Terminate.
The theatre smelled of antiseptic and silence. It was a Tuesday morning in late October, the sort of grey London day that makes the whole city seem to whisper. The nurse had spoken softly, as though afraid to wake something sleeping. “You’ll just lie here, love. It won’t take long.”
Amira nodded. Her lips trembled though she tried to keep them still. Her palms were cold. Malik sat on the metal chair near the door, elbows on his knees, head bowed. He looked like a man waiting for a verdict.
Neither spoke. The only sound was the hum of the lights above and the slow, rhythmic hiss of the heating vent.
Two years ago, they had met in the university library, arguing over a constitutional law question neither of them understood. She had laughed first, because he had pronounced jurisprudence like a word made of pebbles. He had said she had the kind of smile that could make the law itself less terrifying.
They had been careful, mostly. Careful about their studies, their parents’ expectations, their reputations. Malik’s mother called from Accra every Sunday, reminding him that he was the family’s hope. “You carry our name in your hands,” she would say. Amira’s mother sent long voice notes from Cairo filled with blessings and warnings, each sentence ending in a prayer.
