Chapter 36
The flight back from Tehran was suffocating.
Not because of turbulence, but because of her.
Sanaa sat between us, hands clasped tightly in her lap, shoulders drawn in like she was trying to make herself smaller.
I couldn't look at her properly.
Every tiny movement, her breath, her trembling fingers, the sound of her swallowing, made my chest tighten.
Four years of mourning. Four years of rage. Four years of learning how to breathe without her.
And now she was alive.
Asvika sat by the window, jaw locked, eyes fixed on the clouds. The tension coming off her could've filled the whole plane.
Relief, fury, confusion—they all mixed together until you couldn't tell one from the other. I knew the feeling. I was drowning in it too.
No one spoke. The only sound was the low hum of the engine and Sanaa's uneven breathing.
Landing didn't feel like coming home.
It felt like stepping into a life that didn't belong to me anymore.
The city looked the same. Bright lights, loud cars, people moving on with their lives. But everything in me had changed.
Who wouldn't, after burying someone who was alive?
Dinner was a performance.
The table was immaculate, candles flickering, plates lined up perfectly. My mother had gone all out, as if a grand dinner could make up for four years of mourning and unanswered questions.
Sanaa sat beside me, silent, trying to smile at things no one found funny. Her hands were folded neatly in her lap again, always folded, always trying to keep herself together.
I watched her out of the corner of my eye. Breathing. Blinking. Existing. It was both a miracle and a knife to the chest. My stomach churned at the sight of her sitting next to me, like she hadn't been gone for almost half a decade.
My mother smiled softly, doing what she always did, pretend things were fine. "How was Tehran? Did you enjoy your time with your parents?" she asked, her voice warm, polite, too calm. She reached over and tucked a piece of Sanaa's hair behind her ear.
"I... it was fine," Sanaa said quietly, every word careful.
I watched my mother and almost laughed. She acted like none of this was strange. Like Sanaa hadn't been declared dead. Was this what motherly love looked like? This ability to act normal no matter what? I could never.
Asvika's fork hit her plate too hard. "The city's beautiful," she said with a forced smile. "We saw the sights."
Her voice cracked at the end.
I didn't say a word. I stared at the food on my plate, tried a bite, it tasted bitter. Everything did. Even the air.
By the time dinner ended, I could barely hold it together.
"Thank you for the dinner, I'll take my leave now."
I left quietly and stepped out into the garden.
The air outside was cooler, softer. The garden was calm, moonlight glinting off the fountain. I sat on the stone bench, my body heavy, my thoughts louder than ever.
Then I heard footsteps.
"Vee?"
Her voice made me freeze.
Sanaa walked closer, slow, cautious. "Can I sit?"
I didn't answer. But I didn't move either. She sat beside me, close enough that I could feel the warmth coming off her.
The silence between us was thick, but it wasn't empty. It was full of everything we didn't know how to say.
My mind drifted to the second year of her death. It had been my worst.
I begged the gods to bring her back. My mother worried for me. The Mafia whispered that I was unravelling, that I'd lost it. Maybe I had.
If she'd come back two years earlier, maybe...just maybe I would've welcomed her with open arms. Maybe I wouldn't have needed all the therapy, the mind games, the pain it took to feel something again.
Sanaaya Eliraana Khalighi.
My sister from another mother.
My best friend since I first learned that a gun wasn't only for defence. It was for killing whoever my mother said deserved to die.
I shut my eyes tight, forcing the memories away as she shifted closer, trying to remind me she was real.
Trust me, Sanaa. I know you're there.
She leaned her head on my shoulder. I didn't push her away.
"You could've stayed with your parents in Tehran," I said after a while.
Sanaa shook her head. "No. I can't keep running. I haven't even started to make things right with you. I came back for that, for you, for us." Her hand brushed against my arm, her voice shaking. "Besides, I've always felt more like family with you than with them."
"You say that," I said quietly, "but they knew you were alive. I didn't."
That shut her up.
Something in me loosened a little. Not forgiveness, just exhaustion. I didn't even know when I opened my arms, but she moved into them.
I held her like I didn't know if I'd get the chance again.
"It's going to take forever for you to forgive me, isn't it?" she whispered.
I didn't answer. Because there was a time I thought forever would pass without her at all.
A sound made me look up.
Asvika stood there, brown eyes glossy, shoulders shaking. She didn't say a word. She just walked forward, knelt, and wrapped her arms around us both.
And just like that, we were three again.
I stared at Asvika, the strongest of us three. The baby of the group who had to grow up too fast, because one of us supposedly died and the other was losing her mind.
The one who got second-hand therapy just from sitting in mine.
The sobs. The missed calls when she thought she saw Sanaa on the street, the nights she'd mistake strangers for her.
My mind flashed back to her slapping Sanaa earlier, and I understood. It wasn't cruelty. It was her way of saying, how could you? After everything. Her way of processing the impossible, her way of saying she still cared, even through the anger.
And now, looking at her, all of that flashed behind her eyes. The exhaustion. The rage. The unspoken grief that stitched itself into every breath she took. None of us had really healed. We just got better at hiding the limp.
The crying came first, silent, broken, raw. Then laughter followed, shaky and breathless, but real.
For a moment, it felt like the world had stopped moving. It was us, the garden, and the sound of water trickling from the fountain. The air smelled like jasmine and rain.
Somewhere beyond the hedges, I knew Zorian was standing guard. Watching. Waiting. A quiet reminder that peace like this never lasted long.
Sanaa's voice broke through the quiet. "You're here. You're actually here. That's enough for now."
I nodded, my throat tight.
Maybe I hadn't forgiven. Maybe I hadn't forgotten. But she was here, and so was Asvika.
And maybe forgiveness wasn't just for her, it was for the versions of us that had to survive without her.
Now Asvika stood there, silent, steady as ever. But I knew her too well. Every calm breath she took was another way of holding herself together.
And maybe for once, I could try too.
One step at a time.