Assalamu Alaikum. Hey guys! This is my first book on wattpad. I need your love and support on this! I can't do it without you, ya know? I hope you'll enjoy the book.

Here are some words that I'll be using in the book!

Gelin (bride)
Kız (girl)
Anne (mom)
Evet (yes)
Hayır (no)
Abla (sister)
Ağabey (elder brother)
Bacım (sister)
Canım (my dear)
Nolur/ lütfen (please)
Kuzum (my little lamb or my dear)
Aşkım (my love)
Damat (groom)
Sağol (thanks)
Teşekkürler (thank you)
Güzel (beautiful)

MISS LAYLA'S AESTHETIC ✨

Thankyouu 💕💕

I was sitting by the window, sunlight filtering through the curtains, casting soft shadows across my room. My favorite spot. Wrapped in the warm cocoon of my blanket, I was lost in the pages of a novel, the words carrying me far away from the reality of my life. Every so often, I'd glance up at the world outside—a world that seemed so far removed from the complexities of my own.

But then, my peace was shattered.

"Leyla! Anne is calling you!" Norah, my pesky younger sister, shouted through the door, her voice high-pitched and full of urgency.

I groaned, rolling my eyes. Peace, disrupted.

"I'm coming!" I called back, but I could feel the irritation rising within me. Why did they always call me at the most inconvenient moments? I had been reading a particularly thrilling part of the book, and now it was lost to me.

With a dramatic sigh, I pushed the covers off and swung my legs out of bed. I grabbed my hijab from the ottoman and trudged downstairs, dreading the interruption. If there was one thing I hated more than being disturbed during my personal time, it was my mother's relentless questions.

"Mammy, gani," I greeted as I entered the living room, sitting next to her on the two-seater couch.

Her eyes, dark with concern and irritation, looked me over, shaking her head slowly. "Yanzu, Ke Layla, har 3 kina bacci?" she asked, her Hausa a little rough around the edges but clear enough for me to understand. "Are you still sleeping at 3 in the afternoon?"

I stiffened, my guilt crawling up my spine like an unwelcome guest. She was disappointed, and I hated that feeling more than anything.

I mumbled something incoherent, my eyes darting to the floor, avoiding her gaze. I knew she'd already scolded me countless times for my late nights and lazy mornings. But at 19, who was really ready to be tied down by the responsibilities of adulthood?

Norah, ever the cheerful little devil, popped into the room with a plate in her hand, dropping it on the kitchen counter as she left. "Anne, allow her," she called out to Mammy, her voice mocking but sweet. "Let's see how she'll handle herself when she gets married."

I shot her a glare, but she just giggled, unaffected. I couldn't decide whether to be annoyed or impressed by her ability to be so unbothered.

Mammy sighed deeply, turning back to me. "Leyla'm, I'm just saying... When I was your age, I was already married and had Muhammed when I was 20. You're not too young for marriage, you know. What's so wrong with getting married early?"

I stared at her, shocked. "Mammy, I'm only 19! Are you trying to get rid of me already?" I tried to joke, but the words tasted bitter in my mouth. I wasn't ready for this. Not yet.

Mammy wasn't laughing, though. "What's wrong with it?" she repeated, her gaze unwavering. "You have no idea how much easier it was for me when I married early. You'll understand when you're older."

The weight of her words sank into my chest. I wasn't sure if it was the pressure of her expectations or my own doubts about the future that made my heart race with anxiety. What was I even supposed to say to that?

"Uhm, nothing, I guess," I muttered, standing up to take my plate to the kitchen. I needed to get out of there. I needed space to breathe.

Once in my room, I quickly stripped off my hijab and tossed it on the bed. I lay flat on my back, staring at the ceiling, my mind racing. The soft hum of the house, the distant chatter of my family, the constant pressure to be the perfect daughter—it was all too much.

I closed my eyes, trying to silence the storm in my head, but it wasn't working. Marriage? Seriously? I was only beginning to figure out who I was, let alone who I was supposed to be with. Was I supposed to have it all figured out by 19?

I reached for my phone, needing some kind of distraction, when I saw the name that instantly lifted my spirits. Ibty.

"Hey, Ibty! What's up?" I answered, my voice much brighter than I felt.

"Hafsatu! How are you, girl?" Her excited voice crackled through the phone.

"Ibty!" I laughed, shaking my head even though she couldn't see it. "Must you shout every time you call me?"

She didn't seem to care, though. "Girl, I'm just so excited! So much to tell you! We need to catch up, like, now!"

We spent the next hour chatting about everything and nothing. She told me about some random guy in her class who had apparently been flirting with her (which she brushed off), and I complained about the unending pressure from my mother to "grow up."

When the conversation finally wound down, Ibty promised she'd pick me up later for our ice cream date. Ice cream would fix everything. Or at least, it would temporarily distract me from my growing worries.

After hanging up, I walked to the bathroom to take a long, hot shower. The warm water soothed my tense muscles, the steam filling the room as I lathered on my Body Shop Passion Fruit shower gel. I always felt like a different person when I was done showering—like I could leave the stress behind, if only for a while.

I dried myself off, massaging my favorite British Rose body cream into my skin. My closet seemed to mock me, but I pushed aside the indecision and pulled out a pair of blue mom jeans and a simple gray t-shirt that read, "One of a Kind." It felt like the right choice, though I wasn't sure why. I topped it off with a black abaya and veil—simple but elegant.

As I applied mascara and lip gloss, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Was I really ready for all that life was asking of me? For marriage? For adulthood?

I shook off the thought and grabbed my black Hermès flats and matching Aldo handbag. I was already halfway to the door when I realized I'd forgotten my phone. Of course. I grabbed it and rushed downstairs, hoping I wasn't running late.

Ibty was already there, waiting outside in her sleek black skirt and white top. As always, she looked flawless, her black abaya flowing gracefully as if she had just stepped out of a magazine.

"Viola! Just in time, best friend!" she called, her smile wide and infectious.

I couldn't help but smile back, feeling the tension in my chest release a little. "Let's go before I change my mind."

Hafsah Ahmad Hussain—Layla to my family and friends. At 19, I was in my second year of Civil Engineering at Manchester Metropolitan University. I came from a family of seven: my older brother, Muhammad, was a petrochemical engineer who moved constantly; Meena, my sister, lived in New York with her husband, a neurosurgeon; Nabeel, our third sibling, studied in Florida; and then there was Norah, my baby sister, still in secondary school.

My mother, Hajiya Zeynep, was Turkish, and my father was Fulani from Katsina. We were a family of contrasts, of cultures, of expectations—and sometimes, it felt like the weight of all of it was too much to carry.

Hey guys❤ how's my first chapter? Hope it was good? I really hope you like it! It'll mean a lot to me if you do🥰

Please comment to correct me if there's any mistake written.

I don't mind being corrected🙂

Don't forget to vote and comment! 🥰

Love you always 💗

              ✨ Deedah✨