What Not To Do When You're In Love

19 | Confession

19 | Confession

There are degrees to remorse. And on our painfully silent walk downstairs, I was filled with one of the strongest degrees of it.

Never. I could really never be good enough for anyone. Not even Hasan, who was legitimately not even expecting anything troublesome from me; at least not yet.

Which was not even the worst part.

The worst part was that even after recognising the fact that I was continually hurting him by doing and saying stupid things, I was still capable of wanting him to leave. I wanted him gone, which was a bitchy thing to wish for even though it was only because I wanted to be alone with my thoughts and figure out a way to present to him a justification for my behaviour; to come up with a proper way to make peace with him again.

That I was hurting Hasan itself was not the core cause of the anxiety in me; I was embarrassed to admit it, but I was more bothered about the fact that Hasan, too . . .

Allah was Witness that I hated to disappoint people, yet I was some way or the other always disappointing everyone I loved. Mamma would always be mad at me because I was never close enough to her definition of a good girl. Just because I was married now Jebrail assumed I would suddenly be blessed with divine sophistication, so when my childish ways appeared to persist, he suddenly hated me. Aunty Husna did not have the correct number of chores for me to work night and day on, but it was still frowned upon when I tried to touch my laptop or the TV remote on the rare occasions when I was free during the day. Even those times when I asked to be excused for studying she permitted it with annoyance and reluctance. And I knew, even though Lubaina would never really say it out loud, that she had to be disappointed that even being his own sister I could never help her situation with Jebrail.

No matter what I did, no one thought my efforts were satisfactory. They weren't, not ever. I failed everyone I loved. And when I went with something my mother wanted me to so that I didn't let her down, I ended up breaking my own heart.

All this while I would always try to believe that I would reach that point later if not sooner; that point when I would finally truly accept Hasan with the level of gravity that his position in my life demanded. I thought that one day I would wake up beside him and actually be able to return his calm smile without those few moments of panic and the irrational urge to jump off. I thought that like the movies, my love would eventually end up coughing and gasping into existence.

Now it seemed like it was time to throw all that out of the window.

I had no other way now: I had to force myself to accept the way we fit together. The way he knew I did not really mind giving him some my sandwich, even if nothing could stop me from making a spectacle about it in a public place. The way he always, always knew exactly what to say to make me smile. The convenient way he had just the same opinion on useless things like make-up and showy clothing - endurable when required, but never really exciting - like me. The way he always dissolved our arguments as if they never happened; as if he knew how much it disturbed me when we fought.

Actually, Hasan and I were more compatible with each other than I had ever wanted to admit. It was a remarkable example of how Allah made the perfect pairs from Jannah and sent them here only to complement each other, how Hasan and I, with some effort, tolerated, (and even, to some extent, liked) each other despite our bazillion differences.

It took me a while, but I was finally coming around accepting it.

It had suddenly struck me, seated on the chair facing his at the buffet diner of the hotel, who Hasan really was.