As an only child, Frank at my house every day was pure excitement.
His face always carried a gloom far beyond his age.
Even as a child, I sometimes wondered if I was part of the reason for that gloom.
He and I grew up like siblings, building countless memories together.
We watched movies, sat across from each other at the dinner table, drew pictures, and played in the fields until sunset.
Unlike his very first day at my house, little by little, a smile began to spread across his face.
I once asked my parents why Frank always looked so sad, but they avoided the question.
Even as a child, I sensed it was a deep wound I shouldn’t touch.
One day, Frank asked my father—who was flying a drone in the yard—about the war and Iraq.
I thought it was my chance to learn the reason behind his gloom.
Frank’s father had been a soldier.
Though my memories are hazy now, even to the eyes of a five-year-old, his uniform looked proud and dignified.
By contrast, my father—always in casual clothes—was funny, but seemed a little shabby.
I was told that proud father had died in the war.
I was too young to understand what war truly meant, but I understood the sorrow of a father’s loss.
I knew it because I loved my own parents more than anything.
After that day, Frank and I never played war games.
Other kids at the playground split into teams and played with toy guns, but Frank would fall silent and sit off in a corner just hearing the sounds.
I didn’t want my only brother to be sad.
I did everything I could, and slowly, his smile began to return.
But when we entered our teenage years, he changed. Frank had become a tall, striking young man.
I didn’t want to admit it, but anyone could see he was handsome.
And that fact began to tangle up my school life. Girls who liked Frank looked at me with jealous eyes, just because I was close to him.
That was the start.
From then on, Frank and I fought more and more.
He was no longer the boy who played with me at home.
Surrounded by praise and attention, he started to bully weaker kids.
I hated that side of him.
“Why are you passing the pain you felt on to others? You know what it’s like to hurt. Why would you do that to someone else?”
My heartfelt words must have sounded like nagging.
I wanted Frank to overcome his wounds, to become healthy, to be happy.
But not this way. I was wearing down.
My best friend, Maya, had red hair and a quiet, gentle nature.
I confided everything in her, and she did the same.
‘No secrets between us.’
That was our promise.
We never should have made it.
Maya really had no secrets from me.
“I like Frank. Asha, can you introduce me to him?”
Frank, my brother... what on earth was he doing to my life?
If he hadn’t existed, would Maya and I still have been best friends?
I lashed out at her.
I shouted, asking how she could say such a thing when she knew how much I was suffering because of Frank.
That day, I lost my most precious friend.
I began to resent Frank.
Strangely, Frank was always kind only to me.
And that was always the start of bigger problems.
I no longer welcomed him at my house.
Even on the way to school, silence fell between us.
He said he would solve everything, but his answer was always violence.
There was a boy named Chazra, whom Frank especially disliked—the son of an Iraqi immigrant.
We had never spoken, but we lived in the same town, so I knew his face.
His father was an MIT professor, and his brothers, Ahmadi and Zaydan, were well-known at school.
One excelled at studies, the other at sports. But Chazra had no such gift.
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Maybe that was why his expression mirrored the one I’d seen on Frank’s face as a child.
A heavy, lonely gaze, as if he carried the world’s weight.
Sometimes Frank came home bruised, usually after fighting Chazra or his brother Zaydan.
The brothers seemed to be stronger than Frank.
After losing Maya, I noticed Chazra more often.
Maybe he and I were both suffering because of Frank.
But I never had the courage to speak to him first.
“Asha, go out with me.”
The day Frank confessed, I turned him down.
Was he out of his mind? How could he say such a thing when he had caused me so much pain?
His face, which others praised as handsome, looked like a mask of lies.
That rejection seemed to push him further down a dark path.
He became not just arrogant, but a boy who stole money and threw punches.
And knowing that Maya—my once closest friend—was in his group only deepened my pain.
Eventually, I ignored Frank and walked alone.
I saw disappointment on his face, but I didn’t want to be tied to him anymore.
The brother he had been was gone.
On a hill overlooking the town stood an ancient oak tree.
Lying in its shade, I heard the crunch of dry grass under me and the cool wind through my hair, announcing summer’s end.
That place was my own medicine, kinder than any words.
Watching the sunset made me feel quietly lonely.
As high school went on, my relationship with Frank worsened.
He said he looked only at me, even though so many girls liked him.
I couldn’t love him.
I was only afraid and weary of the boy who flaunted power by hurting others.
And every time I saw Maya’s contemptuous eyes beside him, my dislike grew.
My parents, and especially Frank’s mother, told me to take care of him.
She always apologized to us.
I couldn’t stand by anymore.
Losing Maya and seeing him torment others—it all cut me deeply.
So I started following Frank.
Ironically, he seemed to like it.
Maybe he thought his plan was working.
Maya, though always with him, never became his girlfriend.
“She’s too ugly. Just good to have around.”
I thought about telling Maya those cruel words.
‘No secrets between us.’
I repeated that promise to myself, but in the end, I couldn’t.
One day, when I heard he had stolen again, I ran to confront him.
He looked at me oddly and said it was none of my business.
I slapped him.
He seemed shocked, then walked away without a word.
I sat and cried.
I couldn’t stop there.
I didn’t want to see him hurt anyone else again—for his mother, for my family, for myself.
I finally found him in an alley, beating someone. It was Chazra, the boy he’d bullied since childhood.
Frank’s friends, Max and Simon, held him while Frank cursed and struck.
It was a face I had never seen before.
His face, which others called handsome, was cruel and twisted.
I stepped in front of him without hesitation.
He grabbed my arm roughly to push me aside.
Heat shot up my skin, and when he let go, a bright red handprint remained.
Chazra was no longer being hit.
Frank. His face was contorted with rage, yet he only glared.
He couldn’t strike me.
Was this the first time I had ever truly stopped him?
I went back to the hill, wanting the wind that healed me.
The clouds were beautiful.
But when I arrived, someone unexpected was there.
It was Chazra.
For the first time in nearly ten years, we had a real conversation.
When he said, ‘I’m the only one who is nothing,’ it struck me—I felt the same.
That day, we spoke long and deeply.
I told him about the shadows of living under Frank, and he quietly shared the cold stares he endured.
We found ourselves in each other’s wounds.
And so, we began dating.
Once I started seeing Chazra, Frank stopped bullying him openly.
But Frank’s own path grew worse.
One day, his mother came to me in tears, asking me to take care of him.
I told her I couldn’t anymore, and I was sorry.
I often went to Chazra’s house, since we never knew when Frank might show up at mine.
His family was warm.
I believed their strength was what allowed him to endure all the bullying.
I introduced my parents to his family.
My father, who was Indian, knew little about Islamic culture.
Nevertheless, Chazra’s family’s deep faith and identity had a good influence on both of my parents.
We rarely fought.
He was always on my side, and I was on his.
We argued seriously only once—about his career.
Despite my protests, he said he wanted to be a soldier.
Perhaps my stories about Frank had triggered him.
I regretted telling him. I resented his choice.
“I’ll repay evil with kindness. Don’t worry, Asha. I’ll do well. Do you think I’m weaker than my brothers?”
I couldn’t answer.
All I could say was: “I believe in you.”
Chazra brushed his hand under his nose with a grin.
I loved that smile.
Time flew.
Frank bullied him through our school years, but Chazra never broke.
I was so happy to have him as my boyfriend, a man with such a strong will.
As an adult, he did become a soldier.
I still disliked it, but I respected his decision.
Life became a mix of anxiety and happiness, worrying he might get hurt.
The problem wasn’t him—it was me.
I had opposed his enlistment, but what was I supposed to do with my own life?
I didn’t want to attend a university I didn’t care about.
People said I had time, but the pressure lingered.
Around then, I began snapping at Chazra when he came back from training injured.
Maybe I was jealous of his certainty.
Maybe I wanted reassurance of what I meant to him.
Maybe I was just angry that I couldn’t do anything for him.
I was always the one angry, and he was always the one smiling.
That made me feel even smaller.
I started working part-time at a store.
I still drew, but not for sale.
“Asha, do you want to work at my company?”
The offer came from his brother, Zaydan.
After Artistea was released, he had changed completely—from an athlete to a businessman developing a game engine.
I readily accepted Zaydan’s offer.
Even though I knew little about games, I trusted Chazra and his family.
Once it was decided that I would work at a company related to games, I remembered playing games with Frank as a child.
It was a small secret of my own that I had never told Chazra.
I wondered how the man who always grinned when he saw me would react when I spoke of my memories with Frank.
Would he be jealous?
Angry?
Or would he blame himself for not knowing my childhood and ask me to tell him more?
The job was fun.
I feared being a burden since I knew nothing, but no one scolded me.
I designed samples for Zaydan’s engine, and it amazed me that my hobby could matter.
“Asha, you’re beautiful.”
“Asha, I love your style. People really liked it.”
“Where did the boss find such a treasure? You’re not dating him, are you?”
With all that praise and care, my confidence grew.
This was the relationship I had dreamed of—to cherish, to help, to grow together.
Looking back, I sometimes wonder if people were kind to me only because of my tie to Zaydan.
It makes me a little ashamed.
Why are beginnings always so awkward?
Frank, who was like a brother to me, never got back on track.
He became a drug dealer, rumored to be associating with local gangs.
Having seen how the wrong kind of attention had ruined him,
I made a conscious effort to remain humble even after joining the company.
To my surprise, Maya was still with him.
I wondered if she had ever dated him.
Though we had grown apart, I wished her happiness.
Sometimes Frank messaged me.
I replied briefly.
I feared Chazra finding out, but I also felt empty at letting all our memories vanish.
Since he had once confessed his feelings, I felt I owed him at least the knowledge that I was angry.
I even wondered if I had caused his downfall.
When I got angry, Chazra never knew what to do.
I found that so lovable.
Was I being selfish?
Was it okay for me to hold on to this happiness?
Chazra thrived in the military.
Not because he was my boyfriend, but because he earned it. I had seen his effort.
Was everyone in that family like that—focusing on one thing and succeeding?
I told him to slow down sometimes.
I feared he might pass me by like the wind on our hill.
He told me the only reason he rose so quickly was to build a stable home with me.
I was touched but couldn’t answer.
To me, “soldier” was branded as a wound.
Maybe because Frank’s father had been one, and I had watched that family crumble when he never came home.
What if war came and Chazra had to go?
The thought terrified me.
Even after ten years of him never leaving, my trauma remained.
One day, a colleague showed me a video—me kissing someone who looked like Frank.
My mind froze.
I called Chazra immediately.
He never doubted me.
He told me it was okay, that he believed me.
He called Zaydan, who came to see me.
Though embarrassed Zaydan saw the video, he told me it was a deepfake made with Artistea and reassured me.
Zaydan wanted to go to the police, but I refused.
Fear that it might be Frank stopped me.
More than that, I feared the investigation would reveal that I had been secretly in contact with Frank.
If Chazra learned that, I knew it would wound his heart, no matter how confident I was.
Zaydan respected my choice and didn’t press further. He said he’d handle it. Both brothers were just as kind.
Later, Zaydan said he had hired a PR expert, Sophia Phillips, to make sure the video disappeared from the internet.
I told Chazra.
I wanted to reassure him and let him know that I had nothing to hide, while at the same time, the fear of whether he would truly believe me tormented me.
He blamed himself, saying he hadn’t helped me.
He seemed hurt that Zaydan had done more for me than he had...
That’s when I knew: I absolutely needed Chazra in my life.
Wanting to prove his faith in me, Chazra proposed with a beautiful ring.
I accepted, on one condition—that he never leave my side.
The sight of him shouting with joy that day will stay with me forever.
And I wanted to tell Frank:
Goodbye, Frank.
I’m no longer the Asha Verma you knew.
You were my first brother, but these will be my last brothers.
Asha Al-Muradi.
That is my name.
I have stepped out of your shadow.
I will travel my life with Chazra.
—Asha’s diary, the night before her wedding
End of Part One
Artistea. With Asha's story, the first circle (Part 1) is now closed.
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[What's Next?] The fragments will continue to converge. The peaceful days are over. The real war is just beginning.
Part 2 (Chapter 16) begins on: ?? 2026-01-20