The warning
SE’AD
The message remained on the screen long after the sender had disappeared.
Is there something you’re not telling me?
And his answer—
Yes.
Se’ad reread it.
Once.
Twice.
Then a third time.
Her thumb hovered over the keyboard.
There were a hundred questions she could ask.
What is it?
Who sent that message?
Why would someone tell me to stay away from you?
What happened before me?
Instead, only one sentence came to mind.
Se’ad: What are you protecting me from?
The typing indicator appeared almost immediately.
Then vanished.
It returned.
Vanished again.
Finally:
Nass💵: Not tonight.
Her eyebrows pulled together.
Se’ad: That’s not an answer.
Nass💵: I know.
Se’ad: Then when?
A longer pause.
Nass💵: When I can tell you everything without making you look at me differently.
Her chest tightened.
That wasn’t the answer she expected.
She stared at the message, trying to understand what kind of secret could make a person afraid of being looked at differently.
Se’ad: Do you think I’d judge you?
Three dots.
Then:
Nass💵: I don’t know.
Her heart sank slightly.
She wanted to reassure him.
To tell him that whatever it was, she would listen.
But something stopped her.
Maybe because, deep down, she knew there were things about herself she hadn’t told him either.
Things that still hurt.
Things she wasn’t ready to place into someone else’s hands.
So instead, she typed:
Se’ad: Okay.
His response came quickly.
Nass💵: That’s it?
She smiled faintly.
Se’ad: What do you want me to say?
Nass💵: I don’t know.
Se’ad: Then sleep.
Nass💵: Bossy.
Se’ad: Goodnight, Sugar.
There was a pause.
Then:
Nass💵: Goodnight, my girl.
Her heart skipped.
She stared at those three words.
My girl.
A ridiculous smile appeared on her face.
She placed the phone against her chest.
Then immediately frowned at herself.
“Get a grip, Se’ad.”
But the smile refused to leave.
The next morning began like nothing had happened.
Sunlight poured through the curtains.
The smell of fried eggs and freshly brewed tea drifted upstairs.
Somewhere downstairs, Abdullah and Labeeb were arguing.
“Abdullah! Give it back!”
“I didn’t take it!”
“You did!”
“Wallahi, I didn’t!”
“You’re lying!”
Se’ad laughed before she had even reached the staircase.
Some things never changed.
Downstairs, Mama stood in the kitchen wearing a simple kaftan, her scarf loosely wrapped around her head as she supervised breakfast.
“Se’ad, ki zo ki taimaka min.”
“Coming, Mama.”
She entered the kitchen.
Mama looked at her.
Then smiled.
“Kin yi kyau yau.”
“Thank you.”
“Me ya sa kike murmushi haka?”
Se’ad froze.
“I’m not smiling.”
Mama raised an eyebrow.
“Hmm.”
“Wallahi.”
“Allah ya kyauta.”
Se’ad laughed.
Mama shook her head and returned to what she was doing.
For a few minutes, there was nothing mysterious.
No Nasib.
No warning.
No unanswered questions.
Just home.
And perhaps that was exactly what Se’ad needed.
TWO WEEKS LATER
Life became busy again.
University matters had begun creeping back into her thoughts.
There were registration issues to sort out.
Notes to organize.
Friends calling.
Lecturers sending information into WhatsApp groups.
Hauwa was already complaining about returning to school.
“I swear, I’m not ready.”
Se’ad looked at her.
“You say that every semester.”
“And every semester I am right.”
“You’re dramatic.”
“You’re jealous because I know how to enjoy life.”
Se’ad laughed.
“Enjoy what? Sleeping through lectures?”
“It’s called self-care.”
“It’s called laziness.”
Hauwa threw a pillow at her.
The afternoon ended with both sisters heading out for a little shopping.
Nothing extravagant.
Just two sisters wandering through stores, arguing about clothes, perfumes and shoes while Hauwa somehow managed to greet at least seven people within twenty minutes.
“Do you know everybody in Gombe?” Se’ad asked.
“No.”
“You’ve greeted almost everyone we’ve passed.”
“Connections, baby.”
Se’ad rolled her eyes.
Hauwa laughed.
For a while, life felt wonderfully ordinary.
And Se’ad needed that.
Because healing wasn’t always dramatic.
Sometimes healing was laughing with your sister over something stupid.
Sometimes it was eating Mama’s food until you couldn’t breathe.
Sometimes it was sleeping without checking your phone every five minutes.
Sometimes it was realizing that an old wound could still exist without controlling your entire day.
She wasn’t completely healed.
But perhaps she didn’t have to be.
Perhaps healing was simply learning how to live while the scars were still tender.
That evening, after Isha’i, Se’ad returned to her room.
Her phone lit up.
Nass💵 sent a snap.
She opened it.
A photograph of a dark road illuminated by streetlights.
Nothing special.
No face.
No explanation.
Just:
Long day.
She smiled.
Se’ad: Everything okay?
A few minutes passed.
Nass💵: Yeah.
Then:
Nass💵: Just tired.
She hesitated.
Se’ad: Rest then.
Nass💵: You sound like my mother.
She laughed.
Se’ad: Maybe she has good advice.
Nass💵: She does.
Then another message:
Nass💵: But I prefer yours.
Her heart gave a small flutter.
She smiled at the screen.
Se’ad: You’re becoming too sweet.
Nass💵: Don’t get used to it.
Se’ad: Too late.
No response.
A minute passed.
Then two.
Five.
She put her phone aside.
And for once, she didn’t sit there waiting.
She opened her Pharmacology notes instead.
Because somewhere between heartbreak, healing and mystery, Se’ad was slowly learning something important:
Her life could not revolve around whoever happened to hold her heart.
She had dreams of her own.
A career.
A business.
A family someday.
A life.
And whatever Nasib Wali eventually became in that life…
he would have to meet Se’ad, not the broken version of her that Ridhwan had left behind.
NASIB
Across the city, Nasib sat alone.
The room was dim.
His phone lay beside him.
The conversation with Se’ad was still open.
He scrolled upward.
Their first conversation.
The jokes.
The late-night calls.
The first time she called him gentleman.
The first time she called him Sugar.
His lips curved.
Then the smile slowly disappeared.
A second conversation sat underneath theirs.
One he hadn’t shown her.
One he had hoped she would never see.
He opened it.
There was only one message.
You need to tell her before somebody else does.
Nasib locked his phone.
He leaned back.
Closed his eyes.
For the first time, the confident man behind Nass💵 looked genuinely uncertain.
Because there was one thing he hadn’t told Se’ad.
The warning she received hadn’t come from a stranger.
Not really.
And if she ever discovered who had sent it…
everything would change.