Room 101 — Sunday Morning — 2nd September — 8:00 AM
The morning light was soft — pale gold, filtering through the curtains, touching the walls with warmth.
C was already awake.
She had prayed Fajr before sunrise, her voice soft, her heart steady.
Now she stood in the small kitchenette area near the window, the electric kettle humming, steam rising.
Tea, she thought.
For everyone.
She measured the milk powder.
Added sugar.
Stirred slowly.
The way Ami taught me.
When the tea was ready — hot, sweet, golden — she poured it into cups and carried them to her roommates.
Riya took hers with a sleepy smile.
“You’re an angel, little girl.”
Aminah accepted hers with both hands, her eyes still heavy.
“Thank you, C.”
Yasmin whispered, “JazakAllah.”
Neha nodded, already sipping.
Sophia climbed down from her bunk, took her cup, and sat beside C.
“Here,” she said, handing C an iron.
“For your clothes.
Uni tomorrow.”
C looked at the iron — small, white, nothing like the heavy metal one Ami used at home.
She took it carefully.
“Thank you, Sophia.”
She spent the next hour ironing her clothes — her simple kameez shalwar, her dupatta, her socks.
She hung them neatly in her cupboard, organized by color, by occasion.
Tomorrow, she thought.
My first day of university.
My first class.
My first step toward my dream.
1:00 PM — Zuhr
C prayed.
The room was quiet.
Her roommates were resting, scrolling through phones, talking in soft voices.
But C was on her mat, forehead touching the ground, whispering to her Lord.
Ya Allah, help me.
Guide me.
Let me make my family proud.
When she finished, she folded her mat and placed it carefully in her cupboard.
1:30 PM — The Canteen
The mess hall was crowded.
Girls stood in long lines, trays in hand, voices loud and laughing.
The smell of food filled the air — rice, chicken, fish, vegetables.
Aminah guided C through the line.
“Come, C.
Take fish.
It’s really yummy.”
C looked at the fish.
Steaming.
Flaky.
White.
Her stomach turned.
She looked at Aminah.
Then at the fish.
Then back at Aminah.
Slowly, she reached for her mask and put it on.
Sophia noticed.
“C, you okay?”
C’s voice was small.
“Fish makes me ill.
Back home, when Ami makes fish, Bhai brings me chaat and kabab.
I don’t like fish.”
The girls stared at her.
She doesn’t like fish?
Riya thought.
In California?
Near the ocean?
She smiled.
Brother, she thought, you are in trouble.
Aminah put her arm around C.
“Then no fish.
Come.
Let’s find something else.”
They moved to the halal section — rice, dal, salad, grilled chicken.
C took a small portion.
Rice.
Dal.
Salad.
“Baji,” she said to Aminah, “you eat fish.
Don’t worry about me.”
Aminah shook her head.
“No.
You said it makes you ill.
So no fish.
We eat together.”
They sat at their usual table near the window.
Riya watched C — so small, so simple, so different.
Azhan, she thought, you have no idea what’s coming.
The Seafood Restaurant — 2:00 PM
The restaurant overlooked the ocean.
Glass walls.
White tablecloths.
The smell of salt and grilled fish.
Azhan sat across from Saim, picking at his food.
His best friend — tall, green-eyed, sharp — was watching him with knowing eyes.
Saim sighed dramatically.
“Bestie, I’m really jealous of you.
In this whole universe, no girl is interested in me.
All the girls are interested in you.”
Azhan didn’t look up.
He took a bite of fish.
Chewed.
Swallowed.
“Around us,” Saim continued, “at the next table — three girls.
They’ve been staring at you for ten minutes.”
Azhan didn’t care.
He was thinking about brown eyes.
Saim leaned forward.
“Bestie, Uncle called me last night.”
Azhan’s fork paused.
“Why, dude?”
Saim’s voice softened.
“Whatever happened in the past — it’s over, bestie.
He wants you to settle.
At least think about…
you know.
School.
College.
Medical.
Your hospital colleague.
Dr.
Sadaf Rehmani.”
Azhan’s jaw tightened.
“Bestie,” he said coldly, “you know me.
No doctor partner.
Please.
We saw our famous surgeon parents.
Please.
No.”
Saim’s eyes sharpened.
“Then who is she?”
Azhan laughed — a dry, hollow sound.
“Funny.”
Saim — sharp, relentless, advocate — leaned closer.
“Bestie…
are you a guy?”
Azhan choked on his fish.
Saim laughed — loud, free, victorious.
“I know you are.
So there is no ‘she.'”
Azhan recovered, wiping his mouth.
“Should I give your number to the whole universe, dude?”
Saim didn’t flinch.
“No.
Not the whole universe.
Just…
that girl.”
Azhan stopped.
The feeling came again — the flutter, the heat, the confusion.
He doesn’t even know her name, Azhan thought.
And yet —
He started eating again.
Saim smiled.
“Uncle is coming soon.
He wants you to pursue that girl.”
Azhan didn’t look up.
“There is no one.”
“Perfect,” Saim said smoothly.
“Then let’s buy a ring for your so-called crush.
Dr.
Sadaf Rehmani.”
Azhan looked at him.
His blue eyes were cold — but something flickered beneath.
“Where are we, bestie?”
Saim gestured around them.
“Your favorite seafood restaurant.”
“Perfect,” Azhan said.
“Because for the past five days, I haven’t eaten.
So let’s eat.
Please.”
Saim leaned back.
Five days, he thought.
Five days since he picked up that girl.
Five days since he started acting strange.
“So,” Saim said casually, “the girl is troubling you.”
Azhan’s fork stopped.
“Bestie,” he said quietly, “there is no one.
But if there is — if I find someone — I will tell you first.”
Saim laughed.
“You think by saying that, I’ll stop?
Bestie, I’m an advocate.
Whoever she is — I will find her.”
Azhan looked at him.
And for a moment — just a moment — Saim saw something in his eyes.
Fear, Saim thought.
Hope.
Longing.
He’s in love.
Saim picked up his fork.
“Eat.
And by the way — our cousins.
When do their classes start?”
Azhan’s mind drifted.
C, he thought.
She starts tomorrow too.
He answered automatically.
“Tomorrow.”
Saim nodded.
“So, are the kids troubling you?”
Azhan blinked.
“Yes.
Sameer drinks.
The other two party a lot.
But Amir is sensible.”
Saim sighed.
“I’ll talk to them.”
Room 101 — 3:00 PM
C sat on her bed, her phone in her hand.
She dialed.
The line rang.
Once.
Twice.
“Assalam o Alaikum, Ami!”
Her mother’s voice came through — warm, familiar, like home.
“Walikum Assalam, my bacha.
How are you?
Did you eat?
Are you sleeping well?”
C smiled.
“Yes, Ami.
I ate.
I slept.
The food here is different — but good.”
She told them about the canteen.
About the rice, the dal, the salad.
About the fish she refused.
“The fish is good here, they say.
But I don’t like fish.”
Ami laughed.
“You never did.
Even when you were small, you would push it off your plate.”
Hamad’s voice joined.
“Kid, did you find the washing machine?
The one I told you about?”
C’s eyes lit up.
It’s a big machine.
It washes and dries — without a bucket.
Without soaking.
Without scrubbing.”
She paused.
“One day, I will buy one for Ami.”
Silence on the line.
Then Anita’s voice, soft and emotional.
“Our C has grown up.”
Bisma shouted, “C Baji!
I miss you!
Bring chips for me when you come back!”
C laughed.
“I will, Bisma.
I promise.”
Hamad spoke again.
“C, focus on your studies.
We are all praying for you.
Tomorrow is your first day.
Do your best.”
“Yes, Bhai.”
“Best of luck, C Baji!” Bisma shouted.
“Best of luck, little sister,” Anita added.
Ami’s voice was soft.
“Take care of yourself, bacha.
Not just your studies — yourself.
Eat well.
Rest well.
Pray.”
C’s eyes filled with tears.
“I will, Ami.”
The call ended.
C sat for a moment, holding the phone, feeling the distance.
Tomorrow, she thought.
My first day.
The Villa — 4:00 PM
Azhan and Saim walked through the front door.
The house was quiet.
The cousins were out — somewhere, doing something, being young.
Saim stretched.
“I’m going to sleep.”
Azhan nodded.
“Good.”
He climbed the stairs to his private floor.
Closed the door.
Sat on his bed.
And picked up his phone.
He opened Riya’s messages.
She is single.
Pure like an angel.
He read them again.
And again.
And again.
What is wrong with me?
he thought.
But he didn’t stop reading.
Room 101 — Evening
C prepared for tomorrow.
She set her purse bag on the bed — the one Anita had given her, worn and familiar.
She placed inside:
Her new register.
Her pens.
Her highlighters.
.
Her meal card.
Her hostel card.
A small pack of tissues.
A water bottle.
Everything I need, she thought.
She set her shoes neatly beside the bed.
Her dupatta draped over the chair.
Her clothes ironed and hanging.
She prayed.
Maghrib.
Isha.
Each prayer slow, careful, from the heart.
Then she walked with Sophia in the lawn.
The sky was dark now — scattered with stars, the moon a thin crescent.
“So C,” Sophia said, “nervous about tomorrow?”
C nodded.
“A little.”
“You’ll be fine.
Everyone is nervous on the first day.”
They walked in silence, the grass soft beneath their feet.
10:00 PM
C lay in her bed.
The room was dark.
The girls were sleeping — soft breathing, occasional murmurs.
She closed her eyes.
Tomorrow, she thought.
My first class.
My first step.
Ya Allah, help me.
She fell asleep.
The Villa — 11:00 PM
Azhan was still awake.
He lay in his bed, phone in hand, reading the same messages.
She is single.
Pure like an angel.
He put the phone down.
Closed his eyes.
And saw her face.
C, he thought.
C Ismail.
Just a letter.
Just a name.
Then why —
Why can’t I forget?
He didn’t sleep.
He couldn’t.
And somewhere across the city, in Room 101, a girl with brown eyes was dreaming — of Ami’s cookies, of magic machines, of a future she was only beginning to imagine.
She packs her bag, she sets her shoes, A future she did not yet choose.
He reads her name, he reads it twice— A surgeon’s heart, a sacrifice.
She prays for strength, she prays for grace, He sees her eyes in every space.
Two worlds apart, one night, one fight— Tomorrow brings the morning light.