With his heart broken and body weary, Asharab lies unconscious outside the building, his soul quietly drowning in sorrow. But as fate would have it, a flicker of hope still lingers—Habiba sees him through the window. Will her heart awaken before it's too late? As emotions collide and survival grows harder, a new chapter begins... one filled with regret, realization, and redemption.
After the emotional storm with Habiba, Asharab collapsed just outside the building, unconscious and heartbroken. From the window, Habiba spotted him lying motionless, and panic gripped her heart. She rushed to alert the family, who brought him back inside and cared for him. Over the next few days, he rested, recovering from both his leg injury and emotional wounds. But peace didn't last—food began to run out, and desperation crept in. Just as Asharab's strength returned, his best friend's old wound began to sting, raising fears it might be from a zombie. Thankfully, it was only superficial. Yet the greatest challenge now loomed: starvation. And once again, it was Asharab who stood up, ready to face the danger outside to bring back hope—no matter what it cost him.
As Asharab lay unconscious on the bed, his breaths shallow and face pale, the atmosphere in the room was thick with worry and unspoken guilt. His body was weak—worn from the battles he had fought, the wounds he had suffered, and the heartbreak he silently carried. Everyone in the family had crowded around at first, praying he would wake, whispering his name with hope stitched into every syllable. But as the hours passed and no response came, one by one they filtered out of the room, leaving only two figures behind—his best friend and Habiba.
The silence in the room was deafening. Asharab's best friend stood at the edge of the bed, fists clenched, his face a storm of anger and sorrow. He turned slowly toward Habiba, his voice trembling, filled with pain and rage as he spoke.
"Get out from here," he said, barely managing to keep his voice steady. "You don't deserve a boy like him."
His voice cracked on the last word, and a single tear broke free, trailing down his cheek. His heart was heavy—not just with fear for Asharab's life, but with the weight of everything he had witnessed: the sacrifices, the silent love, and the brutal rejection that Asharab had endured.
Habiba remained silent at first, her eyes cast to the floor. Guilt painted her expression in muted shades of regret. After a long pause, her voice came, soft and heavy. "Yes... you're right," she admitted. "I've hurt him. I couldn't see his care... his feelings... his possessiveness. I was blind to it all."
But even then, she didn't say a word about Asharab's love for her, nor whether she loved him back. That silence hung in the air like a sharp blade—cutting deeper than any word could.
His best friend's voice rose again, sharper this time, layered with years of bottled-up pain. "You don't care about him. You just care about surviving. That's all you've ever cared about. Not long ago, he risked his entire life for you. He stood between you and death so many times, even before all this happened. Do you even remember? When he tried so hard to get close to you—to understand you—to make you feel safe and loved—but you... you always pushed him away."
The room fell into silence again, broken only by the faint sound of Asharab breathing.
And then, suddenly, his body began to tremble—faint, at first, like a whisper from the past, then stronger, like the waves of emotion surging through his unconscious mind. His hand flinched. His brows furrowed.
Memories surged inside his broken mind.
He remembered how he fought off a horde alone, his katana soaked in the blood of the undead, just to keep her safe. How he got wounded shielding her body with his. How he dragged himself through blood and pain just to bring her home. How he had smiled even while bleeding—because she was alive. He remembered her face when she stood in front of him, saying coldly, "I never loved you. I just thought of you as a friend."
The words echoed in his skull, sharp and brutal.
He remembered how he saved his best friend—racing to open the door, choosing loyalty over fear. How he defied his family's pleas to let his friend in. How he watched as a zombie lunged from above and nearly took everything away—and how he had fought tooth and nail to keep his people together.
And yet... here he was.
Broken.
Rejected.
Unloved.
Asharab's body trembled more violently now, and a soft groan escaped his lips.
His best friend rushed forward. "He's waking up! Asharab—!"
But behind that groan, behind those flickering eyelids, was a soul spiraling in a storm of pain—battling memories of all he had given, and the silence that was returned.
Asharab's body continued to shake, his breathing shallow and uneven, as though the weight of everything he had endured was finally crushing him from within. He still hadn't opened his eyes—his unconscious mind drowning in memories, in pain, in rejection that seeped deep into the marrow of his bones.
His best friend sat beside him, eyes locked on Asharab's pale face, silently pleading for his condition to improve. But how could anything be okay now? How could he mend what was broken when every sacrifice Asharab made had been turned away, every unspoken emotion rejected as if it meant nothing?
It wasn't just a memory running through Asharab's mind anymore—it was a storm, surging through his chest, flooding his veins, weighing down his body. Every beat of his heart was a scream of everything he had lost, everything he had given... for her.
His best friend stood, unable to watch any longer. He turned to Habiba, his voice sharp and cracking with fury. "Go," he said bitterly, pointing toward the door. "Get the hell out. He doesn't deserve this pain. He doesn't deserve you."
But just as she turned to leave, Asharab's lips parted. A whisper, barely audible, escaped.
"Let her… sit beside me."
Everyone froze.
The boy on the bed—the warrior who had fought through fire and blood for them—was awake. His eyes barely opened, heavy with exhaustion and grief, but his voice carried something stronger than any scream: forgiveness.
"She can do anything to me," he breathed. "But… my heart never let me hate her."
With trembling fingers, he reached out and gently took Habiba's hand. He pulled her closer—not with force, but with the fragile strength of someone who had lost everything except love.
And then… her tears began to fall.
One by one, they dropped silently onto Asharab's bruised arm, each drop heavier than the last—weighted with guilt, with the truth she had denied for too long.
"I'm sorry…" she whispered, her voice barely holding together. "I won't do this again. I swear, I won't."
Asharab's best friend, overwhelmed, stepped forward with his voice breaking. "He loved you more than anything—before the crisis… and even more after. He loved you more than his own life."
There was a pause.
And then, her voice came. Fragile. Honest. Full of release.
"I've realized what you mean to me… Asharab. And now, I have to say it… I love you too. But don't risk your life like that again. Please."
Asharab's lips curved into the faintest, most peaceful smile.
"I always will," he said quietly. "For you… always."
As she grasped his hand tightly, something shifted. A light returned to Asharab's eyes. A warmth spread through his limbs. His breathing steadied, and he sat up—not weak, not broken—but renewed. It was as if her words had brought him back to life, unchained his soul from all the pain he carried.
He stood up slowly, steadier than anyone expected.
No one spoke.
In that moment, it looked like he had never been sick. As if he was simply waiting—not for medicine, not for healing—but for her heart.