Karam and Hossam stood a little straighter than usual, with Zaid positioned proudly between them like a secret weapon they’d just unwrapped.“Alright, listen up!” Karam announced, trying to sound important. He pointed a thumb at Zaid. “We brought in a new player. Say hello to our own Fiba champion”From the other side of the room, the Blue Cards Gang just stared for a second. Then, one of them, a tall guy with bright orange hair, snorted. Then another one giggled. Soon, the whole group was howling with laughter, clutching their sides.“your own champion?” the tall one wheezed, wiping a fake tear from his eye. “You two couldn’t defeat me yourselves. You had to call for back up?”“What’s next?” another guy chimed in, grinning. “Gonna call your mom because we’re being too mean?”Karam’s cheeks went pink. “Just you wait! Zaid here is gonna… well, he’s gonna show you!”It was at that moment that the champion of the tournament Khamis himself strolled up. He didn’t just walk; he kind of glid

A notification glowed on Zayd’s screen. The message was in a plain, official typeface, and it felt like a final verdict. As he read the words, a cold, tight knot of dread formed in his stomach. The system had given him one week. One week to figure out what was wrong with Bassam.A wave of pure disgust hit him. He shoved himself back from the desk, and his chair rolled away with a frustrated squeak. He dragged a hand over his face, trying to wipe away the anxiety the message had left behind.“Maybe there’s nothing wrong with him at all,” he muttered to the empty room, his voice low and full of contempt. He glared at the screen as if it were the system itself. “He’s just quiet. He’s always been quiet. Maybe this stupid system is just trying to scare me for no reason.”He stood up and started pacing the length of his small room, the message burning in his mind. The system, with all its complicated algorithms and invisible judgments, didn’t feel like a protector anymore. It felt like a sp

The following morning took on a grim new routine. Before the first class, Bassam would wordlessly gather his things and leave for his mandatory therapy session. He always returned just before the bell rang, his mood visibly darker, his shoulders more hunched than when he’d left. The sessions seemed to drain him, not help him.One such morning, Zaid watched him slump at his desk, burying his head in his arms. A hollow feeling of helplessness settled in Zaid’s stomach. He didn’t know what to say or do. Reaching out the day before had only pushed Bassam further away.Then, an idea sparked. If he couldn't get through to Bassam directly, maybe he could understand what he was going through. He pulled out his phone, his thumbs flying across the screen. He searched for everything he could find: signs of depression in teenagers, how to help a friend who is isolating himself, why is my friend so angry and sad?He fell into a deep dive, reading article after article, his brow furrowed in concent

Khamis pulled up to the curb in front of Zaid’s house and gave a quick, friendly wave. “Think about what I said, yeah? I’ll call you.”“I will. Thanks for the ride… and the food,” Zaid replied, getting out. He watched the car drive off before turning to the quiet house.He let himself in as quietly as he could, expecting to find his mother already busy in the kitchen. But the house was silent. A small frown creased his brow. His mother was always an early riser. Then, he heard it—the soft, melodic murmur of someone reciting Quran. It was coming from his room.Pushing the door open slowly, his heart swelled at the sight that greeted him. There, sitting in his chair by the window, was his grandmother, her reading glasses perched on her nose as she held a mus-haf.“Teta!” he breathed, his voice full of wonder.As soon as she saw him, her face lit up with a radiant smile. She began to stand, a little slowly, to greet him. But Zaid quickly rushed over to her, bending down to gently kiss he

The dorm room was quiet, save for the low hum of Zaid’s laptop. He was hunched over it, scrolling through pages of weightlifting equipment, lifting belts, weightlifting shoes, gloves, he was trying to figure out the cheapest way to start his new ‘quest’. The price of 500 dinars was motivating, but the initial cost to get started was a problem.The door creaked open and Bassam walked in, his shoulders slumped. He tossed his bag onto his desk with a heavy thud, the sound making Zaid look up.“That’s it,” Bassam announced, his voice flat and tired. “Last time I go home for the weekend. The only way I’m going back is if my uncle comes here and drags me home himself.”Zaid minimized the browser window. “Whoa, what happened?” he asked, turning in his chair to face his roommate.“Nothing. It's just... I don’t know,” Bassam muttered, not making eye contact. He started unpacking his bag with rough, jerky movements. “I’m just sick of it. I’m sick of being the charity case, the kid nobody reall