The Rest Hut

Chapter 4 – The Rest Hut

The higher they climbed, the more the mountain demanded silence.

Not because there was nothing to say, but because every breath became something worth respecting. The air thinned without drama, yet Aleem could feel it–the slight delay between effort and oxygen, the way the lungs had to work harder to maintain what had once been automatic.

Dasha moved beside him with steady determination. Her cheeks were flushed from exertion, her breath visible each time she exhaled. When the wind hit, she pulled her scarf higher. When the path steepened, she shortened her stride and kept going.

Aleem watched her without making it obvious.

He had met confident people before.

He had met strong people.

But Dasha was neither performative nor defensive about it.

She simply was.

After another long stretch of steps–wooden planks damp from mist, uneven and cruel to the calves–they reached a rest hut.

It was not a hut in the romantic sense. It was practical: timber walls, benches lined along the sides, a counter where someone sold instant noodles and hot drinks. The air inside was warmer, thick with the scent of broth, sweat, wet jackets, and something faintly medicinal.

Aleem and Dasha found a bench near the corner.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

They sat with their backs against the wall, shoulders rising and falling, letting their bodies catch up with the altitude.

Dasha leaned forward, elbows on her knees, and laughed quietly under her breath.

Aleem turned his head. “What?”

“This is harder than it looks on videos,” she said, voice slightly breathless.

Aleem’s mouth twitched. “Everything is easier on the internet.”

Dasha looked at him with quiet amusement. “You are speaking like someone who has been betrayed many times by online expectations.”

Aleem exhaled a laugh. “You have no idea.”

They unpacked their lunches.

Aleem laid out his food with the same order he brought to everything–sandwiches wrapped neatly, a banana, a small container of nuts, two energy bars.

Dasha pulled out a packet of dried meat, a wrapped pastry, and a small box filled with something spiced and fragrant.

The smell alone made Aleem’s stomach react.

“What is that?” he asked.

“Homemade,” Dasha said. “I asked the hotel kitchen yesterday.”

Aleem stared. “You negotiated with the hotel kitchen.”

“I asked politely,” Dasha corrected.

Aleem shook his head, impressed. “You are dangerously capable.”

Dasha’s eyes warmed. “You noticed.”

She opened the box and offered it to him.

Aleem hesitated. “Are you sure?”

Dasha lifted a brow. “Aleem. Eat.”

He took a piece.

The flavour was sharp and rich–spice, salt, a hint of sweetness. It warmed his mouth and made the cold feel less aggressive.

Aleem blinked. “This is incredible.”

Dasha smiled with quiet satisfaction. “Good.”

Aleem tore his sandwich in half and held out the larger portion.

Dasha looked at it, then at him. “You always give the bigger piece.”

“It is logical,” Aleem replied. “You need energy for the climb.”

Dasha’s gaze sharpened slightly, as though she could see through his reasoning.

“Or you like taking care,” she said.

Aleem looked away, pretending to focus on unwrapping the second sandwich.

“It is practical,” he said again.

Dasha did not argue. She simply accepted the sandwich with a smile that felt like patience.

Around them, other hikers moved in and out–some laughing loudly, some looking grim, some sitting with eyes closed as if they were having private negotiations with their legs.

Aleem and Dasha existed in a quieter pocket of space.

They ate slowly.

Between bites, their conversation drifted–not in a way that felt forced, but in the gentle meandering of two people who were beginning to understand each other’s rhythms.

Dasha asked about Singapore.

Aleem told her about the heat, the efficiency, the way people moved as though time itself was a resource to be spent carefully.

“And you?” he asked. “What is it like where you are from?”

Dasha’s eyes softened, as if memory had opened quietly.

“Kazakhstan is… open,” she said. “When you are there, you feel small. The sky is too big. The roads are too long. Even silence feels larger.”

“That sounds peaceful,” Aleem said.

“It can be,” Dasha replied. “But it can also be lonely. People think wide spaces mean freedom. Sometimes wide spaces mean you have more room to feel how alone you are.”

Aleem went still.

He understood that.

He did not respond immediately, because he did not want to answer carelessly.

Dasha watched him, not pressing.

Finally, Aleem said quietly, “I know what it is like to be surrounded by people and still feel alone.”

Dasha’s gaze held his.

“You are the single one in your group,” she said.

It was not a question.

Aleem exhaled. “Yes.”

Dasha nodded as though it confirmed something.

“And you do not like to talk about it,” she added.

Aleem gave a faint, humourless smile. “I do not like to make it other people’s problem.”

Dasha’s voice softened, but her words remained direct. “It is not a problem. It is a truth.”

Aleem looked down at his hands, at the edge of his glove.

He had spent years being the friend who listened, the friend who advised, the friend who showed up. He had learned how to carry other people’s emotions with steadiness.

He had never learned how to let anyone carry his.

Dasha leaned back against the wall, the wooden bench creaking.

“You are careful with yourself,” she said.

Aleem’s jaw tightened slightly. “I have reasons.”

Dasha nodded once, accepting the existence of those reasons without demanding details.

Then she said, almost casually, “Do you think being careful has protected you?”

Aleem stared at her.

The question landed with uncomfortable precision.

He could have answered with logic.

He could have said yes, because carefulness avoided risk, avoided mistakes.

But the truth was more complicated.

“It has protected me from embarrassment,” he said finally.

Dasha’s gaze did not leave him. “And from joy?”

Aleem’s throat tightened.

He looked away, out through the hut window where fog blurred the world into pale grey.

“You talk like a therapist,” he muttered.

Dasha smiled, not offended. “No. I talk like someone who has also been afraid.”

Aleem was quiet.

Dasha continued, voice low.

“Sometimes people think fear is only about danger,” she said. “But fear is also about hope. Because hope can be taken away.”

Aleem felt the words settle into him.

He did not deny them.

He could not.

They finished eating.

Aleem offered Dasha some nuts; she accepted. Dasha offered him another piece of her spiced food; he took it without hesitation this time.

The sharing became less about food and more about the unspoken intimacy of taking care of each other without making it dramatic.

When they packed up, Aleem stood first and stretched his legs, wincing slightly.

Dasha noticed.

“Your legs,” she said.

“They are protesting,” Aleem admitted.

Dasha’s eyes danced. “This is the mountain’s way of saying you are human.”

Aleem looked at her. “Are you not human?”

“I am human,” Dasha replied. “I just do not negotiate with my legs. I tell them they will survive.”

Aleem laughed, and the sound startled him a little.

It had been a while since laughter had come that easily.

They stepped out of the hut and back onto the path.

The cold hit immediately, sharper after the brief warmth inside.

Aleem adjusted his backpack and glanced at Dasha.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

Dasha nodded. “Yes.” Then, after a beat, she added, “You are thinking again.”

Aleem blinked. “How do you know?”

Dasha’s voice was almost amused. “Your eyes. When you think, you look like you are solving a problem.”

Aleem exhaled slowly. “Maybe I am.”

Dasha tilted her head. “What is the problem?”

Aleem almost said, You.

But the word lodged in his throat.

He could not name it.

Not yet.

So he chose something safer.

“The summit,” he said. “It is not far now, but it is the hardest part.”

Dasha smiled slightly. “Then we do it.”

They climbed again.

The path grew steeper, and the wind became more insistent, pushing against their bodies as if testing their resolve.

Aleem matched Dasha’s pace.

When she slowed, he slowed.

When he struggled, she waited without comment.

At one point, Dasha stumbled slightly on a damp step.

Aleem’s hand shot out instinctively, catching her elbow.

For a moment, they were close.

Close enough that Aleem could see the faint moisture on her lashes from the mist.

Close enough that he could feel her breath.

Dasha steadied herself, then looked up at him.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

Aleem released her slowly, as if he was aware of the way his fingers had lingered.

“You are welcome,” he replied, voice carefully even.

They continued.

But something had changed.

Not in a dramatic way.

More like a thread had tightened between them–an awareness that their closeness was no longer accidental.

As the signs began to indicate the remaining distance to the summit, Aleem’s heart beat harder.

He told himself it was the altitude.

It was not.

He glanced at Dasha, who was walking ahead of him now, determined.

He admired the line of her shoulders, the way she moved through effort without complaint.

He admired her, and he was not sure what to do with that admiration.

His past had taught him to stay on the second foot.

To wait.

To let others lead, because leading meant exposing his heart first.

But the closer they got to the summit, the more Aleem felt the pressure of something unspoken building in his chest.

He wanted to say something.

He wanted to be brave.

And yet fear moved through him like cold air–quiet, persistent.

He did not know what waited for them at the top.

He only knew that the mountain was no longer the hardest part.

The hardest part was what he felt when he looked at her.