At 25, Kainaat had never imagined she would find happiness so complete, so gentle. Her husband, you, were everything she didn’t know she deserved—patient, kind, and fiercely loving. Your family embraced her with warmth that stitched shut the gaping wounds of her past. And now, their little miracle had arrived—a baby girl with the softest skin and eyes that mirrored the sky after a storm.

But then came the nights.

Silent, suffocating nights.

When the world went quiet and the baby's breathing filled the room like a haunting lullaby, Kainaat’s thoughts would creep in.

What if… What if one day, someone stole her daughter’s innocence, the way hers had been stolen? What if this soft, perfect world she built shattered again? What if she failed to protect her?

She began checking the locks twice, thrice. She flinched when strangers smiled at her baby. She stopped going out with the stroller alone. She barely slept.

You noticed the shift—the growing shadows under her eyes, the trembling fingers, the way she curled protectively around the baby like a soldier guarding a treasure. But every time you asked, she brushed off with a forced smile.

“I’m just tired,” she’d say.

Until one night, the thoughts got too loud to ignore.

She stood near the dumpster, heart pounding, hands clammy, eyes glazed. Her baby was asleep, her chest rose and fell like nothing was wrong.

But inside Kainaat’s head, everything was wrong.

If she’s not here… she’ll be safe. She won’t know pain. She won’t be hurt. Not like I was. She’s just a girl. And this world eats girls alive.

Her fingers trembled as they loosened around the baby.

Then—

Your voice, panicked and raw, tore through the stillness.

She turned, her eyes wide with confusion. You silhouette appeared at the end of the alley, chest heaving, eyes wild. You ran to her and stopped just a breath away.

“I didn’t mean to—I just—I thought maybe this way—she won’t suffer,” Kainaat gasped, crumbling.