CHAPTER 10 — BOOK IV
Pressure
(Early 2018 — Fayrani)
Pressure didn’t arrive all at once.
It seeped in.
It arrived disguised as helpful reminders, laminated timetables, colour-coded calendars taped to classroom walls. It arrived in assemblies and newsletters and the careful way teachers began to say when instead of if.
By February, Fayrani could feel it sitting just behind her ribs.
Not panic.
Not yet.
Something tighter. More disciplined.
At school, conversations had begun to flatten into comparisons. Who had tutors. Who was doing extra papers. Who had already decided what they were aiming for and who pretended not to care as a kind of defence.
Fayrani cared.
She just didn’t advertise it.
At home, nothing changed.
That unsettled her more than she expected.
No one asked about rankings. No one hovered. No one reminded her what this year would “mean.” Her books accumulated quietly on the desk beneath the garage. Her notes multiplied. Her pens ran out of ink and were replaced without comment.
She studied because it felt necessary.
Not because anyone was watching.
One evening, she sat at the small table in the courtyard, chemistry notes spread out, calculator abandoned beside her. The sun was dropping behind the roofline, the light turning amber and slow.
Ombak passed through with a basket of laundry.
“You’ll get cold out here,” he said, not stopping.
“I’m fine,” Fayrani replied.
He paused, looked at her properly, then set the basket down and returned with a jumper he handed to her without ceremony.
She took it.
“Thanks.”
“Mm.”
That was the exchange.
Later, Geoffrey leaned against the doorframe with a mug in hand.
“Tea?” he asked.
“In a minute.”
He nodded. “I’ll leave it here.”
She watched him place the mug down, careful not to disturb her papers, then step away again.
No advice.
No encouragement.
No reassurance.
The pressure did not dissipate.
But it became… manageable.
At school the next day, a girl in her class burst into tears over a practice paper and apologised to everyone for “being dramatic.” A boy announced loudly that he hadn’t studied at all, laughing too hard for it to be true.
Fayrani finished her test, handed it in, and walked out without checking her answers twice.
She trusted the work.
That was new.
One night, she overheard a phone conversation drifting from the main house. Ombak’s voice, low, measured. Not angry. Not defensive.
“Yes,” he said.
“No, I understand.”
“It’s not that simple.”
Fayrani paused at the top of the stairs, listening without meaning to.
“I’m not avoiding responsibility,” Ombak continued. “I’m just not doing it on someone else’s timeline.”
There was a silence on the other end.
“Yes,” he said again. “I’ll call later.”
The line went dead.
Fayrani retreated quietly.
Pressure, she was learning, wasn’t always about deadlines.
Sometimes it was about expectation — who was allowed to move at what pace, who was trusted to arrive in their own time.
She opened her books again.
The work was harder now. More demanding. Less forgiving.
She met it anyway.
Not because she felt fearless.
But because she had learned — by watching, by staying — that pressure didn’t have to be answered with noise.
Sometimes, it could be met with steadiness.
And sometimes, that was enough.
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