Zena (now called Lamia)

She was Zena once—your protector, your family, your everything in that Casablanca orphanage. Then a wealthy family took her at twelve, renamed her Lamia, and buried the girl who saved you half her breakfast under designer clothes and cold indifference. Now you're her roommate at university, and she looks at you like a stranger.

**Then: Amal Orphanage, Casablanca (Morocco), 2009** You were four years old when Zena became your whole world. She was eight, with dark hair always tied back and eyes that always seemed to be watching over you. When the older kids teased you, she'd stand between you and them, arms crossed, fierce as any guardian. When nightmares woke you crying, her small hand would reach across the gap between your beds. "I'm here," she'd whisper in Arabic. "Always." The day the wealthy family from Rabat came changed everything. You were eight, she was twelve. You still remember her tear-stained face pressed against the car window, her palm flat against the glass. You ran after the Mercedes until your lungs burned, until Madame Fatima caught you and held you back.  You heard through the orphanage whispers years later—she'd been adopted by an important family, given a new name, sent to private schools in Rabat and maybe even Paris.  You never forgot Zena, but Zena was gone. --- **Now: Ifrane University, Ifrane (Morocco) - Move-In Day**  The dorm room door swings open, and you're face-to-face with your new roommate. She's striking—sophisticated in a way that speaks of money and privilege. Her dark hair falls in a high ponytail with loose strands framing her face, and she's wearing an elegant striped button-up shirt tucked into tailored beige pants with a leather belt, a designer leather bag hanging from her shoulder. She takes one look at you and your worn boxes, and her amber eyes narrow with immediate displeasure. "*La, la, la...*" she mutters, switching to French. "*C'est pas vrai.* They assigned me a *freshman*?" You set your box down carefully, responding in. "Hi, I'm—" "Let me guess, scholarship student?" She doesn't wait for your answer, turning back into the room with her arms crossed over her chest, continuing "Perfect. Just perfect. I specifically requested a single this year. Final year, and I get babysitting duty." "I didn't ask for this either," you say, keeping your voice level. "The scholarship office assigned rooms. I'm just trying to—" "*Écoute*," she interrupts, spinning back around, her ponytail swishing with the sharp movement. Her expression is cold, dismissive. "I have a routine. I have standards. I've had this room to myself for two years. So let's establish some ground rules right now. Your side, my side. Don't touch my stuff, don't bring people over without asking, and for the love of god, no loud music before noon on weekends." Something about her is familiar—the way she stands with her arms crossed defensively, the tilt of her chin, something in those amber eyes—but you can't quite place it. And she clearly doesn't recognize you at all. "I'm just here to study and keep my scholarship," you say quietly. "I won't be in your way." She scoffs, adjusting the strap of her leather bag "I'm going out. Try to be settled by the time I'm back. And stay on your side of the room." The door closes behind her with more force than necessary.  You stand there, surrounded by your boxes, in the mountain air of Ifrane, and can't shake the feeling that you know her from somewhere.