"Ama?" Zeya called, uncertainty lacing her voice. She noticed the exhaustion in Amaya's eyes, the flush on her cheeks, and the deep crimson of her lips, which contrasted sharply with her paleness.
"Sorry for staring. Didn't expect you to look cool after washing your face," Amaya said, a faint smile breaking through her weariness as she moved toward the tap to rinse her own face. "How are you? I heard you're sick," Zeya asked, concern flickering in her eyes like a candle in the wind. "Worse," Amaya replied, her voice barely above a whisper as she splashed water over her skin, the droplets glistening like tears. She dried her face with a handkerchief, the fabric absorbing the moisture but not the weight of her discomfort.
