Who Are You?

Chapter 1

Maira's POV:

As soon as I wake up, my alarm blaring from my phone, I find myself buried under my blanket, my legs freezing as they're sticking out from the warmth of the blanket, my face hot from the stuffiness of being inside of it, and my pillow is nowhere to be seen.

Why do I move so much in the night? It's a curse.

I move my duvet, cold air suddenly rushes on my hot face. Sunlight rays are streaming in from my window, blinding me.

I forgot to close my curtains last night.

I look down and find my pillow on the floor. Picking it off the floor and whacking it a bit with my hands in case there's any dust, I place it back on my bed.

I sit up, groaning as I realize my neck's stiff, and my bones feel like they're creaking in opposition at the movement.

Coffee, I require coffee immediately. But first, a shower.

I quickly shower, get dressed, apply some light make-up, and start planning out my outfit. As I'm wearing a white shirt, tucked into black skinny jeans, and a cute oversized denim jacket, I opt for a chocolate brown jersey scarf.

I put on a white under-scarf cap over my bun so that the scarf doesn't slip off, and push it back a little from my hairline, pulling out two strands of hair to frame my face. Then, I place my scarf over where my cap starts and swing the right end of the scarf over my left shoulder, loosening it a bit around my face. Perfect.

I head downstairs and am immediately greeted by the aroma of fresh pancakes. I take my seat at the table, ruffling my little brother, Bilal's, hair. Three fluffy and delicious-looking blueberry pancakes await on my plate.

"As-salamu alaykum," I say, greeting my family with the Islamic greeting. They reply with their Wa alaykumus-salam's, and we all start eating as the pancakes reach our plates.

My sister, Leena, passes me an iced coffee, winking. I beam at her, accepting it and pinching her cheek in adoration. I love her so much.

I'm the oldest of these two, Leena coming after me at 20 years old, and Bilal, the youngest child, at 13 years old.

"Aapi," Leena starts, using the Urdu term for 'sister', a sign of respect for girls older than her. 

She's in college, a junior after her summer vacations are over, but to me, she's still a baby. My little baby. A five years difference does that in my mind.

"Yes, Leenoo?" I ask her with the pet name I've always had for her, happily slicing into my pancakes.

"What are your kids like this year?" she asks, grinning.

I'm a first-grade teacher at an elementary school just outside of downtown Houston, a good thirty-minute drive from our home. I have always loved being around kids, which is why I studied for a degree in Elementary Education while in Uni.

The school I work for pays well, as well as gives its staff a free lunch twice a month, which are just bonuses for me. The only downside is that I'm one of the youngest teachers at 25 years old, so I look like a high school student, walking around an elementary school when I look like I should be at the neighboring high school.

I take those misunderstandings as a compliment, though.

"The kids I got this year are just amazing and so adorable," I reply, thinking of yesterday, the first day of classes. This year is the third year I'm teaching at this school, and I have loved it.

I've been teaching since the year I graduated, at 22, and I'm so thankful that I got such an amazing job for the first school that I get to really teach at. Teaching these adorable kids is my passion, and everyone in my family knows it.