The warehouse was emptying out by the time I made it to the Jeep. My ribs ached like hell. Not broken. Just a reminder.
The boys were still lingering by the fence, lit cigarettes between fingers, voices too loud for how late it was.
"Yo, that last hit?" Adis called out. "Shit echoed."
"You're buying cevapi next time, champ," Hamza added.
I lifted a hand without turning. That was all they were getting. I wasn't in the mood to entertain tonight.
Ajla was already at the passenger door, arms crossed like she'd been waiting forever. I didn't apologize.
"Your fan club's looking rough tonight," she said, sliding in. "That one in the tank top was basically foaming."
I didn't answer.
The door creaked as I dropped into the driver's seat. Every movement pulled something—bruised muscle, bent pride. I sat there for a second, both hands on the wheel, head back against the seat. Breathed.
Ajla didn't say anything at first. Just waited.
I turned the key. The engine kicked in, loud and familiar. My knuckles were split again. I gripped the wheel anyway.
She reached forward, turned down the heat even though I hadn't touched it.
"You're welcome, by the way," Ajla added, kicking her boots up on the dash. "For moral support. Emotional stability. My sparkling presence."
Still nothing from me.
"Okay, noted," she muttered. "Mood: dead."
I didn't correct her.
We pulled out of the lot. My ribs hated the road. Ajla popped open the glovebox and fished something out.
A Chanel lip gloss.
She rolled it between her fingers, the label catching light. "Lamija's terrifying."
I glanced at her. "S-she's your b-boss."
Ajla snorted, but it didn't have much bite. "I know. I think she could kill a man with just her eyebrows."
I didn't laugh.
She turned the gloss over in her hand. "This hers too?"
"N-no," I said. "Amina's."
Her hand stilled. "She leave it in here?"
"A f-few d-days ago."
Ajla was quiet for a beat, then slid it back into the glovebox and shut it. "She like Lamija?"
"N-not e-even close."
Ajla gave a dry little laugh. "So... friendlier while still being gorgeous and untouchable?"
I didn't answer right away. Just watched the road. The night felt heavier than usual.
"Th-they're not s-stuck u-up," I said finally.
"Didn't say they were."
"Y-you w-were th-think-ing it."
Ajla leaned back against the seat, arms crossed. "Maybe I was thinking they're a different league."
"Th-they are."
She leaned back in the seat, arms crossed. "And you just... fit in there?"
I kept my eyes on the road. "I d-don't. B-but they d-don't ss-seem to c-care."
That shut her up for a while.
She didn't agree. Didn't argue either. Just stared out the window like she already knew.
Then: "What're the chances your old man's asleep?"
I kept my eyes on the windshield. "W-with any l-luck, th-the b-bastard's d-dead."
She laughed like I was joking.
I wasn't.
Tarik was at the Begović estate tonight. Safe. Clean. Easier.
I tried not to be jealous of the fact he had somewhere else to be.
Ajla shifted, kicked off her shoes. "So... you coming over tonight?"
I didn't answer.
"I can leave my window open," she added. "Like high school."
I shook my head. "N-not to-night."
Her smile faded. "Since when do you say no?"
"I'm t-tired."
"You were fine ten minutes ago."
I looked at her once.
"We're j-just c-casual. Y-uou kn-ew th-that."
She hesitated. "Still nice to feel wanted."
I shrugged. "I d-don't h-have the rr-room for n-nice."
That shut her up..
I gave it a beat, then added, "If y-you're c-catch-ing f-feelings, th-this needs to ss-stop."
She still didn't look at me.
"I've g-got en-ough ss-shit on m-my plate with-out y-yours too."
She didn't answer. Didn't look at me again.
When we pulled into the lot, she got out without a word. Her door closed a little too hard. She didn't say goodnight.
We parked behind the building. The back light was out again. Second week in a row.
Ajla didn't wait. She got out, slammed the door harder than necessary, and headed toward the entrance. Her heels clicked against the cracked concrete, fast and tight.
I followed.
Inside, the hallway smelled like fried oil and mildew. Someone had written fuck off in marker across the fuse box. No one had bothered to clean it.
We climbed the stairs in silence.
When we reached the landing, she didn't pause. Just walked straight to her place and unlocked it.
She didn't say goodnight. Didn't look back.
I didn't stop her.
My own key stuck like it always did. Took two tries before the door gave.
The apartment was quiet when I stepped in. Too quiet.
He was in his usual place—armchair tilted, glass in hand, eyes half-glued to the TV. Volume low, static humming through the speakers.
My mother's door was closed.
I dropped my keys on the table.
"S-elaam."
He didn't look over. "Try again. Like a man this time."
I didn't bother replying.
He took a sip, then tilted his head. "How much?"
"S-six hu-hundred."
He laughed, dry and bitter. "How much?"
"I t-told y-you. Ss-six."
"Don't bullshit me. I know what fighters like you bring home."
He stood, swaying slightly. "You think you're clever? Hiding it from me?"
I stayed quiet.
He moved fast for someone that drunk—shoved me hard against the wall.
Pain shot through my ribs like a lit fuse.
"You owe me."
"Y-you've had e-enough."
His hand came quick—a backhand across the jaw. Clean, practiced.
My head snapped sideways. Blood hit my tongue.
I didn't move.
"You're a liar," he growled. "Or maybe you're just too stupid to know you're getting ripped off."
Then a second hit—low and sharp to the ribs. I staggered but didn't fall.
"Give me the rest."
"N-no."
He grabbed my hoodie and yanked me forward. "Give it to me."
I shoved him back. Hard.
He stumbled. Hit the table. Glass clinked but didn't break.
We froze.
He waited—for the swing. For the crack of bone that would justify everything.
I didn't give it to him.
I pulled out three hundreds and dropped them on the table.
"Th-that's all y-you g-get."
He looked down at the cash, then back up at me.
"You're just like your mother," he said, sneering. "Too weak to run. Too stupid to fight."
I turned for my room.
The bottle flew.
It shattered against the wall just in front of me—an explosion of glass and liquor at head height.
The scent hit first—cheap rakija, sharp and sour. It mixed with the dust and sweat already clinging to my skin.
Shards whipped out. One caught my cheek—hot, then cold, like a blade dipped in fire and ice. I felt the sting before I felt the blood.
Tiny cuts lit up along my neck and jawline. The rest bounced off my hoodie, pinged across the floor.
I didn't stop.
I walked the last few steps down the hall, blood trailing down my jaw, ribs screaming with every breath.
My hand was slick on the doorknob.
I pushed it open.
Dark. Quiet. Stale air and the faint smell of sweat and detergent.
The door creaked shut behind me.
Tarik's bed was empty. Blanket still messy from this morning—kicked off in a rush.
Thank God.
I collapsed onto my own bed, ribs screaming with the motion.
The mattress was too thin. The springs dug into my back. The ceiling was cracked in one corner—had been since we were kids.
I stared up at it, jaw clenched.
I hated this apartment.
Hated every wall in it. Every sound it swallowed. Every memory it didn't.
I closed my eyes.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand. Sharp. Out of place.
I didn't move at first. Just let it buzz again.
Then I reached for it, thumb dragging across the screen.
Fam Chat (minus Babo)8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡLC4IMjsrs3
11:43 p.m.
📸 Imran sent a photo.
Tarik, Amina, and Adem — tangled on the Begović living room floor in a storm of junk food. Tarik face down on a designer throw blanket, one sock halfway off. Amina curled into a blanket fort, a donut still in her hand. Adem passed out with his hoodie over his head and one arm thrown across both of them.
Imran:8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ8kNUfqkCTy
This is what peak athletic performance looks like.8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡMylSXbxJ9G
God help FK Sarajevo tomorrow.
Lamija:8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡV5YeSQ0C3W
Is that my blanket under Tarik?8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡPaWOXLXtDZ
Burn it.
Ayub:8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡanvt50xqkk
The girl sleeps like she's defending treasure 🧃🍩⚔️
Talha:8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡjqbeo1ZnE3
glad someone's living soft
I stared at the photo.
At Tarik's face—safe and slack with sleep.
At the blanket draped over Amina's legs, half-falling off.
At the way Adem looked like nothing in the world could touch him.
I stared until the screen dimmed.
Then set the phone face down on my chest.
My ribs still hurt.
But not as much as staying here did.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Some pain you learn to speak. Some pain teaches you not to.
This chapter is about what happens when survival becomes silence. When home isn't safety, but something you grit your teeth through. Talha doesn't bleed loud. He doesn't break in public. But that doesn't mean he isn't breaking.
If it hurt to read, good. It was supposed to.
You're not alone if it felt familiar.8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡcQ0q0vo3I3
8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡuweXbSKstp
-Ash&Olive
8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡxy3LTjdZTQ
