daintydawnx - Tumblr blog

daintydawnx · 3 months ago

Text

Whispers Behind the Veil

a/n:hiii, this is the first time I write and I'm super nervous. I just wanted to clarify some things. I'm not from Turkey but I randomly imagined this story one night and thought it would be fun to share it with others! English is not my first language so forgive me for any grammatical and vocabulary mistakes.

A prologue(?) (+ playlist recommendation)

No usage of y/n and no NSFW scenes. I also didn't mention any genitals but my characters still have their own name and backstory ♡

P.s if you found it cringe please just scroll cause I am still super nervous about posting this ૮ ྀི◞͈ ˔ ◟͈ ྀིა

Warning: death/blood

❀ magnificent century (hurrem’s dance)

The night the world began.

The palace breathed in jasmine and oud. Lanterns hung from every colonnade like slow-moving stars, their stained glass casting reds and violets across the white marble courtyard. On the breeze came the trembling sound of a ney flute, tender as a secret.

Guests spoke in low tones, their laughter restrained — the kind that comes from centuries of etiquette. Emirs in green turbans, women in draped pearls and embroidered veils. No one arrived at the palace without knowing they were being watched.

Yasmin stood behind the curtain, just beyond the reach of the candlelight.

She could hear the hush. She always could. that exact second when the air changed. When her presence, even before she was seen, brushed against the room like perfume.

She inhaled, once. Then stepped out.

Barefoot. Anklets of gold and bells, just enough to whisper. Her dress was gossamer, almost translucent in the candlelight, layered in midnight blue and plum. Her arms moved like water. Every step, deliberate. Every blink, measured.

The first note of the zither trembled across the courtyard. That was her cue.

And across the room — someone blinked.

✧

Layla stood with her hands behind her back, dressed in black with silver embroidery at her cuffs. She rarely spoke at these gatherings. She never smiled. It was said her loyalty to Princess Mihrimah was matched only by her coldness. Some said she’d killed a man with her bare hands. Others claimed she was once a poet. No one ever asked her directly.

Tonight, her eyes were fixed.

She didn’t shift her weight. Didn’t adjust her posture. But her gaze— it moved across Yasmin’s body like a veil of smoke. There was no hunger in it. Not yet. But there was something sharp. Something ancient.

Next to her, Mihrimah smirked.

“She has that effect on people,” she said.

Layla didn’t turn her head. “Who is she?”

“The dancer. The one they whisper about.”

Layla still didn’t blink. “No. Who is she.”

Mihrimah tilted her head. “Yasmin. From the old dancer line. Her grandmother used to perform for my grandfather.”

“Hm,” Layla said.

She didn’t say anything else. But inside her chest — something uncurled. A question, maybe. Or a beginning.

✧

Yasmin didn’t see anyone. Not the nobles. Not the courtiers. Not the Sultan’s sons watching from the upper balcony.

Only one person.

A woman dressed in shadows, standing like a blade too proud to be drawn.

A stranger. Watching her like she already belonged to her.

And Yasmin — against everything she’d trained for, everything she knew about survival — felt herself smile.

Not a performance smile.

A real one.

A small curve of her lips, quick and shy, like a candlelit secret.

She looked away. She danced.

But her heart had already gone.

❀ Trash Magic by Lana Del Rey

Days passed after that first glance in the courtyard, but the world seemed to shift beneath Yasmin’s feet.

Layla, who had always moved through the palace like a shadow in service to Mihrimah, suddenly appeared in places she never had before.

At first, it was small things.

Layla ordered new flowers for the servants’ dining hall, and Yasmin noticed the delicate wild roses—her favorite—that replaced the usual rigid carnations.

Then, Layla took a sudden interest in the music. She requested different instruments for the upcoming festivities—lutes instead of oud, flutes with a breathier tone—and stayed late into the evening to test the sound herself. Yasmin heard the gentle notes drifting through the walls, like a secret song meant only for certain ears.

Each day, Layla’s eyes searched the rooms where Yasmin worked, though she never dared speak to her directly.

Yasmin caught herself straightening her posture more often, brushing her hair more carefully, letting the small bells on her ankles ring just a little louder. She had never before craved attention, but now, the thought of Layla watching made her heart quicken, her breath catch in her throat.

The first encounter was unplanned.

Layla approached her quietly in the corridor, the bustle of servants and nobles swirling around them.

“You dropped this.” Layla held out a small silver flower pin, delicate and gleaming.

Yasmin blinked, surprised. “Idon't recall owning such a thing.”

Layla’s lips twitched into a faint smile, almost imperceptible. “Then I’m giving it to you anyway.”

Yasmin’s fingers brushed against Layla’s as she took the pin. A spark of warmth laced the brief contact.

That evening, Yasmin lay awake, the pin clutched in her palm.

Why does she care? the thought echoed inside her like a whispered prayer.

⋆｡˚｡･:*˚:✧｡

Days blurred into weeks.

Layla’s visits grew more frequent, though still indirect. She lingered near Yasmin’s dance rehearsals, watching with a quiet intensity that made Yasmin’s skin tingle beneath her silk skirts.

One afternoon, Layla found her in the servants’ garden, hands deep in the soil as she arranged freshly picked flowers.

“You always choose the wild ones,” Leila observed softly, stepping closer.

Yasmin looked up, startled, then smiled shyly. “They are free. Untamed.”

Layla’s gaze softened for the first time. “Like you.”

Their eyes met, and for a heartbeat, the world fell away.

Neither moved.

But in that silent moment, a promise settled between them — fragile and trembling, like a bud on the verge of bloom.

✧

The slow dance of glances, small kindnesses, and unspoken words wove tighter.

Layla, usually reserved and distant, began to open ever so slightly — a flicker of warmth in her eyes, a rare softness in her voice.

Yasmin, whose beauty and grace had always been admired but never quite understood, felt seen in a way that made her pulse quicken and her heart ache with a new kind of hope.

They were both afraid — of discovery, of judgment, of the impossible gulf between their worlds.

But still, they dared.

⋆｡˚｡･:*˚:✧｡

It began with the announcement.

A royal festival — one unlike the others. A celebration of the Sultan’s name day, when only the most talented in the palace were summoned to perform before the court.

The courtyard that evening glowed like a lantern — golden firelight flickering against marble, silk, and jeweled turbans. A hush rippled through the crowd as the musicians began to play. The low hum of ney flutes, the soft tap of the bendir, like the beat of a careful heart.

The prize was no coin or title.

the purple fabric.

Silk, deep as dusk and shimmering like moonlight on still water. A token of favor, given to only one — allowing access to the secret garden in the Sultan’s estate. A place said to be older than the palace itself, wild and untouched, meant for reflection and intimacy. Only one guest allowed. A private evening beneath the stars, where no rank mattered. Not servant, not noble. Just heart and desire.

Yasmin heard the whispers and didn’t dare hope. She had fallen from favor before. And yet — when the head steward named her as the lead dancer, her knees nearly gave out beneath her.

That night, she danced like the universe had been poured into her skin.

At the center, the dancers stood still like painted porcelain. Until the music shifted and Yasmin stepped forward.

Barefoot, hair unbound, her violet veil trailing behind her like dusk itself. She moved not like a performer, but like a spell being cast slow, deliberate, each movement unfolding from her body like petals.

Her arms rose like smoke. Her hips told stories. Her eyes, though cast downward, shimmered with defiance. The ankle bells chimed only softly, as if even they feared interrupting her rhythm.

She didn’t dance for applause. She danced like she was praying.

And in that quiet stillness — the Sultan, a man not easily stirred, leaned forward. He admired but didn’t give in easily. The sultan watched in silence.

Yasmin’s arms floated upward as if pulled by strings of silk. Her body bent like a tree in wind.

Not yet.

Beside him, the Grand Vizier tilted his head to whisper something — but the Sultan lifted a hand. “Silence,” he murmured.

the music ended, Yasmin stood breathless in the center of the floor. Her chest rose and fell. A curl of hair stuck to her temple. She didn’t bow.

She simply looked up — just once — toward the raised seat of power.

And waited.

he exhaled. Deeply. Almost wearily. “God protect me from women who dance like flames and never fear the fire.”

He turned to the velvet box beside him.

Pulled out a single piece of violet silk.

Held it out.

One clap and the sound echoed like thunder.

The next morning, Yasmin found herself wandering.

Not rehearsing. Not resting. Just… thinking.

The violet silk was now folded carefully in her quarters — not worn yet, too sacred. She traced its edge with her fingers as if the threads might speak to her. But her thoughts kept drifting, over and over, to one face.

She waited until evening before going to the library.

Layla was there, of course. She always seemed to be — either out of discipline or loneliness, no one could ever say. She stood by the window, half in shadow, reading some heavy book on diplomacy or logic. Her coat hung open, her belt loose. She hadn’t heard Yasmin enter.

Yasmin hesitated in the doorway.

But she didn’t leave.

“You read too much,” she said softly.

Layla turned — slowly, deliberately, like someone savoring the sound of a voice they’d been hoping to hear.

“Well,” Layla replied, “you dance too much.”

Yasmin smiled despite herself. “That’s not possible.”

“No?” Layla’s smile spread, just slightly. “You danced last night like you were trying to undo everyone in the room. I watched a vizier forget his own name.”

Yasmin’s cheeks colored. “I wasn’t dancing for them.”

Layla raised an eyebrow. “No?”

Yasmin hesitated. Then stepped forward, drawing something from the sash around her waist. A small bundle of violet silk — the corner of the prize she’d won.

“I received this,” she said, “and with it comes a garden invitation. One evening. No eyes, no rules. And…”

Layla was watching her closely now. The playful edge in her gaze sharpened.

“And?” she murmured.

Yasmin inhaled. “I can invite one person.”

Layla closed the book in her hands. Quietly. Her fingers lingered on the cover.

“And you chose me?”

Yasmin looked down. “I didn’t choose. I just… knew.”

There was a pause. A shifting of weight. Then a soft chuckle from Layla.

“I didn’t think the famous Yasmin got shy.”

“I’m not shy,” Yasmin said quickly — but her voice betrayed her.

Layla took a step forward. Her presence always felt larger than her body — like she took the air with her when she moved. She reached for the silk bundle still in Yasmin’s hand — but instead of taking it, she let her fingers brush over Yasmin’s.

“You’re charming when you’re nervous.”~

“I’m not nervous.”

“You’re sweating.”

“It’s hot.”

“I’m cold,” Layla whispered.

Yasmin’s mouth parted, but no words came. So she simply pressed the fabric into Layla’s palm and walked away, her skin on fire.

⋆｡˚｡･:*˚:✧｡

The Garden Where the night opened like a promise, and the heart began to speak

The night of the garden was cooler than expected. The guards opened the wrought-iron gates without a word, and Yasmin entered first, her heart pounding like a trapped bird.

Behind her, Layla’s steps were silent. She just wore a long black coat over a simple ivory dress. Yasmin couldn’t stop looking at her.

The garden was unlike anything she had ever seen — wild and ancient, moonlight pooling across stones overgrown with moss, and old trees leaning together like old lovers. Fountains gurgled in hidden corners. The scent of crushed violets lingered in the air.

They walked side by side, their hands brushing sometimes. Neither spoke. The silence wasn’t empty — it was full of tension, of possibility.

At the center of the garden was a marble platform, surrounded by tall lavender hedges and a still pool reflecting the stars. A platter of fruits and small pastries had been left for them.

Yasmin reached for a fig and turned to Layla, offering it.

“I only give sweet things to those I like,” she said, smiling with a touch of mischief.

Layla bend down and bit into it Slowly while Yasmin still holding it.Her eyes never left Yasmin’s.

“I think you terrify me,” she said softly, after a moment.

Yasmin’s breath hitched. “Why?”

“Because I never let anyone touch my thoughts like this. And yet… here you are.”

Silence again — the kind that wasn’t awkward, but thick with everything unsaid.

Yasmin stepped forward.

Their faces were close. Close enough to feel breath, but not yet touch.

“Do you want me to stop?” she asked, almost in a whisper.

Layla looked at her. Something in her eyes cracked — like frost under sunlight.

“No,” she said. “I want you to keep going.”

Yasmin’s hand lifted, brushing gently against Layla’s jaw, her thumb trailing the edge of her cheek. Her other hand settled on her waist — not claiming, not demanding. Just asking.

And then — their lips met.

It was soft. Tender. Like a secret blooming between them. Not rushed. Not wild. Just perfect.

Layla pulled Yasmin closer, slowly, until there was no space left. Her hands slid up her back, clutching the silk of her dress like she had waited years for this. Yasmin melted into her, sighing into the kiss, her fingers threading into Layla’s hair.

The kiss deepened — not just in movement, but in meaning. A slow-burning promise. An answer to every gaze, every ache, every unspoken wish.

When they finally pulled apart, Yasmin rested her forehead against Layla’s and whispered:

“I thought I could only imagine this. I thought I was foolish.”

Layla’s breath trembled. “Then we’re both fools.”

⋆｡˚｡･:*˚:✧｡

They built a language in the garden.

Yasmin brought stories, fragments of poems she had someone read to her.

Layla brought silence. And with her silence, listening. The kind that made Yasmin feel seen in ways no applause had ever managed.

One night, Yasmin lay back on the grass, arms stretched over her head, exhausted from a day of practice. Her eyes searched the stars, blinking against the breeze.

“Do you think they ever loved like this?” she asked. “The old queens. The courtesans. All the painted women on the palace walls.”

Layla, sitting beside her, glanced up. “Not like this.”

“How do you know?”

“Because if they had, we wouldn’t be the secret.”

Yasmin sat up, propped on one elbow, her eyes searching Layla’s face. “Do you regret it? The kiss?”

There was a long pause. Layla looked down at the fig tree beside them, her expression unreadable. Then, quietly, “No. I regret everything I didn’t do before it.”

Yasmin’s throat tightened. “Like what?”

“I regret not watching you longer the first night. Not speaking to you sooner. Not touching your hand when I offered you the flower pin. And I regret not asking you why you never wear shoes.”

Yasmin blinked at her. Then laughed softly. “They make me too quiet. I like when I don’t make a sound when I walk.”

Layla reached out — for the first time that evening — and placed her hand gently over Yasmin’s ankle.

“I like the sound you make when you’re near.”

They didn’t kiss that night.

But when Layla left, Yasmin leaned against the fig tree and pressed her fingers to her lips, as if sealing something there. Something too delicate for speech.

✧

This hidden haven, with its overgrown vines, ancient stone benches, and the gentle murmur of a secluded fountain, became the secret rendezvous for Yasmin and Layla. Here, away from prying eyes and courtly duties, their connection deepened, nurtured by whispered conversations and shared silences.

Their meetings were clandestine, often under the veil of night or during the quiet hours of dawn. Yasmin would bring fresh fruits or delicate pastries pilfered from the kitchens, while Layla would share tales of distant lands and philosophical musings.

“Do you believe in destiny?” Yasmin once asked, her voice barely above a whisper as she traced patterns on Layla’s palm.

Layla considered the question, her gaze fixed on the intertwining vines above. “I believe in choices,” she replied. “And the paths we carve with them.”

❀ kusura bakma by sezen aksu

Their bond, though profound, was not immune to the undercurrents of palace life. Whispers began to circulate—subtle at first, then more insistent. Servants exchanged knowing glances; courtiers spoke in hushed tones.

“Yasmin is ambitious,” one would say.

“She’s using Layla to climb the ranks,” another would add.

These rumors, though baseless, began to take root. Layla, ever composed, started to notice the lingering looks, the sudden silences when she entered a room. Doubt, once foreign to her, began to creep in.

Their secret garden meetings became less frequent. When they did occur, the warmth was tinged with unease.

“Is something troubling you?” Yasmin inquired during one such meeting, her eyes searching Layla’s face.

Layla hesitated, then shook her head. “Just the weight of responsibilities,” she murmured.

But the distance grew. Layla began to immerse herself more in her duties, often citing obligations to avoid their encounters. Yasmin, feeling the shift, tried to bridge the gap. She left notes, small tokens, and even choreographed dances inspired by their shared moments.

Yet, the whispers persisted. “Yasmin seeks favor,” they said. “She manipulates with charm and beauty.”

Layla, torn between her feelings and the murmurs of the court, began to question the authenticity of their bond. The garden, once a symbol of their unity, now stood as a silent witness to their growing estrangement.

✧

The news came without warning, carried not by Layla but by a messenger with pity in his eyes and hesitation on his lips.

Yasmin stood in the dancer’s quarters brushing her hair. Dilara was beside her, braiding jasmine into her braid. They were laughing. For a moment, the world was still kind.

Then the guard entered. He did not look her in the eye.

He read from a scroll. His voice was clipped. Detached.

“Yasmin, daughter of Ahmet . By order of the royal office, your position as ceremonial dancer is hereby dissolved. You are to report to the servant’s courtyard before sunset. Your privileges are revoked. Your possessions will be inspected. Your attire will be exchanged for appropriate rank. Any resistance will be punished.”

Yasmin did not understand the words at first.

“What… what does that mean?” she asked, blinking.

The guard would not explain.

He just bowed and left.

⋆｡˚｡･:*˚:✧｡

They came that afternoon with a box.

They stripped the room bare. Took the silks Layla had chosen for her, the pearl earrings she wore only on performance nights, even the lavender perfume she had made herself from crushed petals in the gardens.

Her dance ribbons — gone.

Her books of pressed flowers — burned.

Her hair, long and black as night, was pulled tight and cut with garden shears. She wasn’t allowed a mirror, but she could feel the weight of herself disappear.

The other dancers watched in silence.

Some with horror. Some with relief.

“She flew too close,” someone whispered. “Now she burns.”

When Yasmin was handed her servant’s uniform — coarse linen, rough sandals, no colors — she didn’t cry.

She simply touched her scalp where her braid had been. Her fingers trembled for a moment, and then they stilled. Wondering whose order this possibly is.

“I’m ready,” she said.

⋆｡˚｡･:*˚:✧｡

Her first job was in the stables.

She carried buckets of water that spilled down her legs and made her skirts heavy. Scrubbed manure with her bare hands. Her nails cracked. Her skin peeled.

She smiled at the horses.

“Even you get treated better,” she whispered.

That night, Dilara escaped from the dancer's quarter and came to her in secret.

Yasmin hugged her so tightly, the girl cried.

⋆｡˚｡･:*˚:✧｡

❀ Salvatore by Lana Del Rey

She began to find little ways to make things bearable.

She sang to herself as she swept the outer halls. Hummed the melodies Layla used to hum to her, late at night, when they’d lie side by side, fingers intertwined.

One day, while scrubbing the courtyard stones, she saw Layla.

Standing under the pomegranate tree. Speaking to a guard. Her face calm. Her arms crossed. She looked strong. Unbothered. Untouchable.

Yasmin’s breath caught. Her hands stopped.

Layla turned.

Their eyes met.

And in that instant, Yasmin knew: she had seen her.

Layla knew.

Yasmin waited for her to walk over. To say something. Anything.

But Layla simply turned away.

Still, she didn’t give up.

She left little flowers outside Layla’s door. Dandelions. Wilted violets. Anything she could find.

She asked Dilara to write letters for her. Simple ones. Honest ones.

“I miss the way your voice drops when you’re sleepy. I miss the way you hold my face when you kiss me.”

“You believed them, but you never let me speak.”

“If you want me gone, say it. I’ll never come again. But don’t let others speak in your place.”

No answers ever came.

The palace began to treat Yasmin like dust. Inconvenient. Something to be swept aside. She ate scraps. Once, she fainted in the gardens. No one helped her up.

Except for Dilara .

“Why don’t you leave?” Dilara asked one night, stroking her forehead with a damp cloth. “You could run. Disappear.”

Yasmin opened her eyes, barely a whisper: “Because… what if she calls for me?”

Dilara wiped her tears. “She won’t.”

Yasmin could only ignore.

⋆｡˚｡･:*˚:✧｡

One evening, she heard her name in the corridor — being laughed about.

Two guards. A maid.

“She was a fool, thinking a woman like Layla would love a peasant like her.”

“She threw herself at her like a dog.”

“I heard she let the chief musician touch her. Anything for a chance.”

Yasmin stood there, frozen, around the corner. Her heart didn’t race. It didn’t break.

It just.…stopped. The people who she thought were her friends, were thinking and talking of her like this.

⋆｡˚｡･:*˚:✧｡

Later that night, she returned to the courtyard where she first danced for the Sultan. The marble floor still gleamed. The candles still flickered.

She knelt on the cold stone. Slowly stretched her arms.

And began to dance.

There was no music. No audience.

Only memory.

But in her mind, Layla was there.

Watching.

And for a single, imaginary moment, Yasmin smiled.

The letter came folded once, sealed in violet wax.

Yasmin found it on her cot — the one in the corner of the servant dormitory where the wind bit through cracks in the wall. Her hands trembled as she broke the seal. She recognized the handwriting instantly. Layla’s. Still sharp, still clean, like every word she’d ever spoken.

“Come to my chambers. One hour past sunset. Come alone.”

Just those few words. No greeting. No signature.

Yasmin stared at it for a long time. She held it close to her chest and sat in silence, unmoving

“She wrote,” Yasmin whispered.

⋆｡˚｡･:*˚:✧｡

The sky was deep violet when she made her way through the palace. Every step felt like a prayer. She’d washed three times, scrubbing herself raw. Her hands still smelled of lye and rose petals. She wore the cleanest thing she owned — a white dress with a tear at the hem. The only color on her was a small ribbon she’d saved from her old silks — violet — which she tied around her wrist.

She had no perfume. So she tucked wild mint into her braid.

She picked flowers on the way. Nothing fancy. A few crushed marigolds. A crooked daisy. She arranged them with fingers that still bore scabs from scrubbing stone.

As she stood outside Layla’s door, she hesitated.

She could run.

She could crumple the note. Walk away. Live.

But she knocked.

❀ Silver Soul by Beach House

The room hadn’t changed.

Still clean. Ordered. The furniture dark. The same curtains. The same scent of sandalwood.

Layla stood near the window, dressed in black. Her hair was bound tight. Her back was turned.

Yasmin stepped in slowly, closing the door behind her.

“I brought you flowers,” she said, holding them out like a child. “They’re not much. But they reminded me of you. Strong. Quiet. Though it's a little crooked.”

Layla didn’t turn.

Yasmin placed them on the small table, carefully, aligning the stems.

“I washed. Three times.” She laughed, nervous. “Didn’t want to leave dirt on your rug.”

Nothing.

“…You look well,” Yasmin said softly. “Or at least… still like yourself. That’s more than I can say about me.” she quietly giggled at herself

Still, Layla didn’t move.

So Yasmin stepped closer. Her voice fell to a whisper.

“I’ve missed you every day. I tried not to. I really did. I thought maybe if I stopped loving you, the pain would stop too.”

Her hand reached gently, carefully, toward Layla’s arm. Her fingers grazed her sleeve.

Layla flinched.

Yasmin stepped back, heart cracking.

“I never used you,” she whispered. “Whatever they told you. Whatever you believed. I would’ve died for you.”

Layla turned then.

Her face unreadable. Her eyes were rimmed red — but her mouth was hard. Set.

“You lied to me,” she said coldly.

Yasmin froze.

“No,” she breathed.

“You let them touch you.”

“No—”

“You let them buy your favor.”

Yasmin’s voice broke. “Layla. You know that’s not true. You saw me every night. I waited for you.”

Layla took a step forward.

“They said you only came to me because you were desperate. Because you wanted power. A name. A title. And I believed you. I believed every smile.”

“I smiled because I loved you,” Yasmin said. “Not because I wanted anything.”

“But you took it,” Layla snapped. “You took everything I gave.”

“I took your hand. I took your words. I took your love. That’s all I ever wanted!”

Yasmin was crying now. Not quietly. Not delicately. The kind of crying that cracked her ribs.

“I was nothing,” she sobbed. “No name, no title, no worth. And you looked at me like I was real. Like I mattered. I didn’t want to own you — I just wanted to belong, To you.”

Silence.

Layla stared at her. Her hands trembled.

“You ruined me,” she whispered.

Yasmin fell to her knees. Clutched at her dress like a prayer. “Then ruin me too. Just don’t walk away.”

Layla didn’t speak.

✧

She knelt slowly in front of Yasmin. Her hands cupped her cheeks. Her thumbs wiped the tears gently.

For a moment, everything stilled.

“I still dream of you,” Yasmin whispered. “Even now.”

Layla kissed her forehead.

And then she pressed the blade in.

It wasn’t deep.

Not at first.

Just a sudden, cold, sharp pressure beneath the ribs.

Yasmin gasped. Her eyes went wide. Her mouth opened, but no sound came.

She looked down. Saw blood.

Saw Leyla’s hand shaking.

Then the knife was pulled out — and in again.

This time deeper.

Yasmin fell into Layla’s arms, still holding onto her like a child.

“Why?” she gasped.

Layla was crying now. Silent. Shaking.

“Because I loved you,” she said. “ I believed you. ”

Yasmin’s blood soaked the white of her dress.

She reached up. Brushed her fingers against Layla’s cheek.

“Even now,” she whispered, “I forgive you. I love you”

✧

She died with her head in Layla’s lap.

Eyes wide. Lips parted as if to say something more.

But it never came .

The chamber had not been touched in months.

The sunlight no longer reached the corners. Dust curled in the beams of light like ghosts performing a slow dance. The scent of sandalwood had long faded, replaced by the damp, faint trace of old ink, dried rose stems, and something almost metallic — like sorrow baked into stone.

Layla’s room had become a sealed place. A tomb not just of the body, but of memory.

When she died — the guards found her lying on the same carpet where Yasmin had bled. Her head resting against the leg of the table.Her lips blue. A vial spilled beside her. Nothing violent, nothing loud. Just silence. Just surrender.

No letters were left behind. No note. No dramatic farewell. Just a diary being held by Layla

✧

It was Dilara , trembling, who returned to the room.

Not by order. Not out of duty. But because no one else could bear it.

She lit a single oil lamp. Sat on the floor in silence for a while. And then, like a ritual, began to clean.

She did not know what she was looking for.

She folded Layla’s black robes. Brushed dust from the shelves. Wiped the windows until the light spilled again across the walls like warm milk.

Then she found it.

Tucked into the farthest corner of the trunk.

A cloth bundle, tied shut with violet fabric.

Dilara’s hands shook as she pulled it out. The moment her fingers touched the fabric.

Tiny, clumsy stitches. Uneven. Childlike.

L . Y

She pressed it to her lips before untying it.

Inside — a book. Leather-bound. Soft, worn. The edges bruised with use.

She opened the first page.

And stared.

“Today I saw her again. She walked past me like the sun walks across the sky — not knowing the fire she leaves behind.”

“I tried to hide how I stared. But I think she saw me.”

“She always sees me.”

Dilara ’s mouth went dry.

She turned the pages slowly.

They were filled with the same small, awkward handwriting — not Leyla’s. Not the sharp, clean style of the woman who could kill with a look.

This was soft. Untrained. Emotional.

“Her voice could slice silk.”

“She gave me a flower today. I know she pretended it was nothing. But she remembered my favorite kind.”

“I wrote her name in the dust on my window. Ten times. Then wiped it away. If anyone saw, I’d be gone.”

“She kissed me in the garden. I don’t think I’ll ever taste anything sweeter again.”

“Maybe if I dance perfectly, she’ll look at me the way she did the first night.”

•

And then the drawings began.

Every few pages — sketches.

Layla’s face in charcoal. Sometimes serious. Sometimes smiling. Once, asleep — her mouth parted slightly, her cheek resting on Yasmin’s thigh. In another, her hand reached out of frame — Yasmin had drawn only the arm, but the caption beneath read:

“She reached for me in her sleep.”

“I think I’m in love.”

“No. I know I am.”

“I love her. I love her. I love her.”

“I would die happy if it meant one more night in her arms.”

Dilara could not stop the tears.

She clutched the book to her chest and rocked, slowly, like a mother mourning a lost child.

“They tell me she’s cold today. That she hasn’t smiled in days.”

“I left her flowers again. She didn’t take them.”

“I wrote a poem. Asked Dilara to copy it neatly. I’m leaving it under her door.”

“Even if she never speaks to me again, I will wait. I will wait until my bones become dust. I will wait for her voice like a beggar waits for coins.”

And finally — on the very last page:

A single line. No decoration. No drawing.

Just words pressed so deep into the paper they’d torn through.

“I forgive her.”

✧

Dilara took the diary and placed it where it belonged ——untouched by the others out of respect or fear.

✧

Later, in the courtyard, a vine bloomed along the far column.

It hadn’t flowered in years.

Now, it poured blossoms.

Violet ones.

People said it was strange — that when the breeze passed through the courtyard just after sunset, they could swear they heard a whisper, low and aching, riding the wind like a secret never meant to die.

“I only ever loved you.”

My dearest Layla,

If these words find you—if your hands ever touch this paper, may they tremble not with anger or regret, but with the memory of a love that was as fragile as the morning mist and as fierce as the sun’s first light.

I wonder if you remember the way your eyes held me the very first time we truly looked at each other—like I was a secret too beautiful to speak aloud. I wonder if you remember the way your hand rested on my waist in the garden, steady and sure, like you were trying to anchor us both to something real in a world full of shifting shadows.

I never meant to use you. Never. I loved you with every part of me that could hope, that could breathe. I was afraid that this world, this place, could never hold a love like ours without crushing it beneath its cold weight. So I smiled at others. I laughed when they looked at me. But in my heart, it was always you I danced for, the only one whose gaze I sought when the music faded.

I begged the stars to give me more time with you. I begged my own trembling hands to hold you just once more in the quiet moments before dawn. But fate was cruel. And words—these fragile things—were not enough to save us.

When you pushed me away, I saw not hatred but fear. Fear that the world’s whispers would swallow us whole. Fear that I was a cage, not a sanctuary.

Layla, if you read this, know this: I never wanted freedom without you. My only freedom was in your arms.

I forgive you. For the silence. For the turning away.

I forgive you because I loved you. Because love does not count the days, nor the wounds, nor the endings.

If time could turn back, I would find you in the garden again. I would speak only truths. I would let my heart speak louder than fear.

But now, all I can do is leave these words with the wind, hoping they find you where your heart is heavy.

I love you, Layla. Always.

Yasmin.

21 notes · View notes