under the covers [hs au]

chapter forty-three.

Raking her fingers through her hair, Samira observed the frizz and knots, disheartened. Her brown skin had dulled, its glow gone.

It's going to get worse before it gets better.

The summer air caressed Samira's skin as she sat on the front porch. She peered to her left, watching the morning sun soak up the night sky as it rose from the east. She rolled her eyes at the sudden thirst, as fasting hours only started minutes ago.

Every morning, Mahnoor made Samira send her a text—I'm up for fajr—because Samira had been slacking this obligation for a grievous amount of time. And she'd finally begun to get up before dawn, every morning except the week of her period.

Mahnoor: Will I see you at taraweeh?

Samira: hopefully

Mahnoor: It could be laylat ul qadar

Samira: ik but it depends on what my parents wanna do tonight

Mahnoor: try to come

Samira: okay

The silence accompanied Samira like a friend last night. Only this time, a good friend, who whispered new ideas and ones that she'd ditched.

Samira hadn't opened Harry's journal since she wanted to forget about him this month. But, like Dr. Ayub said, she needed to stop running away from her problems.

With her lamb next to her, Samira wrote down what felt memorable:

I feel undeserving. How she holds me in her sleep, how she takes care of me.

I need you. Those words meant a lot more than I love you, but she doesn't know that.

To admit, I am a bit more stubborn than she is, but I tell her it's her to make myself feel better.

It's hard to admit that this relationship isn't perfect.

She stopped putting an effort into many things.

I tell Samira I need her a bit too much. Can anyone blame me?

She's so selfish. She can't make it all about her.

I'm an idiot.

I didn't love Samira the way she needed to be loved.

I hope you can forgive me, Samira, even though I don't deserve it. I love you, and I'm sorry.

The words had her boiling with anger, but then she calmed in seconds, ice cold. The pieces Samira collected didn't fit together—being upset with Harry wasn't easy, but she wasn't sure if it was because of the imminent peace in the air.

With her journal on her lap, Samira called Dr. Ayub, hoping she'd be awake.

"Hello?"

"Hi." Samira cleared her throat. "Asalamu-Alaikum, Dr. Ayub."

"Wa-Alaikum-Assalam, Samira."

"Um, is it a bad time?"

"Never," Dr. Ayub answered sweetly. "I was hoping you'd call."

Samira flipped through the pages, fingers trembling. Her heart pounded at the late-night thoughts she'd written, alone in her room with no one else. A few papers were wrinkled from tears, along with a rip or two from writing too aggressively.