the embrace edit

She had become a quiet shape in her own life lately.

Not unhappy, just dimmed —

as if she’d been walking around with the brightness turned low.

Her family home vibrated with its usual chaos:

her mum shouting reminders from the kitchen,

siblings thundering up and down the stairs,

someone always laughing, someone always annoyed.

 

She loved the noise,

but somewhere between all the helping and the doing,

she had slipped into the background.

 

Her hijab drawer was a jumble of colours she once adored.

She used to take pleasure in choosing them —

the shades, the textures, the folds.

These days she reached for whatever required the least thought.

 

One quiet Saturday,

rain softened the whole street outside,

washing the windows in slow, steady streaks.

She closed her bedroom door and sat on her bed,

trying to breathe in the stillness.

 

Her eyes drifted toward her wardrobe mirror —

avoided deliberately for months.

She didn’t dislike her reflection.

She just didn’t feel… connected to it.

 

Before she could settle into the quiet,

her door swung open.

 

Three sisters poured into the room

as if the hallway had been holding them back.

 

All talking.

All hands.

All opinions.

 

The youngest climbed onto her bed with a brush.

The middle one already had lip gloss in her hand.

The eldest had a look on her face that said,

“This is an intervention.”

 

“You look tired,” the youngest announced.

“You look bored,” the middle one corrected.

“You look like someone who needs us,” the eldest decided.

 

Before she could respond,

they were pulling open drawers,

tossing clothes onto the bed,

complaining about her “ancient wardrobe choices,”

and declaring this a “reset day.”

 

“What reset— I didn’t agree to—”

 

“You don’t get veto power today,”

the middle one said, already separating her tops into piles:

wearable, maybe wearable, burn-this-immediately.

 

They pushed her gently into her desk chair.

The eldest tied her hair back.

The youngest handed her a small cotton pad and micellar water.

The middle one sat cross-legged on the floor and started filing her nails.

 

“We’re doing brows,” the eldest said.

“We’re doing skincare first,” the youngest corrected.

“We’re doing chai after,” the middle one added.

“No one cares about chai right now,” the eldest snapped,

but only half-seriously.

 

Her room burst alive with the noise of them.

Perfume mists floating.

Drawers opening and closing.

Someone swatching blush on her wrist.

Someone else holding up earrings to her ears.

Someone arguing about undertones.

 

She felt overwhelmed —

and a little bit like she was being carried along by a wave

she didn’t have the strength to resist.

 

Then the youngest opened the drawer.

The drawer that held the jersey and chiffon pair

she bought last year for a celebration she never felt good enough to attend.

 

“You never told us you bought these,” she said softly.

Her sisters all turned.

 

They lifted the scarves with new tenderness.

Not teasing now.

Not chaotic.

 

Just quiet recognition.

 

“You bought these when you were doing better,”

the eldest said.

 

“Maybe we bring that girl back,”

the middle one murmured.

 

They didn’t wait for her to answer.

 

The makeover began for real.

 

Brows brushed and trimmed.

Moisturiser patted in with gentle hands.

A hint of tint on her lips.

A soft glow dabbed onto her cheekbones.

Perfume pressed lightly on her wrists — one they said suited her.

 

They brought out jewellery she hadn’t worn in months.

A bracelet her mum gave her years ago.

A pair of simple hoops she always felt too tired to bother with.

 

Then came the hijab.

 

They wrapped the jersey first —

not rushed,

but with intention.

Adjusting, smoothing, stepping back to check symmetry.

Then the chiffon, draped softly, pinned lightly,

falling in a way that framed her face

instead of hiding her exhaustion.

 

When they finally stepped back,

the room fell unusually still.

 

Her sisters looked at her

with an expression she couldn’t read at first.

 

Pride.

Relief.

Recognition.

 

“Stand up,” the eldest said quietly.

 

She walked toward the full-length mirror.

Her hands trembled a little.

 

She looked up.

 

And there she was.

 

Not the exhausted version of herself she’d been carrying for months.

Not the girl who hid behind quick choices and quiet corners.

 

Her face was softer.

Her eyes clearer.

Her presence… returned.

 

The youngest stepped beside her in the mirror

and whispered:

 

“You look like someone who remembers herself.”

 

Her throat tightened.

Not in sadness —

in something closer to gratitude.

 

Her sisters weren’t done.

 

“Shoes,” the middle one demanded.

“Where are we going?”

“Out,” the eldest said.

“You look too beautiful to waste indoors.”

 

They practically marched her out the door,

laughing, pushing umbrellas into hands,

arguing over where to take photos of her new look.

 

The street glowed with rain.

Buses hissed across wet roads.

A shop window reflected her as they passed.

 

She slowed.

 

Her reflection didn’t look foreign.

Or temporary.

Or borrowed.

 

She looked like herself

in the way she’d been missing.

 

Her sisters turned, waiting.

She walked toward them,

feeling a quiet lightness she hadn’t known in months.

 

Maybe she hadn’t vanished.

Maybe she’d simply needed a moment

—just one moment—

where someone insisted she was worth choosing.

​

​

soundtrack for this moment

listen on Spotify