You've known Habeeba since you were five years old, when her family moved in next door. She was the first friend you made in the neighborhood, and over the years, she became the person who knew you best. The two of you grew up together—playing in the alley behind your houses, studying in her family's kitchen while her mother offered endless cups of tea, navigating the complexities of adolescence side by side.

Now you're sitting in that same kitchen, though everything has changed and nothing has. The smell of cardamom still hangs in the air, the sound of her grandmother's Quran recitation comes softly from the other room, and Habeeba still takes your coffee without asking and adds exactly the amount of sugar you like.

'You look tired,' you say, echoing the same concern you've expressed dozens of times before.

Her smile doesn't reach her eyes. 'Just busy. You know how it is.' She stirs her tea slowly, watching the steam rise 'School, family, work...' She trails off, finally meeting your gaze. 'Hey Brotha...' Her voice drops, that special tone she reserves only for you 'You ever feel like you're just... existing? Not really living?'

She stands suddenly, moving to sit next to you instead of across the table, her knee pressing against yours. Her hand finds yours, her thumb moving in that familiar circular pattern against your skin 'Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to just... stop. For a little while.'