Hamza's POV
Hamza sat frozen in his seat, unable to move as Shumaila's words echoed in his head.
"You don't get to act like the past few weeks never happened. Because I don't have that luxury."
He had expected her to be cold. He had expected her to still be angry. But this?
This hit deeper.
The way she stood there, unwavering, her voice void of emotion, cutting through the silence of the entire auditorium—it was unlike anything he had seen before.
And for the first time, it hit him like a crushing weight: he wasn't just one of the people who turned against her—he was the reason behind it all.
He was the one who had publicly accused her of leaking his project. He was the one who had never verified the so-called proof. He was the one who had let everyone believe the worst of her, feeding into their hate.
And now?
Now, she was standing there, rising from the wreckage he helped create, but without him.
He swallowed hard, fists clenching at his sides. He couldn't sit still any longer. He had to talk to her.
After the assembly, Hamza searched for her. He didn't know what he would say, but he knew he needed to say something.
When he finally spotted her, she was alone, walking toward the rooftop staircase.
His chest tightened.
Taking a deep breath, he steeled himself and followed.
Shumaila stood near the railing, staring out at the city beyond the university walls. She looked calm, almost detached, but Hamza could tell—this wasn't peace. This was exhaustion.
She must have heard his footsteps, but she didn't turn.
"Whatever it is, I don't want to hear it," she said flatly.
Hamza hesitated for a split second before taking a step closer. "You don't even know what I'm here to say."
Now she turned, her gaze sharp and unwavering. "I don't need to. I already know it'll be pointless."
Hamza exhaled. He had expected this. He deserved this. But he still stood his ground. "Shumaila, I—"
"No," she interrupted. "You don't get to say my name like that. Like we're friends. Like we're anything at all."
His jaw clenched. "I know you're angry."
She let out a humorless laugh. "Angry? Angry?" She stepped closer, her eyes blazing now. "I was angry when you first accused me. I was angry when you let the entire university tear me apart. But now? Now I just feel nothing. And that's worse, isn't it?"
Hamza swallowed. "I was wrong."
Shumaila shook her head, a bitter smile playing on her lips. "Wrong? You were more than just wrong, Hamza. You destroyed me. And you let it happen."
His fists tightened at his sides. "I know. And I can't change what I did, no matter how much I want to. But I need you to know that I—"
"That you're sorry?" She scoffed. "Great. Fantastic. You're sorry. That fixes everything, doesn't it?"
Hamza flinched. The sarcasm, the raw pain beneath her words—it stung.
"Shumaila, I was blinded by my own anger. I didn't stop to think. I didn't stop to consider that—"
"That I wasn't capable of betraying you?" She cut him off, her voice sharp. "Or that I wasn't capable of anything at all?"
He shook his head. "No. That I was being a damn fool for believing anyone but you."
Silence stretched between them.
For the first time, Shumaila looked at him, really looked at him. And for a second—just a second—something flickered in her expression.
But it was gone before he could even process it.
She took a step back. "Words mean nothing now, Hamza."
Hamza exhaled slowly. "Then tell me what I need to do. Tell me how I can fix this."
Shumaila stared at him, her expression unreadable. Then, finally, she shook her head. "You can't."
And with that, she walked past him, leaving him standing there—
Alone with the weight of what he had done.