From Aliya to Hafiz

Twelve.

Hafiz.

When I entered the house, I ignored Father, who was lounging in the living room and leisurely sipping a cup of whatever hot beverage he whipped up for himself.

Good to see at least one of us was fucking carefree and comfortable.

I stalked up the stairs and to the room designated for me. It was the room I lived in as a child. I refused to attach any form of possessive pronoun to it.

Throwing myself on the bed, I folded my hands beneath my head and stared at the ceiling.

The days of starving and the flight here gave me sufficient time to think and calm down. My earlier interaction with Aliya, that gold digger, was purely out of a twisted sense of wanting to destroy her peaceful-looking silhouette.

On what basis should I be disgruntled while she remained serene? If she could give up her morals just to live a luxurious life and get out of being a slave, then she could give up her dignity and temper as well.

"Looks sure are fucking deceiving."

Her pure eyes were wasted on her.

Ignoring the nagging feeling in my chest that was telling me I was getting everything wrong, that there was more to her expression back then, I closed my eyes and gave in to my fatigue.

I was woken up by the constant pinging of my phone. Stretching my hand out, I pulled it out from under my pillow and stared at the bright screen, bleary-eyed.

There were two missed calls from Grandma, three from Mom, and five messages and a missed call from Bailey.

The one sending a vibration through my phone was an incoming call from my grandfather. Sliding to answer, I brought it up to my ear and choked out a hoarse greeting.

"Grandpa?" I sat up groggily when I heard no reply. "Are you there?" I drew the phone back to check if I was still connected to the house's wifi.

"Don't call me grandpa, I don't have a grandson like you!" He snapped before ending the call.

"???"

Stupefied, I stared at the phone. So did he just ring me up to say that and hang up? Lips curving in amusement, I dialled him back.

"Salam alaikum," he said.

"Grandpa."

"Who's this please?"

"Grandad," I said, laughing a little.

"Why are you calling me grandad? I only have three grandchildren, and this isn't their voice or number."

"I'm the second grandchild, Hafiz."

"No, you're not. My family's Hafiz is a sweetheart who cares about his old grandfather," he replied huffily.

"Yes yes. So let's just say I'm a stranger then. How are you doing?"

"Why will I tell a stranger that? To get kidnapped? I'm hanging up."

"Okay okay. Um, I'm sorry. I'm an ass and I'm sorry," I laughed.

"You are indeed a backside. And a black wrinkled one at that."

Scrunching my nose at the image that popped into my head, I coaxed, "Yes yes. Whatever you say goes. So, can I have the honour of knowing why I'm an ass?"

"Ehem!" He coughed.

"Can I have the honour of knowing why I'm a backside?"

"A backside?"