The 6:45 Fortress
Yahya lived by a perfect schedule. Every morning was a fortress built on routine. At 6:45 a.m., his alarm gave a soft buzz. The kettle would whistle its simple song. His toast popped up, always the exact shade of golden brown. Outside, everything was calm; everything was predictable. But the moment his eyes opened, a quiet war began inside him.
The Internal Ambush
As he reached for his first sip of tea, a strange, sickening feeling started to bloom. It wasn’t about being nervous or excited. It was an uninvited guest—a sudden, cold rush that had no name. His heart didn’t just beat; it started to pummel his ribs, fast and hard, for absolutely no reason. His chest would tighten, his throat would close up, and his hands would get instantly slick with sweat. In that quiet, safe kitchen, a voice in his head would scream, loud and clear: “You are in danger!”
This feeling was a physical ambush. It struck without a warning, a massive wave of pure terror going off like a silent alarm deep in his body. Yahya didn’t know how to stop it. He could only sit there, rigid and paralyzed, clinging to the counter, waiting for his body to surrender. His mind, desperately searching for a cause, would spin out of control:
“This must be a heart attack. I’m too young for this.”
“What if I collapse and nobody knows I’m here?”
“What is this thing that’s hijacking my body?”
The Burden of a Secret
He kept this terror a secret because it had no explanation. How do you tell someone you genuinely feel like you’re dying when you look perfectly healthy? When you can’t find the right words, you hide. And that forced isolation—the need to suffer alone—was the hardest part of his daily fight.
His family tried to help, but their attempts only made him feel more isolated.
His sister, Mariam, once laughed and said, “Maybe you’re just thirsty. Drink some water.”
His aunt seriously suggested he was carrying “bad energies” and offered to bring a healer.
And his Uncle Farooq simply scoffed: “Stop being so dramatic. You’re a grown man.”
Yahya would just nod and agree, burying his fear deeper. He felt small and ashamed, fighting an invisible monster that his own family couldn’t see or understand.
The Knock
Eventually, the wave of fear would pull back, leaving him shaken, drained, and soaked in cold sweat. He would force himself to eat his cold toast and finish his tea. He would wait for the terror to completely leave, as he always did, feeling utterly spent. The quiet battle was over.
But as he stood up to face the day, one thought always stayed behind, sharp and nagging:
“If this isn’t real, why does my body feel like it’s trying to kill me?”
Yahya felt the cold sweat on his palms drying. The terror had finally pulled back, leaving him shaky and wiped out. He pushed back his chair and stood up, ready to move from the battlefield of his kitchen to the demands of the day. The quiet battle was over.
That’s when it happened.
A sharp, loud knock on the front door.
It wasn’t a friendly rap; it was a demanding thud-thud-thud that echoed through the quiet house. Yahya froze. His heart, which had just calmed down from its frantic race, instantly jumped back into a nervous, irregular beat.
Who is that?
The Real Threat
He wasn’t expecting anyone. No one ever visited this early. He glanced at the clock—7:35 a.m.—too early for mail, too early for a casual visit. The sound felt wrong, a huge noise shattering the fragile peace he had just earned.
He walked slowly down the short hall, the floorboards creaking under his weight. He peered through the peephole. It was his sister, Mariam, standing on the porch, not looking happy. She was holding a large, white envelope.
He unlocked the deadbolt. The click was unnervingly loud.
“Mariam, you scared me,” he said, opening the door.
She shoved the envelope into his hand. “Don’t blame me. Blame this. It came in yesterday’s mail, but you were locked in your room again. Look at this.”
Yahya stared at the official logo of the electric company. He slowly tore open the envelope. The paper inside was thick and cold. He unfolded it, and his eyes instantly went to the number: three times his usual payment. It was a mistake, it had to be.
“What is this?” he muttered, feeling a fresh wave of heat rise in his chest.
“I don’t know, Yahya,” Mariam said, her voice dropping. “But the shut-off date is next week. You need to call them now, before you leave for your meeting.”
The internal, invisible terror he’d just fought off was instantly replaced by a very real, external panic. The fear was different this time—it had a name: debt. He had to fix this, and he had to do it now, on the shakiest morning of his life.