Chapter 4 THE SILENCE BETWEEN HEARTBEATS
Morning light crept slowly into the small room, soft and pale like it feared disturbing anything inside. Aliyah woke with that same familiar heaviness in her chest — not panic, not sadness, but that strange hollow ache that sat somewhere between both. She lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling, feeling every quiet second pass like it was counting her back into a world she never asked to return to. Sleep had been no refuge; it felt like she carried her nightmares with her, awake or not.
Her aunt’s house smelled faintly of disinfectant and lavender, a combination that should’ve felt comforting but only reminded her of hospitals and rooms where bad news lived. The house was never loud, never chaotic — just painfully, intentionally silent. Even the walls seemed to listen.
She dragged herself out of bed and made her way to the mirror, reluctantly. Her reflection looked the same as always — calm, composed, unreadable, but her eyes betrayed her. They always did. Not red, not swollen… just tired in a way makeup could never disguise. She touched the glass, fingertips cold, as if grounding herself to proof she was still real.
Downstairs, she heard cups clinking and soft footsteps — her aunt, Ruth, moving through her rigid morning routine. Every morning was the same: kettle first, curtains second, mail stacked third, small talk optional. It was the kind of routine someone built when life had already thrown too many unpredictable storms at them.
Aliyah descended the stairs slowly, not wanting to draw attention to herself, but Ruth turned at the exact moment she reached the bottom step, as if she’d been waiting.
“You didn’t sleep well,” Ruth said quietly. Not a question — an observation.
Aliyah tried to smile but it fell halfway. “It’s okay. I’ll be fine.”
Ruth didn’t push, never did. She placed a cup of tea on the table and gestured for her to sit. “You have the interview today. You should eat something first.”
Aliyah’s stomach tightened. She had almost forgotten — almost. Another attempt at rebuilding, another opportunity she didn’t know if she deserved or was equipped for. “Right,” she whispered, forcing air into her lungs.
They sat across from each other, steam rising between them like a veil. For a long moment, neither spoke. They rarely did, but not because there was nothing to say — more because neither of them knew how to say what mattered without breaking something.
Finally, Ruth exhaled. “You don’t have to force anything you’re not ready for.”
Aliyah looked up, her voice barely above a whisper. “But what if I never feel ready? What if I keep waiting and life goes on without me?”
Ruth’s expression softened, though sadness lingered beneath it. “Then we take it slowly. Healing isn’t a race. No one is timing you.”
Aliyah wanted to believe that. She wanted to cling to it like a lifeline, but something inside her felt like she owed the world a version of herself she didn’t yet know how to become. She finished half her tea, more than usual, and stood. “I should get ready.”
Ruth nodded, letting her leave without another word. Some people yelled love, others whispered it — Ruth lived it.
Upstairs, Aliyah dressed carefully, choosing a muted cream blouse and black trousers, hair pulled back neatly, minimal makeup. She didn’t want to stand out; she only wanted to appear stable, functional… normal. She didn’t know who she was trying to convince more — herself, or everyone else.
The clinic wasn’t far — a small private mental wellness center just outside town, quiet and discreet. She’d been told it was not only a workplace but a community, a place where people understood brokenness from the inside out. That was the only reason she hadn’t declined the offer immediately.
Inside the waiting area, she kept her hands clasped tightly, grounding herself like she’d practiced. When her name was called, she followed the receptionist down a narrow hallway lined with soft watercolor paintings — nothing sharp, nothing dark, nothing dramatic. Everything was designed to soothe.
She entered a small office where a woman in her late 30s sat behind a wooden desk, kind eyes meeting hers before words did.
“Aliyah, welcome. I’m Dr. Eyra.” Her voice was calm — not slow, not forced, just genuinely calm. “I’m glad you made it.”
Something about the phrasing struck her deeply. Glad you made it. Not glad you came, not thank you for attending, but glad you made it — as if arriving was an achievement, not a requirement.
They talked — slowly, carefully, honestly without needing to expose wounds faster than they could bleed. Dr. Eyra asked thoughtful, humane questions, the kind that weren’t about qualifications alone but emotional alignment, empathy, resilience, and perspective.
When it was over, Aliyah walked out uncertain whether she had succeeded or failed, but for the first time in a long time, she wasn’t terrified of not knowing.
Outside, the wind was cool. Leaves brushed across the pavement like scattered thoughts returning home. She closed her eyes for a moment and inhaled deeply, feeling something she hadn’t felt in months — not happiness, not relief… just a flicker of maybe.
And for her, maybe was almost a miracle.
She began walking back home slowly, aware of every sound, every breath, every heartbeat — realizing that even silence had a rhythm if she listened closely enough.
Her story wasn’t fixed, healed, or concluded.
But it had moved.
Even if only one small step.
