Unravelling—that was what Zafira was doing. She was a ball of thread slowly unspooling, and she was afraid nothing but a gaping emptiness would be left at the center of it.🥀
Okay while this illustration is based of We Free The Stars (and the quote is from there) I still wanted to post this today to say happy 5th book birthday to We Hunt The Flame! I'd recently reread it, in preperation to read the 2nd book, and still very much enjoyed the the story and characters!đź–¤
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Hafsah might have hinted the Altair spin-off book on her livestream with HUGENDUBEL last night! She could not say much but said that fans "who know will know", hinting about the plenty of fans who have been asking for an Altair Al-Badawi book for months.
A few days ago she has posted about her writing a book about a blonde character. The only blonde character written by her is our man Altair 🥰
summary: "If you spend your whole life waiting for the storm, you'll never enjoy the sunshine." -Morris West
When Michael's release day finally arrives, he isn't too optimistic about his future. The most he's hoping for is a relationship with his daughter and a new path forward. The world, however, has bigger plans for him after he meets a timid, yet lovely, children's book illustrator who has more in common with him than it seems.
warnings:Â swearing, emotional and physical abuse (very brief descriptions here but these will be recurring themes in this story), descriptions of prison, descriptions of family loss
a/n: Ahhhh! My first Mikey story because I FINALLY had inspiration. I am way too excited about this WIP so I really hope this lil tidbit gets y'all intrigued! The general vibes will be fluff and hurt/comfort because Mikey deserves to be comforted. I hope you all enjoy!
w/c: ~900
There was something comforting about the rain. Peaceful and cleansing. Water vapor rising unburdened by the impurities of the ground to the heavens and falling back again like a gift, washing away the sins below with every splattering drop.Â
When she was a child, the other girls bemoaned their hometown’s climate and constant precipitation. “Rain brings noise, and floods, and mud, and worms!” They’d lament to her after every storm. She never knew how to tell them that none of those consequences bothered her.Â
Floods were rare, and more a symptom of poor drainage systems than the rain itself. Mud was mostly avoidable, and easy to wash away. Worms were necessary for composting and agriculture, not to mention completely harmless.Â
The noise, well, this she understood. When she was a toddler the loud smashes of thunder and cracks of lightning terrified her too—scaring her under the covers night after night, hands clamped over her ears. But then her life became less quiet, and the storms were less loud by comparison.Â
See when your home is full of screaming, and crying, and the echoing slap of skin hitting skin, thunder is a lot more appealing. It’s easy to focus on. If you try hard enough, you can let it drown out the sounds of your father putting another hole in the drywall, of your mother’s car pulling out of the driveway for the last time—the tires screeching as she leaves you behind. Â
The spattering of rain against the windows became her anchor whenever the universe was kind enough to offer it to her. When her father rages around the house, destroying every trace of his estranged wife, she would lay in bed—eyes glued to the droplets splashing against the glass.Â
On the especially bad nights, she pictured a safe haven: a set of cliffs, composed of worn shale threaded with lush green grass. She could feel the cracked sandstone through the fabric of her pajamas as she sat along the edge. Fat raindrops drenched her scalp, trailing down her face, over her heavy eyelids and exposed collar bone. The ground beneath her grew increasingly damp, each swirl of water wafting the scent of petrichor towards her nose. Somewhere in the distance, waves crested over rocks—the sound getting lost in the patter of the rain.Â
As she aged, she continued to dream of this place. Throughout her tumultuous teenage years and every disagreement with her father. Each and every time she felt lonely after moving to another, sunnier, state for her bachelor’s degree.Â
The image was especially helpful as her relationship with Xavier turned sour. Every insult, threat, and smack fading into the drum of raindrops on rock. She’d lay awake at night, bruises blooming on her limbs, imagining the rain.Â
And it was the steady pounding of droplets on the roof that gave her the courage to pack her things and leave. Trekking across town, over multiple bus routes, until she stood her friendly coworker’s doorstep—soaked to the bone, and more unhurried than she’d been in years, all thanks to the rain.Â
Michael had never minded the rain. A symptom of living in Dublin his whole life, he supposed. When every other day brought a shield of clouds over the sun, you adjusted or you fled to brighter pastures.Â
He sure as hell didn’t mind it when he was in his cell, listening to the jeers and yelling of the other prisoners night after fucking night. The thrum of raindrops against cinderblock were a welcomed static noise.Â
At first, he was grateful for the solitude of his protected status. It gave him time to grieve the loss of his wife, to repent for his hand in her death. His stint in prison meant he was temporarily relieved of the burden placed on his shoulders by the family and it gave him time to grow and reflect.Â
But it also meant losing Anna, grieving and spiraling on his own for eight excruciating years, and being closer to his father than he’d ever wanted to be again. It meant that he’d lost everything that mattered, because he’d been too careless to protect it.Â
He missed freedom. He missed his family, his daughter more than anything. He missed fresh air, and hot water, and home cooked meals. He wanted to feel the wind against his chest, the rain on his face, anything but the stale breath of hundreds of other prisoners and the bite of the cool cement against his back as he drifted off.Â
His release day approached slowly, at first. But after the first few years, the days began to blend together. Seasons rolling by like a strip of film in a projector, bursts of green coming and going as the plants in the sparse outdoor yard sprouted and died. The tunnel was quickly ending, but he wasn’t yet sure if there was light at the end of it.Â
Regardless of what lay waiting for him outside of those gates, he’d regain his autonomy, he’d try to see Anna, he’d try to move forward.Â
This is what the rain sounded like, when it pounded against the foundation of the prison. It sounded like liberty, like family, like achievable peace.Â
If he could feel the rain again, he could keep going. And he would.
[ID: a screenshot of Hafsa Faisal’s Instagram story which has a latte and four pieces of text. The first one says “three days post-deadline on the Secret Project and I’ve finally figured out the book”. The second one says “ there’s nothing quite a satisfying as when all the disparate pieces finally click together, and unveil the twist, but I really wish it hadn’t taken me this long to figure out”. The other two pieces of text refer to the latte, saying “also yes this latte is utter perfection thanks to cayskii” with cayskii referring to her husband, and “a second thank you to him for listening to my nonsensical rambling and helping me figure out the plot”. End ID]
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