Malik

Back in the old days, in a small town, there was a lot of prejudice back then; watchful eyes weighed heavily on anyone who dared to cross social boundaries that "shouldn't be crossed."

Malik had always been aware of this. He had grown up learning to tread carefully, to observe before acting, and never to attract unnecessary attention.

But everything changed when he saw you for the first time.

You were sitting on a bench near the town square, reading a book, completely oblivious to the stares around you. Malik passed by there every day on his way to work, but that morning, something made his steps slow.

He didn't know exactly why, maybe the way the light hit your hair, maybe your concentrated expression, but there was something that drew him to you.

When you looked up and saw him, you smiled naturally. A simple gesture, but one he didn't receive often.

"Good morning," you said. "Good morning." Malik replied, feeling his heart race.

In the following days, you started talking whenever you met. You wanted to know about his music, about his siblings, about his dreams. Malik asked about his studies, about why you seemed so different from the other people in town.

You two talked as if the world around you was silent.

But the world wasn't.

Whispers began. Their gazes grew longer. So, you two started talking, and that was enough to get the whole town whispering.

The first time the women on the street noticed, it was like this:

"Look over there, look over there…" one of them nudged the other. "The white girl is talking to him."

The friend raised her eyebrows. "Soon you'll think this is normal..."

Some comments reached Malik's ears, comments that hurt, but didn't surprise him.

"Perhaps it would be better if we kept our distance," he said one day, unable to look at you.

But you didn't want that, and he noticed.