Blaring, the alarm shattered the pre-dawn quiet. Hayla’s hand shot out, slapping the snooze button with practiced precision. Another day. Another battle.
Morning light barely filtered through the curtains. She swung her legs over the side of the bed. The chill of the wooden floor bit at her bare feet.
She glanced at her brother's empty bed. Typical. Khaylan was already up. Or, more likely, he'd never gone to sleep properly.
Groaning, she pushed herself upright. Fifteen years of this routine. Fifteen years of sharing a room, of waking to his chaos or, worse, his absence. Her eyes scanned the mess on his side: clothes in a crumpled heap, a textbook splayed open to a random page, a half-eaten bag of chips.
Not a single thing in its place. He thrived on disorder.
Moments later, a series of heavy thumps rattled the floorboards above. Papa. His steps were always deliberate, a rhythmic declaration of authority. Soon, Maman's softer, swifter movements would follow.
Hayla pulled on her uniform. White polo, navy skirt. She meticulously smoothed out every crease. Presentation mattered. Grades mattered. Everything mattered.
She braided her hair, a tight, neat plait. Each strand secured, just like her life plan. Unlike Khaylan’s messy bun, often slipping, always defying order.
Downstairs, the kitchen hummed with activity. The scent of strong coffee and fried plantains filled the air. Nayla, their younger sister, sat at the table, already spooning cereal into her mouth. Her eyes, wide and still heavy with sleep, flickered towards Hayla.
“Morning,” Nayla mumbled, a trail of milk on her chin.
“Morning, little one,” Hayla replied, ruffling Nayla’s hair. Nayla giggled, a tiny spark of warmth in the usually tense morning air.
Khaylan leaned against the counter, a half-empty glass of juice in hand. His uniform shirt hung loose, untucked. His tie was nowhere in sight. A smirk played on his lips, a familiar challenge.
“Look who finally decided to grace us with her presence,” he drawled, his voice thick with sarcasm. “Thought you might sleep through the whole day, little sis.”
Hayla’s jaw tightened. “Some of us actually value punctuality, Khaylan. And respect.”
“Respect?” he scoffed, pushing off the counter. He moved towards the door, already halfway out. “You wouldn’t know respect if it slapped you in the face, two hours after you were born.”
He always brought up the two hours. Always. It was his go-to weapon, his self-proclaimed badge of seniority. Hayla squeezed her eyes shut, counting to ten.
“Khaylan!” Maman’s voice cut through the air, sharp and clear. “Where is your tie? Your shirt is untucked. You look like a hooligan.”
He turned, a practiced innocent look on his face. “Just going for that casual chic, Maman. It’s the new trend.”
Papa, entering the kitchen, fixed him with a stare that could curdle milk. “No trends in this house. You will represent this family with dignity. Go back upstairs. Now.”
Khaylan’s smirk vanished. His shoulders slumped, a silent protest. He knew better than to argue with Papa. Not when Papa’s voice dropped to that dangerous quiet.
He stomped back upstairs. The thumps returned, louder this time, punctuated by the slam of his bedroom door. Hayla watched, a bitter taste in her mouth. This was their everyday.
---
School hallways buzzed with the usual morning chatter. Hayla found Manel by their lockers, already organized, books stacked precisely. Manel, Hayla’s best friend, was a calm presence, a quiet anchor in Hayla’s often turbulent life.
“Rough morning?” Manel asked, noticing the subtle tension in Hayla’s shoulders. She knew the drill.
Hayla nodded, pushing stray hair from her face. “You know it. Khaylan was on top form. Two hours older, two hours more annoying.”
Manel chuckled softly. “Some things never change. Did he at least find his tie?”
“Eventually. After Papa’s sternest glare.” Hayla sighed. “Sometimes I wish I could just… not deal with it.”
“We all do.” Manel leaned against the locker. “Speaking of annoyances, did you see Nayla this morning? That boy, Karim, was bothering her again at the gate.”
Hayla’s head snapped up. “Karim? Again? What did he do?”
“Just tugging at her bag, trying to get her attention. She looked really uncomfortable.” Manel's brow furrowed. “I saw Khaylan coming in with Anas, but they were too busy laughing at something to notice.”
A fresh wave of irritation washed over Hayla. Khaylan, so quick to act superior, so oblivious to their sister’s struggles. She vowed to talk to Nayla after school.
Meanwhile, Khaylan swaggered through the opposite end of the hall, Anas trailing behind him like a shadow. Anas, Manel's brother, was just as much a troublemaker as Khaylan, a perfect match for his chaotic energy.
They spotted a group of girls, including Sarah, gathered near the main entrance. Khaylan’s eyes locked onto Sarah. A subtle shift in his posture, a flicker of something guarded, possessive. He offered her a quick, almost imperceptible nod. She returned it, a secret smile playing on her lips.
Hayla caught the exchange. Sarah. Khaylan’s secret girlfriend. The girl with the quiet eyes and the heavy secrets that Manel had vaguely alluded to. Hayla wondered what kind of trouble Khaylan was really getting himself into.
Classes dragged. Hayla scribbled notes, answered questions, absorbed every detail. Her future depended on this, on every perfect grade. Khaylan, she knew, was probably doodling in his notebook, plotting his next escape.
---
After school, Hayla made a beeline for Nayla. She found her in the library, hunched over a textbook, a faint blush on her cheeks.
“Nayla,” Hayla began softly. “Manel told me Karim was bothering you this morning. Is everything okay?”
Nayla flinched, then looked up, her eyes wide. “Oh. It’s… it’s fine, Hayla. He’s just being silly.”
“Silly or annoying?” Hayla pressed, sitting beside her. “You don’t have to put up with it, you know. I can talk to him. Or Khaylan can.”
Nayla shook her head vehemently. “No! Don’t tell Khaylan. He’ll make a huge deal out of it. It’ll just make things worse.”
Her reaction was strong, too strong for just