Gadis' Side
Ever since that day we met Anya, something about Alya has changed.
She's been distant. Quieter. It's been about a week now—and for the past seven nights, Alya hasn't come to my bed.
That may sound trivial, but for someone like Alya—who often wakes up trembling from sleep paralysis, desperate for comfort—this silence is unusual. She used to crawl beside me in the middle of the night without hesitation, curling up close, finding peace in my presence. At least twice a week, sometimes more.
But now… nothing.
At first, I thought maybe she was healing, finally learning how to face those shadows on her own. But I still hear her at night—rustling in her sheets, breathing heavily, pacing quietly. The nightmares haven't left her. She just stopped coming to me.
And though I told myself to be proud of her strength, the truth is, I miss her.
I miss the weight of her leaning into me. I miss the warmth of her fingers clutching mine as if the world was too heavy to hold alone. But I never said it. I couldn't. I've never been the type to demand stories others aren't ready to tell. I believe everyone is entitled to keep their pain in silence if they choose.
Until tonight.
Tonight, I was pulled from sleep by the soft sound of crying. At first, I wasn't sure. But then I heard it again—fragile sobs, barely held back, like someone trying not to break.
I got up, instinct guiding my steps to her room.
She looked so small there, curled up under her blanket, her face half-buried, shoulders trembling. Her cries were quieter than last week, but I could tell—whatever was haunting her hadn't left.
I knelt beside her, placing a hand gently on her shoulder.
"Ya? Are you okay?"
She didn't respond. Her body felt limp under my touch. I moved my hand to her forehead—and instantly, concern rushed through me. She was burning up. Feverish. She needed a doctor.
I stood to grab my jacket, but then—
Her arms wrapped around me.
Tightly.
"I'm okay… I'm okay," she whispered, though I knew she wasn't.
"You're not," I said, heart aching. "You're burning up. Your voice is barely there."
But she didn't let go.
She buried her face in my chest, tears soaking into my skin. And I stayed there, holding her, as if my arms could shield her from whatever she was running from. I could feel it—her fear, her desperation. She held me like she was afraid I'd vanish.
I didn't ask her what was wrong.
I just stayed.
When she finally fell asleep in my arms, her fever still clinging to her skin, I wanted to pull away to fetch a compress. But she wouldn't loosen her grip. So I waited. When I could, I slipped out briefly to get cool towels, changing them again and again until the heat in her body finally receded.
By the time her temperature eased, it was morning.
I glanced at the clock. 8 a.m.
I had class in an hour.
And I'd only truly fallen asleep around six.
Dragging myself out of bed, I stepped out to buy her favorite chicken porridge, placed it on her desk with a packet of paracetamol, and got ready to leave.
"You look like death," Ujo whispered beside me as the first class began.
I shrugged, too tired to joke. I barely stayed awake through the lecture. Davi and Ujo took turns shielding me from the professor's view while I stole brief moments of sleep.
After class, we headed to the canteen. Between bites of breakfast, I told them what had happened.
"She was burning up," I said. "And she cried the entire night."
"Are you sure it's okay to leave her alone?" Ujo asked, concern painted across his face.
"I messaged her. She said she's feeling better. I left breakfast and meds on her desk. Hopefully it helps."
Davi, who had no classes after, offered to check on her for me.
I nodded. I didn't have time to argue.
By the time I returned to our kost that evening, it was already dark.
Alya was still resting, curled up under her blanket. Her skin looked less pale, and the flush of fever had faded. I quickly took a shower and checked her temperature again. Normal.
"Have you eaten?" I asked.
She nodded weakly. The porridge I left had only been half-eaten. I didn't push her. I knew how hard it could be to eat while your body was fighting.
I went to the kitchen and made her favorite—hot chocolate.
She smiled faintly when I returned, and I helped her sit up, spooning it gently into her mouth. She didn't resist. Just watched me quietly, like she was seeing something I couldn't.
"I'm such a burden, aren't I?" she said suddenly, reaching out to hold my hand.
I looked at her—truly looked—and brushed a strand of hair from her damp forehead.
"It's okay, Ya. Everyone gets sick."
"But only I make things harder for you," she whispered.
I smiled and cupped her cheek. "Hey. You're not a burden. You're my little sister. And this big sister will always be here for you when you need her."
Alya's eyes welled up. She tugged my arm gently, guiding me to lie beside her. I obliged, curling up beside her like we used to.
We stared at each other for a long, quiet moment.
Then she whispered, voice suddenly intense:
"Please don't ever leave me, Dis. You're all I have in this world."
She buried herself in my embrace. I wrapped my arms around her, my hand tracing slow circles along her back. I was used to this side of her by now—the clinginess, the vulnerability. She was raised without much warmth. Her father was always away, too absorbed in his own world to notice her sadness.
Alya had everything—except love.
Meanwhile, I came from a house where even if my father played favorites, my mother's love made up for it. I had a protective older brother, a mischievous little sibling. I knew what it was to be held.
And because I had all that, I always wanted to give some of it to Alya.
To show her she wasn't alone.
That someone, somewhere, truly cared.