A Thousand Splendid Suns

Saying that he was leaving.
Not the neighborhood. Not Kabul. But Afghanistan altogether.
Leaving.
Laila was struck blind.
"Where? Where will you go?"
"Pakistan first. Peshawar. Then I don't know. Maybe Hindustan. Iran."
"How long?"
"I don't know."
"I mean, how long have you known?"
"A few days. I was going to tell you, Laila, I swear, but I couldn't bring
myself to. I knew how upset you'd be."
"When?"
"Tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?"
"Laila, look at me."
"Tomorrow."
"It's my father. His heart can't take it anymore, all this fighting and
killing."
Laila buried her face in her hands, a bubble of dread filling her chest.
She should have seen this coming, she thought. Almost everyone she
knew had packed their things and left. The neighborhood had been all
but drained of familiar faces, and now, only four months after fighting
had broken out between the Mujahideen factions, Laila hardly recognized
anybody on the streets anymore. Hasina's family had fled in May, off to
Tehran. Wajma and her clan had gone to Islamabad that same month.
Giti's parents and her siblings left in June, shortly after Giti was killed.
Laila didn't know where they had gone-she heard a rumor that they had
headed for Mashad, in Iran. After people left, their homes sat unoccupied
for a few days, then either militiamen took them or strangers moved in.
Everyone was leaving. And now Tariq too.