❝ CLEANING THE HOUSE IS NOT 'MALEWIFE BEHAVIOUR', IT'S CALLED BEING A RESPONSIBLE ADULT. ❞
━━━ al-haitham's friends scribble his phone number in one of the stalls of the girls' washroom, and he ends up getting a message at 3 am.
[ al-haith...
"What did she say?" Cyno repeated, acting blissfully unaware of the evident distaste.
Al-haitham rubbed his temple and released a defeated sigh. It was too late for him to be worrying about such trivial matters.
"She's okay with both of the options."
Cyno deadpanned. "Then choose the first one. It should be a handwritten essay — or letter, whatever of the two you prefer — and you should be on your knees in front of her doorstep. That sounds perfect."
"Do you despise me?" He clicked his tongue. "She may be a hopeless romantic, but she doesn't like such... intense display of... uh, of any emotion."
"The emotion being affection."
"This isn't affection."
"I'm losing my patience. You're too grown of a man to not accept your feelings for someone." Cyno said, exasperated. "It's okay. You're in college. People like other people."
Al-haitham calmly put his phone on the nightstand and adjusted the sheets of his bed. He grabbed a book from the shelf, tuning out every word Cyno was pelting at him.
Cyno, however, continued expressing his irritation despite Al-haitham's impassive behaviour. "I don't understand why you're being like this. She's so nice... she lets me win card games, she has a lot of good jokes and she also laughs at mine, she's cu—"
"Do you like her?" The grey-haired man asked casually.
"No."
"Does she like you?"
"...No?"
"Do you like Dehya?"
"No!"
"Does Dehya like you?"
"Hopefully not..."
"There you have it." He stated plainly. "No matter how amazing a person is, you cannot force yourself to see them through a romantic lens."
"Well, you have never said that you don't like her. That means there's something. I'm your friend. You have to tell me."
Al-haitham had a ghost of a smile tracing his lips. He ignored his surroundings and skimmed through the book in his hands, his eyes searching for a folded paper that was tucked neatly somewhere between its crisp pages.
He took it out once his gaze landed on it, observing its bare surface. Then, he grabbed his pen and began jotting down everything that his mind had been yelling at him for days.
It wasn't much. It wasn't worth fifty pages. It was even worth two.
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