from you playfully. “Fuck you. It should be criminal to make me feel that good.”

“Fine! Arrest me, as long as we can arrange a conjugal visit or some shit.” He retorted back to you, his body collapsing next to you. And, in his unconscious desire to always touch you,  began to prod at different parts of your body. Your upper arm, your collarbone, your cheek. Anything.

“So even in jail you would wanna fuck me.” “Pretty much.” “Horndog.” “Says the one who released herself from sleep’s grip to get fucked.” You kicked his leg playfully. “Shut up, you’re making me out to be a slut.” “You are one I fear.” he said playfully, however taking a small pause of silence to scan your features for any discomfort at his words. He was never really a fan of calling you words like slut or whore outside of the context of sex. In fact he hated it. You were more akin to the love of his life. You on the other hand, didn’t really mind - you knew that he didn’t view you as one. 

“Well the jury’s out and decided that I’m a slut!” You giggled, playfully shrugging. “You’re not just a slut.” “Oh really?” “You’re also going to be my future wife one day.”

Not the firing from your part-time job last week (fuck Susanne and her fake smiles, her endless lectures about “professionalism” while she left you to deal with Karen after Karen). Not the exam you bombed, the one you’d stayed up three nights in a row trying to prepare for, only for the questions to feel like a foreign language. Not the missed assignment deadline, the one that meant an automatic zero, even after you begged your professor for an extension.

No, it was the papercut.

A single, thin line of red sliced across your finger as you rifled through the stack of unpaid bills on the counter. That tiny sting, sharp and mean, was all it took to rip the last fraying thread of your composure. And now here you were, slamming cabinets in search of a band-aid, tears stinging your eyes, feeling every bit as fragile as that stupid piece of paper.

Pathetic, you thought, the tissue pressed against your finger already dark with blood. Your chest felt tight, like a balloon stretched too far. “Fuck,” you whispered, slamming another drawer shut. No band-aids. No reprieve. Just you, the sting in your finger, and the weight of every mistake, every failure, every goddamn thing piling onto your back.

Hamzah’s laughter echoed faintly from the other end of the apartment, where he was recording one of his videos. His voice, so light and carefree, felt like a slap in the face. You tried to tiptoe around his filming room, unwilling to add another burden to his plate, but your quiet sobs must have carried through the thin walls.

You barely heard the creak of the door opening behind you as you found yourself sunken to your bedroom’s floor.

“Uh… hey, baby?” His voice wavered slightly, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to interrupt. The sound of it made your shoulders tense. You didn’t look up. Couldn’t.

Hamzah hesitated in the doorway, and for a moment, you thought he might leave. But then he shuffled closer, his footsteps hesitant and uneven, like he was second-guessing every step.

“Are you, uh… I mean, do you… need anything?” he asked, crouching awkwardly beside you. His hand hovered near your arm for a moment before retreating, like he couldn’t decide if he should touch you or not.

“I’m fine,” you muttered, though the crack in your voice betrayed you.

“You’re crying, Y/N. That doesn’t scream ‘fine.’” His words were gentle, but they hit harder than anything he could’ve shouted. He didn’t look away, like he was too scared that if he did, you might vanish into the mess of your emotions. “Please, baby. Let me in. I need you to let me in so we can talk this out.”

“I am talking,” you choked out, your voice betraying you with each word.

“No, you’re not,” he insisted, a tiny crack in his voice. His brow furrowed, his gaze soft but desperate. “I’m not used to seeing you like this. Let me in, please. I’m right here. I won’t leave.”

You didn’t know what to do with his words. You felt like you were drowning, but somehow, you couldn’t stop yourself from letting him see you. You swallowed hard, your throat tight.

“It’s just everything,” you whispered, your voice barely a breath. “It’s all falling apart. I don’t even know how to keep going.”

“Baby, I know,” Hamzah’s voice was barely audible, his hand hovering near yours, but not quite touching. “Everything can feel so heavy sometimes, like it’s crushing you from the inside out.” His voice faltered as if he was struggling to find words that wouldn’t feel like a lie. “But you’re not failing. You’re still here.”

You couldn’t even respond to that. You couldn’t even find it in yourself to do the thing you always did—brush it off with a sharp joke. You just couldn’t.

Hamzah exhaled a breath, his face tightening with something you couldn’t read. He reached out slowly, like he wasn’t sure you wanted his touch, but you needed it, even if you couldn’t say it. He tucked a piece of hair behind your ear, his fingers trembling slightly. “Everything feels wrong,” you muttered, the ache in your chest so deep you weren’t sure how you could still stand. “Everything’s falling apart. Nothing I do feels right.”

Hamzah’s hand finally found yours, his fingers warm against yours. “I know. I know it feels like everything’s slipping through your fingers. I’ve been there.” His voice cracked, just a little, and you caught the hint of vulnerability. “But, Y/N, I see you. I see you in everything you’re doing. Even when you don’t see it yourself.”

You shook your head, tears slipping down your cheeks. “I’m not even worth seeing.”

“Stop,” Hamzah said, his voice firm, but there was still that awkwardness in his tone, like he didn’t know how to make the words fit perfectly. “You are worth seeing. You’re so much more than all the shit that’s weighing you down right now.”

You could feel his words, even if you didn’t believe them. You could feel his care, his genuine want to help, but it felt like too much. It was suffocating, and you just wanted to curl up and disappear. “You don’t get it,” you muttered bitterly, your voice hollow. “You don’t know what it’s like to… to keep fucking shit up. To feel like you’re stuck, and nothing you do ever matters.”

“I do,” Hamzah said, and his voice cracked in a way that made you look up at him. His brown eyes were wet, and for a moment, you saw something break in him that made your chest ache. “I really do.”

You shook your head, closing your eyes to block out the tenderness in his face. “I failed an exam that… that’s going to ruin everything, Hamzah. And I lost my job. I can’t even keep a job right.” Your words came out in a broken rush, like they were clawing their way out of you.

His voice shook when he spoke again. “You’re not a failure, Y/N. I know you feel like you’re falling apart, but you’re not. You’re not broken.”

“Then why the fuck does it feel like I am?” The words came out before you could stop them, and suddenly everything felt louder—your breathing, your heartbeat, your thoughts. Like they were too much, too loud for your own mind to handle.

Hamzah didn’t have an answer. Instead, he just moved closer and the way he looked at you, like he could see right through the cracks in your soul, made you feel like you were being swallowed whole. His hand finally found yours, but it was gentle, tentative, like he wasn’t sure if he should hold on or let go. “Because it hurts,” he whispered. “I know. But you’re not failing. You’re not.” You let out a hollow laugh, one without joy, just despair.  “Hamzah,” you whispered, trying to breathe through the ache, “I don’t know how to keep doing this.”

He took a slow breath, his voice soft but sure. “You’re more than that one exam, okay? You’re more than the things you think are failures. And I know it feels like the end of the world, but it’s not. I swear.”

“You don’t know how this feels,” you muttered, pulling your knees to your chest, trying to make yourself smaller. “You’ve got your shit together. You always have. You don’t know what it’s like to feel like a complete failure.”

There was silence between you two, thick and suffocating. Then, finally, Hamzah spoke again, his voice barely above a whisper. “You think I’ve got it all together?” He let out a dry chuckle, a bitter edge to it. “You have no idea. I dropped out of college, Y/N. I didn’t know what the hell I was doing with my life. And even now, I’m not sure I do.” He paused, his fingers gently squeezing yours. “But you? You’re smart. You’re strong. And you’re doing the best you can, even when it feels like it’s not enough.”

You didn’t know what to say to that, but you could feel the shift in the air, the way his words tried to carve out space for something more. Something that wasn’t just pain. Something that could be better. Maybe not now, maybe not today—but someday.

“Hamzah,” you said softly, your voice breaking again, “I’m so tired.”

“I know, baby,” he whispered, his thumb brushing away the last of your tears. “I know.”

“I feel like a fucking loser,” you choked out. “You know I don’t believe that, right?” Hamzah’s voice was low. “But it feels like the end of me,” you whispered, almost pleading. “Like I’m falling into this hole and I don’t know how to stop it.”

Hamzah’s expression softened, his hand trembling slightly as he brushed a tear from your cheek. “You’re not alone in this. I’m here. I’m always here. And you don’t have to be okay right now. But we’ll figure it out. Together. We can find you another job, message your teacher to maybe get you to retake. We’ll figure this out.” You nodded against his chest. A lapse of silence followed. Hamzah scratched the back of his neck, clearly unsure what to say next. “Okay, uh… well, I brought you something because I guessed you got a papercut when I heard you walking around.” He reached into his hoodie pocket and pulled out a pack of Hello Kitty band-aids, the ones you’d bought as a joke months ago. He held them out to you, his expression halfway between sheepish and hopeful. “They’re not, like, super practical, but, uh, you know… cute, right?” Despite yourself, a small, wet laugh escaped your throat. “Hamzah…”

“What? They’re effective! They stick to your skin and everything,” he said, his voice lilting into an overly casual tone, like he was trying to downplay the effort it had taken to dig them out of the cluttered bathroom drawer.  “You are enough.” He whispered, as he planted a band-aid over your cut. “Okay?” You closed your eyes, letting his words wash over you like a gentle current, pulling you out of the darkness, if only for a moment. You didn’t know if you believed him. You didn’t know if you could believe him. You had no reply, just the weight of everything. You stared at the band-aid on your, the stupid Hello Kitty faces grinning up at you. What did it mean? Was this all you were? A band-aid, something to cover up the mess? Something to fix? No. You didn’t need a band-aid. You needed everything to stop feeling like this. “I don’t feel like I’m enough,” you whispered, so softly it was barely there.

“Y/N,” Hamzah said, his voice thick with emotion, as he pulled you into an embrace. “You are more than enough.”