I woke up before the sun did.
The house was still, but I could hear it breathing — the creaks in the floorboards, the ticking of the old wall clock down the hall, the faint shifting of fabric from someone rolling over in bed.
I sat up slowly, still in the dress from last night. I hadn't had the energy to change.
My fingers curled around the edge of the bedsheet. I stared down at the velvet box on my nightstand, still unopened, like a trap waiting for me to fall in.
I didn't want to touch it again.
When I finally walked into the kitchen, the air was thick with the scent of fried dough and rosewater. Breakfast had always been the quietest meal of the day. No one was fully awake yet, and for once, I was grateful for the silence.
My mother stood at the stove, her back to me, her hands steady.
"Good morning," she said without turning.
"Morning," I answered.
"There's tea on the table."
I poured a glass. The heat seeped through the cup and into my skin like it was trying to pull me back to life.
"You didn't sleep," she said, still facing the stove.
"No," I admitted.
She didn't reply. She didn't have to.
My sisters trickled in slowly, one by one. Reema sat first, brushing her hair back into a bun.
"You looked pretty last night," she said, tearing a piece of bread and dipping it in honey.
"Thanks."
"He seems nice," Amira offered, eyes on her plate.
"He's thirty-five," I said, voice flat.
Yasmin glanced up from her tea.
"So? Papa was thirty when he married Mama. That's normal."
"He's been divorced. Twice."
"Maybe third time's the charm," Reema said lightly, though even she didn't sound convinced.
I looked at my sisters — five girls raised to believe their future was written in someone else's handwriting.
And I was the only one still trying to find a pen.
After breakfast, the house broke into sections — as it always did.
The boys sprawled across the living room floor watching TV, already loud and laughing. My father's voice boomed occasionally, responding to some news anchor or football player.
The girls returned to their chores — laundry, dishes, scrubbing the windows that were already clean.
I went back to my room.
Closed the door.
And let myself breathe.
There was a knock.
A soft one.
"Come in," I said.
It was Lina, my closest sister in age, the only one who ever seemed to really look at me like she was seeing something I hadn't even figured out myself.
"You okay?" she asked, sitting at the edge of my bed.
"Not really."
"You're not gonna cry, are you?"
I gave her a dry laugh.
"No. Not yet."
She leaned back on her hands.
"You know… if you don't want this… you could say no."
I turned to her.
"Could I?"
"You could try."
"And then what? Get kicked out? Sent to live with Uncle Farid and his wife who hates us?"
She didn't answer. She just looked at me, guilt pressing into the lines around her eyes.
"Do you think Mama wanted this for us?" I asked, voice quiet.
"I think… she didn't know there were other choices."
"And what about us?"
Lina shrugged.
"Maybe we'll be the last ones who have to pretend this is normal."
By noon, the living room was quiet again.
My father had gone out to run errands. My mother was in the garden, trimming the rosemary like it was the only thing she could control.
The box was still on my nightstand.
I picked it up, slowly, reluctantly, as if it might bite.
The ring inside looked older than I remembered — delicate, silver, carved with a tiny blue stone in the center.
It looked like something meant to bind. Not to love.
I closed the box and shoved it back into the drawer.
That night, we had guests again.
Noah wasn't one of them — just a few family friends, some cousins, and their parents.
The men filled the living room. The women hovered in the kitchen. The girls carried trays of tea and cookies, weaving between chairs like trained shadows.
I played my part.
Smiling. Nodding. Serving.
My body moved, but I was somewhere else.
At one point, a woman I barely knew touched my arm gently and smiled.
"You're glowing, Layla," she said. "Are the rumors true?"
I blinked at her.
"What rumors?"
She just laughed and winked, walking away like she hadn't just cracked open my stomach with a few syllables.
That night, my mother came to my room again.
No words this time.
Just sat beside me, quietly, as I folded the edge of my blanket over and over again.
She placed the box back on the nightstand, where it had been before I hid it.
"The Hart family's expecting an answer by Friday," she said softly.
"So soon?"
"These things move fast."
"And if I say no?"
She didn't answer right away.
Instead, she reached for my hand, held it gently, like she used to when I was little and afraid of thunderstorms.
"It's not about what you want, Layla," she said, stroking my knuckles. "It's about what's best for you."
"How do you know what's best for me?"
She looked away. Her eyes shimmered in the low light.
"Because I've lived without choices. I know what happens to girls who say no."
Silence filled the space between us.
She stood up, kissed the top of my head, and whispered again—
"It gets easier once you accept it."