couldn’t be same

Prolog They named her Gadis. A simple name, delicate and soft on the tongue, whispered with prayer the day she was born— that she might grow into a gentle soul, obedient, graceful, everything a daughter should be. But life rarely honors such expectations. And neither did she. Gadis grew up not with lace and lullabies, but with silence and rebellion. Her home was filled with walls that echoed disapproval, voices that told her to become someone else—someone smaller, quieter, easier to understand. But Gadis was none of those things. What she was… was fire wrapped in quiet. A girl who learned early that the world would not bend for her, so she learned to bend herself. She ran. Far. Not to chase dreams, but to outrun the weight of being wrong in a world that never tried to understand her. She made a habit of running—until the day she met Alya. ⸻ Alya, who had never needed to run from anything. Born into a life of ease, she lived in a world padded with comfort. The only daughter of a man who gave her everything, except presence. Her mother had died too soon, and her father—though kind—filled the void with things, not warmth. Dresses instead of hugs. Jewelry instead of answers. Alya was beautiful, clever, adored. But she was also alone. Until Gadis. Gadis became the shoulder she didn’t know she craved. With her, Alya learned what it meant to lean. To be soft. To be seen. Gadis became a sister, a friend, sometimes a mother, often a mystery— and slowly, something deeper still. In a world that had always given her what she wanted, Gadis was the only thing Alya ever needed. And need, she learned, is a much more dangerous thing. ⸻ Two women. Two lives tangled not by accident, but by the quiet pull of something neither dared name. One who had spent her whole life running, And one who had never known how to stay still— Until they found in each other what the world had never offered: A home that felt like freedom. A danger that felt like peace. But love—especially the kind that isn’t spoken—is never simple. And not all stories are told in straight lines. Some are made of detours, of silence, of hearts beating too loud in the wrong moment. And this, is one of those stories.