under the covers [hs au]

chapter forty-three.

"I tried doing your challenges, and it had me thinking. And . . . I wrote in the journal."

Dr. Ayub hummed: "What were your thoughts?"

"I wish . . ." She inhaled through her nose, shoulders lifted up. "I wish he knew how to handle someone like me. That he knew what to do if I didn't want to talk to him. Because there was a time where I told him I was fine, but it was so clear that I lied, and he didn't do anything about it. And he knew I lied."

Discomfort slithered into her skin; Samira wrapped her cardigan around her tightly, taking a deep breath.

"I wish he held me and knew how to comfort me if I was unable to tell him I was sad," Samira sighed. "When I needed it. I wish he knew what I needed."

"Does that make you angry?"

"It did." Her fist softened. "But for some reason . . . it didn't. Something else makes me angry."

Lips quivering, Samira covered her face as if a whole audience watched her, even though she was utterly alone.

"Like, last night, I read the journal and saw things the way he did. He knew I was hurting, but he chose not to do anything about it. He . . . even admitted to manipulating me and doing other things in his journal . . . but then I remembered some things."

Samira flipped a page, reading a sentence she wanted to remember.

"What relieved my anger is . . . knowing that he knew I was angry. I showed it. I channeled it when I slapped him at the time I was trying to break up with him. He knows and acknowledged why I deserved to be angry at him in the journal.

"Yes, he hurt me. It hurts that he couldn't apologize to my face. Beneath it all, I stayed with someone who agreed not to hurt me."

Like a flash of lightning, Samira froze in place—she'd finally grasped the point of this objective.

"But . . . I'm angry with him as much as I am angry at myself. Because it's not entirely his fault. I'm not . . . I'm not good at communicating. I'm . . . awful at it, and I don't know why. I would've known what to do otherwise."

Having said it, Samira's shoulders felt light.

"And now, I want to know why it was so hard to talk to him."

"I see. I was hoping some self-realization would be the result. I'm proud of you," Dr. Ayub praised. "When you come in next week, we can explore that. Write it down."

The corners of her lips twitched: "I did."

"Good. By the way, how is your Ramadan going?"

"It's going—"

"Be honest."

There was a pang in her chest. Her boat that floated toward growth had turned back, reencountering all the storms and the rapids in the water.

"I'm back at this point in my life where I think I can't change and that Allah isn't going to forgive me," Samira answered earnestly. "And I try to pray and hope that closeness to Him will come . . . but it's not there."

"It's Ramadan, Samira, remember? This is the month where you seek forgiveness and forgive others."

"Yeah, but . . . I'm back to being the person I asked Him to forgive. It feels hopeless."

"Okay. And what have you done to change?"

Samira blinked, thinking to herself: "I mean, I deleted all the dating apps and the numbers of people I hooked up with. I haven't been sleeping much because I'm too sad, and I think I'm going to miss salah and eventually give up on it—I force myself to pray, knowing the fasting won't be accepted. Either way, I don't feel connected the way I want to be. I really want to . . . cry."