The usual death stare in the mirror had diminished.
Fresh out of the shower, Samira stared at her naked body that was once fragile. Opening her therapy journal, she read each sentence carefully.
Who cares if your tits are unsymmetrical.
I like your shoulders.
Your eyebrows are big, and it's lovely. You have long, pretty eyelashes.
Your curls are my favorite.
Your butt looks good. You've been eating well. I'm proud of you.
Your cookie pouch is literally your uterus.
Just say Masha-Allah.
A sharp breath left her lips. Flipping the journal closed, Samira raked her body from head to toe with a twirl and twist.
She began to dress slowly, scrutinizing everything, whether it jiggled, sagged, or remained still. Her vitality was evident in her thighs, stomach, and the layered chub in her neck. Her barbarian shoulders stood high—she liked how strong they were and how much weight they carried every day. Her long, curly black hair finally fell past her shoulder blades, without a knot nor frizz.
With the tug of her old jeans, they finally clung to her wide hips. Samira huffed, feeling her thighs squeeze into them.
The corners of her lips tingled upward the moment Samira took a step back, taking in every inch of her glory.
Aw. I love you.
After getting dressed in jeans and an oversized sweater, the adhan went off on her phone. Without a second thought, she unfolded the embroidered mat in her room, praying asr.
Omma left mutton rolls in the oven for Samira before she'd gone out to shop. Samira opened her laptop at the kitchen counter, munching as she typed away. Sakinah climbed up onto the counter, trotting from corner to corner. Samira clicked her tongue and smooched her lips, but Sakinah purred softly, licking her paws and rubbing the fur on her face—rolling her eyes, Samira gave up.
Zafri:
Zafri: I haven't heard from you in a while. Can we hang out
Samira: I bothered you all last week
Samira: Don't wanna be clingy lol
Zafri:
Zafri: I don't mind it
An address then popped up on her phone.
Samira: Why do you wanna go to osu? Is there some event lol
Samira: whatever actually
Samira: Do you want me to pick u up
Zafri: NOOOOOOOOOOO i'm never letting you drive again
Zafri: I will come over in 10 minutes if you're ready
Samira: sounds good
Aiza stood between Samira and Zafri, holding both of their hands. They walked down Neil Avenue, wisps of snow falling in their path. Samira's teeth chattered, and she was eager to hop inside a building.
"Zafri, where are we going?" Samira interrogated, wrapping an arm around herself. "It's freezing."
Aiza gazed up at her, giggling: "It's no cold!"
Chuckling, Zafri turned to the right, leading them to a building that read Pfahl Hall. Despite how warm it was inside, goosebumps rose on her skin when Zafri opened the door to an empty lecture hall. Circular rows of desks from top to bottom, and it smelled of cardboard and timber. A smile sparked on her lips as she watched Zafri stroll to the floor of the hall. He turned around, holding a slight smirk.
"Come," he called, waving his hand toward the bottom row of desks.
Aiza sat in the space separating Samira and Zafri. He reached into his tote bag, pulling out a coloring book and some markers for Aiza. As Aiza got herself preoccupied, Zafri handed Samira a slim object shrouded in white gift wrap. It seemed like a novel.
"A present, for you. Open it."
Zafri leaned against the rolling chair, tapping his foot with excitement. With her eyebrows creased, Samira accepted the gift and ripped the paper apart, finding a blank green book. Flipping through its emptiness, she noticed a small message on the corner of the first page.
Hi.
- Zafri
Samira smiled, peering at Zafri. He grinned widely, showing his crooked teeth.
"You got me a journal?"
"Yeah." From his pocket, he pulled out a pen. "I know you've been procrastinating."
Samira felt her heart soften, tracing her finger over Zafri's handwriting.
"But what do I write?"
"I don't know. I thought you needed to be in a space that would help you." Zafri slipped the pen over to her. "So, I brought you here."
Samira's ears bubbled with heat as she picked up the pen. Her heart pounded at the thought of sharing her ideas, but then again, Zafri's ears were always open for her.
He always gets you. It's fine.
And so, they began, running through notions she once found uneasy talking about. They caught themselves in tangents whenever Zafri would mention something, discussing an event in the past or their opinions that repelled. An hour later, colorful plotlines were listed, with arrows and doodles alongside each one.
"Why are you naming this character Maryam?" Zafri snickered.
"I don't know. I always imagined raising that girl. Don't judge me."
Samira halted her pen; a thought ran through her head like lightning. Maybe Samira didn't want these concepts to be a chance to 'rewrite' her life, but rather something she could reflect on. Crossing out a few ideas, Samira left things she wished to ponder more about.
"What is it that you want to do?" Zafri asked, out of the blue.
The ball of the pen bled a circle of ink into the paper. Samira ripped her gaze from the chalkboard, looking over at Zafri.
"What do you mean?"
"Like, your hopes and dreams," he added. "The one thing you want in life."
Oddly enough, her mind filled with weird, mystical imagery at Zafri's question. Maybe a fantasy she once assumed was unreachable was for her pain to be worthwhile in the long run. But Samira knew she was indeed living that dream, especially as she gazed at the man before her.
Samira lost count of every blessing, even the ones that were as small as a grain of rice.
"This is going to sound cheesy. Like brown uncle cheesy."
Samira giggled, looking up at Zafri. His smile grew wider as she spoke.
"I want a house back in Sri Lanka, with some land. And the backyard would have a pretty garden, with vegetables and flowers. There would be a little barn with baby goats. My relatives would live around me, and I'd be with my family. I'd spend time taking care of people, giving, helping others. With the ocean sounds and warm breeze. It's cheesy, isn't it?"
Zafri stared at Samira with his chin in his palm. He got lost in her words.
"That's a very admirable dream," he replied. "Since it's a bit similar to yours . . . I'll maybe be by your side. I want to help people, too. Especially, you know, creating a safe space for kids back home."
"We could go from India to Sri Lanka."
"I can already imagine you writing a diaspora poem about that."
Samira laughed, throwing her head back: "You're sick."
Zafri chuckled with her: "But, yeah. It's all I want to do. I want it to work out."
Her mind painted a picture with their lives intertwining. Samira and Zafri, together, in a turquoise-colored house in her village. Greeting salam to the passersby, feeding the goats and chickens every morning under the tropical sun. In the day, they'd hold their hands out for those in need, and at night, they'd lay together, giving each other their listening ears. The image brought a peculiar yet satisfying feeling to Samira's chest.
"You've already achieved everything you wanted regardless," Samira reminded. "You have to stop being insecure, you know."
"And I'm trying."
"Are you, though?" Samira teased.
He rolled his eyes: "Samosa."
Zafri reached into his pocket, pulling out his phone and a pair of earbuds. He plugged them into Aiza's ears as she colored. Samira was astonished by how quiet she'd been since they came here.
For a moment, Samira fixated on an object of the room, mind drifting to some part of the past. In the corner, she saw a young Samira, around the age of twenty. A lot thinner, eyes sunken into her face. She always sat alone in this empty lecture hall, lost and confused with no sense of belonging. Constantly drunk on her sadness.
Zafri cleared his throat: "What are you thinking about?"
An easy quietness dwelled in the air.
"I was so depressed in college. I didn't have anything here," Samira admitted, chuckling. "And I think of my parents. I'm grateful that they still wanted me to come home, fed me, and gave me no responsibilities. Of course, it was at the cost of my mental health, but I've learned to work around it. And thinking about that, I'm proud of myself."
"I get that," Zafri responded. "We built ourselves on our own in a sense. With who we are, our faith, the way we think of people. If I thought the same way my parents did or always listened to them, I'd be a different person."
Biting her lips, Samira folded her arms on the desk and rested her head comfortably. At the thought of her state of mind before her faith came a lump in her throat. Most children broke the rules because they didn't know why they were there in the first place. Their parents told them to act a particular way and do things to gratify others, but never to please God.
"An imam helped me when I was struggling. When he told me Allah loves me no matter what, I started bawling my eyes out. No one had ever told me that before—I was never taught it."
Oceans away from Allah, that one fragment of belief brought Samira right back. She stopped caring what others thought; their judgments no longer turned her away, and her faith didn't need their validation. All Samira needed to believe was herself, to grasp that Allah loved her endlessly and forgave her before she could even repent.
Zafri tore his gaze, tapping his fingers on the table. He tightened his shoulders, inhaling softly.
"That got to me." He swiped a thumb under his eye. "If I were taught that way, I would've loved salah a lot sooner. It's my break from this dunya, my time to relax. I often wonder why our parents made it sound like a chore when we were kids."
Prayer put out the fire that burned relentlessly. Samira could finally roll out the rug and allow her forehead to touch its threads without a second thought. All the pain, stress, sin would fall off her shoulders as she prostrated. Her heart was held gingerly, five times a day. God only knew where Samira would be without it.
"We really can't blame our parents for the way they raised us," Samira tittered, sniffling. "Religion was different back home."
"There's a deeper meaning to everything." Zafri shook his head in disbelief.
"I'm not ready to die quite yet. Are you?"
"Only when He's pleased with me."
Page after page brimmed with words as they drank a few cups of chai. When Samira passed the notebook to Zafri, he'd leave a sketch or two in between ideas, like an animal or a flower. His snide comments caused Samira to hold her stomach as she died with laughter.
Burned out after scribbling all over her coloring book, Aiza grew grumpy.
"We should go eat," Zafri mentioned, playing with Aiza's ponytails. "Before this one throws a tantrum."
Samira toyed with the threads of her jeans, sighing audibly.
"Hey, are you okay?"
Peering up, Samira caught Zafri's concerned gaze.
The question on the tip of her tongue was something Samira had been stalling for the past few weeks; she worried her anxiety would blow harsh gusts and interrupt the gentle breeze between them.
"I don't know, I feel weird. I just . . ." She cleared her throat. "Are you scared?"
"Scared of what?"
"Me."
Zafri cleared his throat, swiping his tongue over his lips. He leaned against his chair, gaping his eyes at her.
"You?" Zafri countered with a snarky tone. "Is there something you're worried about?"
Zafri read Samira like a goddamn book, and fuck, she resented it.
"I don't know. Maybe."
Breathing through his nose, Zafri looked down at Aiza. He stroked her ponytails with his palm, biting the inside of his cheeks.
"Of course, I'm scared. Not of you, but this," he replied softly, staring right into Samira's eyes. "I know you are, too. But we can be scared together."
"But . . . what if I hurt you, Zafri?" Samira rambled. "What if you can't stand me? What if I fuck up? I mean, I can lose my patience, say something stupid, or do something impulsive, and I wouldn't feel the need to tell you about it. And I just cry all the time."
Nose tickling, Samira felt a tear fall down her cheek. She ached to punch herself in the face for it.
"Like . . . are things too perfect?"
A frown curled into Zafri's lips, and he ran a hand over his face.
"We worry about the same shit, don't we?" Zafri remarked, leaning close. "I worry about breaking your heart all the time, too, Samira."
Samira looked up, caught off guard. Feeling bile rise in her throat, she swallowed.
"Since we've been going out, I noticed that we've been able to understand each other like it's nothing. I've thought of pushing you away. Like, when you showed up that one night when I was feeling pretty shitty, I thought I didn't deserve you," He scoffed, gazing at her. "I've come to realize that things aren't perfect, Samira, but . . . it's healthy."
He's right, Samira.
The voice in Samira's head spoke for her.
"And you're human. I don't care what you do," he began gently.
"You trust me?" Samira asked. "That much?"
Zafri nodded: "Absolutely."
Samira felt her pulse race regardless, worrying about the possible gash she'd leave in his perfect, perfect soul.
"And I know you don't trust me yet. But I'll say this. I never gave up on you for the past nine years, and I won't give up on you now, and I won't do that later. There's nothing you could do that would change how I feel about you. It's your thing, right here, that I adore," Zafri caressed the left side of his ribcage. "I've seen it, and I know what it's been through, and I want to take care of it for the rest of my life."
Samira could ask Zafri for a rose, and he would give her a garden. Every moment she spent with Zafri, he carried his heart out in his palm, from when he held her from all her pain as children to that chilly night in Colorado, and especially now.
"Does that answer your question, Samira?"
Her shoulders tightened as she observed the gold glistening in his brown eyes. Every word he articulated was seen in his actions, every single day, and not a bone in her body denied it.
"It does."
His gaze was like an open ocean, and Samira dove right into them. Only this time, Samira wasn't drowning. Her arms didn't flail, nor did she gasp for her breath. She swam without a ripple interrupting her pace. Zafri's currents levitated her, and she was on cloud nine.
But the familiar feeling was terrifying—but Samira promised herself she'd deal with any tide that would try and drown her.