The present mattered.
Samira lived in it, relishing every passing moment. The future was the last of her worries.
Zafri's gusts swept Samira right off her feet—she finally let go and let it carry her wherever it went. Allah reminded Samira that she didn't have to be alone, that she couldn't be, after spending a lifetime fending for herself.
Time was a luxury; Samira couldn't use time to sit around and wait for someone to love her the way she deserved. She knew that all too well when Zafri took no time to show her that, and life went forward. The movement was perfect, and she didn't trip or fall. Zafri walked alongside Samira with his hand in hers. He didn't walk ahead or behind but at the very same pace.
Samira was Samira. Not 'old' Samira, not 'new' Samira, but Samira. As beautiful, simple as that.
She didn't have to mold herself into someone else whenever she was with Zafri. As their lives intertwined, no amount of space pulled them apart. Instead of looking past their mistakes and flaws, they scrutinized them. At the end of every argument, laughter would erupt. They picked up each other's pieces when parts of them crumbled to the floor.
Zafri was right—maybe things weren't perfect, but it was healthy.
Samira could feel his fingers tend her soul even with that gap between them, and he filled her with love in places she didn't know were empty. She wanted to celebrate Zafri and praise him for the man he was, just as much as she wanted to kiss his scars and hold him at his lowest points.
Even as they posted pictures of each other and ate from the same spoon, the chasm still existed in their minds. They were never alone in a room—they refused to, especially after what happened the last time they were. Maybe a few shoulder punches and high fives, but their thighs never touched when sitting on a bench.
Her heart still yearned. Samira wanted to know what Zafri's lips felt like on hers.
Of course, Samira hoped Wapa didn't say anything to scare Zafri. Because she wasn't stupid—Zafri never stopped his habit of calling Wapa to tell him everything. Why was he so afraid? They were getting married anyway.
The planning and arrangements began, from the nikkah, mehndi party, and reception. A few days had passed, and it was a quiet Sunday—Samira rested her head on Wapa's shoulder as she typed away on her laptop; Wapa watched some nature show narrated by David Attenborough. The moment she heard Wapa snore softly, she chuckled to herself.
The adhan went off for asr; Wapa woke up from his nap. Taking a deep breath, Samira closed her laptop, turning toward Wapa.
"How long did I sleep?"
Samira looked over at the clock: "Half hour."
"What?" Wapa widened his eyes. "No. Maybe ten minutes."
"Sure."
Wapa stretched his arms out, groaning emphatically. Samira raised an eyebrow at her father; the question she had was long-awaited, and she finally wanted to confront the one problem she had since being with Zafri.
"Are you hard on Zafri? He's always worried about what you think of him."
Wapa contorted his expression—then a mischievous grin appeared. He began to giggle quietly to himself, causing Samira to roll her eyes.
"Wapa."
"I don't mean to be, Samira. My approval matters because he's only worried about losing you."
"He shouldn't have to."
"Try telling him that. At least he shows how much he loves you," Wapa explained. "When he's here, he always talks to Ayan and me, plays with Elias, helps your mother in the kitchen. That is what I admire most about him. He cares about you and the people you love, Samira, and his manners are like no one else's. He's the least selfish boy I know."
Samira frowned, reminded yet again that she'd spend the rest of her life with someone with a heart bigger than his body. She often wondered what Zafri had been up to during that year she was away—if he'd gone through some sort of metamorphosis just like she did.
"Remind him to rest a bit. He doesn't listen to me."
"That's funny," Wapa snorted. "I'm glad I don't feel insecure about giving him your hand."
After prayer, the doorbell rang—a package with the wedding invitations. Zafri made most of the wedding decisions, from the potential decor of the venue to the design of the cards.
As Samira ripped open the box, she called Zafri, showing him everything. Each invitation was gold brimmed, embroidered with Arabic and tiny butterflies.
The reference was apparent—speaking of which, the Yara Foundation began its initiatives, and Samira was fully occupied. She designed the website, made calls every other day, and organized files and contacts. Zafri and Samira met up with everyone she met in Colorado one night, thinking they would discuss the next steps, but it was actually a surprise party to celebrate their wedding that was to come in a few weeks. Not only were they Zafri's friends, but Samira's, too.
"Will you take my last name?"
"Allah says I'm my own person, Mr. Qadir."
Samira propped her phone against a vase on the coffee table, holding the invitation in her hand.
"I'm happy with how they turned out."
A few honk noises erupted through the phone; Zafri was driving to work, adorning cerulean scrubs. The sun reflected off his glasses, glaring into the camera. His phone sat on the dashboard as he turned his steering wheel left and right.
"I sent you a list of emails to send to people overseas." Zafri glowered. "I'm sorry I couldn't be there to help, samosa."
"No, no." Samira leaned toward the camera, batting her eyes. "Mano is coming later to help out with the invitations. You did a lot of stuff already while working, don't worry about it."
Zafri then simpered, his eyes glistening at Samira.
"Can I shave my beard for the wedding?"
Caught off guard, Samira creased her eyebrows. Zafri started chuckling as if he expected this immediate reaction from Samira—her mouth fell open.
"Was that a threat?" She glared, pointing the letter opener at Zafri. "I'll kill you."
"I'll do it then."
"Wallahi, if you do it, I will not take you seriously. When Wapa shaved his beard, I literally laughed every time he walked into the room. He never shaved his beard after that."
Zafri's car stood still; he continued his laughter, reaching to the passenger's seat for his backpack. He then took his phone and neared his nose to the camera, mocking Samira with a goofy face.
"I gotta go, dilruba."
"Zafri."
"Mein tumse pyar karta hoon."
Samira rolled her eyes: "Okay, okay. Text me when you get back home."
Laila babbled in Samira's arms as Mahnoor sat by the other side of the coffee table, writing each name and address on every envelope. Mahnoor was far too excited for the wedding preparations, just as much as Zafri was—Samira could feel the passive-aggressiveness every time they spoke. If Samira could eat popcorn at the same time Mahnoor and Zafri argued, she would.
"I'll hand it to Zafri; these invitations are cute."
Samira held a warm bottle of milk to Laila's mouth, rocking her back and forth. Laila hummed softly, waving her tiny hands and gripping Samira's fingers.
"I don't know if this is jealousy or your genuine wishes to take over the planning."
Mahnoor let out a sharp breath, rolling her eyes: "Not jealousy . . ."
"Mhmm. Yeah, sure." Samira cocked an eyebrow. "The way I felt when you were getting married is totally valid compared to this."
"What do you mean?"
Noticing that Laila had fallen asleep while drinking milk, Samira stood up slowly, placing her onto the baby bouncer.
"You know what I mean."
Mahnoor slouched her shoulders, defeated.
"No nikkah contract?"
"I don't need one." Samira sat back down on the floor across from Mahnoor, opening her laptop. She looked at a particular list, verifying who'd bring family members and plus ones.
"If you ended up with Harry, would you have done it?"
Samira snickered, shaking her head: "Probably."
"Speaking of which, why is his name here on the overseas invite list?"
The lighthearted joke brought an awkward feeling in the air. Biting her lips, Samira looked up, finding Mahnoor gaping her eyes at her. Samira tapped her fingers on the coffee table and shifted a bit.
"I was warming up to the idea of inviting him. Okay?" Samira answered, her eyes glancing at everything in the living room except Mahnoor.
Harry still clung to Samira like a fresh tattoo, not a fragment of it faded. She still wasn't sure if she should remove him permanently or cherish him forever.
"You haven't talked to this man in almost a year," Mahnoor reminded. "You don't even know if he's over you or what he's going to do if he comes to your wedding. He wanted to marry you, and the last thing he asked you to do was to come back to him."
"He also said if that can't happen, that we'd at least see each other again. I still have his email."
"Mimi."
"What?"
"Think about what you're doing."
"I said the idea. I didn't say I was going to invite him."
Mahnoor pursed her lips, staring at Samira like a disappointed mother. Yes, Samira had finally planted a new garden after a storm blew its stems out of the ground, but a few flowers were yet to bloom. She believed that seeing him again would be the water—just a bit of closure. Dr. Ayub was a bit keen on the idea as long as Samira made up her mind.
"Okay, I understand your intentions." Her eyes then softened. "But does Zafri know?"
"I don't know if it even matters, but he'll know eventually. Wapa said not to mention it, anyway."
"So, if it doesn't matter, that means you're over Harry, right?"
Samira licked her lips, running a hand through her curls.
"Absolutely."
"Are you?"
"Yeah."
"No, are you?"
Snapping her head, Samira let out a sharp breath. Zafri was here now, loving Samira inside and out, so why did she have to worry?
"Yes. Now stop."
The muscles in Samira's hands ached as she lifted her pen from the very last envelope. Tomorrow morning, she'd have to mail them out and pray that it'd reach everyone at least two weeks before the wedding—it was only the end of March, and it was to take place in a month.
"Will you email the rest?" Mahnoor asked as she buckled Laila into her car seat.
"Yeah, I will. You should go home; it's getting late."
"Call me if you need anything, okay?"
"Yeah, I will. I love you."
"I love you too, curly."
For once, Samira's communications degree felt useful—Samira was happy Zafri gave her this task. She sent all the evites within an hour; every name was crossed off, from top to bottom. All her friends from England, some relatives scattered around the world, and a few childhood companions she and Zafri shared.
But before Samira could take a breath of relief, there was one attendee left.
Harry.
The sonance in her mind were variations of her voice, screaming right at Samira, and she could barely hear to herself think.
If you're not afraid, then prove it.
Is it closure or an excuse?
Zafri will dump you.
Trust your gut. Everything's going to be okay.
Don't do it. Harry is not over you. He's still in love with you. He will crash your wedding.
Harry is not going to show up.
What's the worst that could happen?
Samira squeezed her eyes shut, trying to pick a fleeting thought from her brain that resonated with her heart. Her trembling finger hovered over the keypad as she debated on closing the tab or clicking send.
Her heart then spoke.
If Harry has grown, and so have you, then it's in Allah's hands.
The weight dissipated, and so, Samira silenced every voice in her mind and listened to her heart. Before conveying the invitation, she added a plus one.
Send.
After getting into her pajamas, Samira curled in bed with a bowl of ice cream, propping her head on a pillow. Although it was midnight, she granted herself a marathon of New Girl just to celebrate how much she'd gotten done today.
Zafri: I just got home
Samira: did you eat?
Zafri: I did. But why aren't you sleeping
Samira: I'm watching new girl lol
Zafri: go to sleep
Samira: no
Zafri: you did a lot today. You should sleep jaan
Samira: I will. Will I see you tomorrow?
Zafri: not tomorrow but the day after for sure.
Zafri: good night jaan-e-man
Samira: حبّي
Zafri: ?
Samira: مساء الخير يا حبيبي
Zafri: you waited this long to speak to me in Arabic? TILL NOW?
Samira: just say masaa annur back
Zafri:
Zafri: go to sleep ulloo, I'll call you tomorrow iA
After a few more episodes, Samira's eyes drooped slowly. She drank the glass of water on her bedside and snuggled the lamb next to her.
As she moved the cursor toward the close tab, a ding reverberated from her laptop—a notification. Rubbing her tired eyes, Samira clicked on her most recent email, sent to her seconds ago. It was an RSVP.
Confirmed: Harry
At that moment, Samira's eyes nearly popped out of her sockets. The fatigue immediately wore off, and alertness ran through her veins. Her heart could no longer rest, now pounding vehemently in her ears.
There was more, however, not just a confirmation that he was going to show up. Harry left an audio message, and he wrote, take a moment to listen.
As her pulse drubbed throughout her body, Samira trusted his words and pressed the button.
Static noise emitted the air. Some light shuffling and papers flipping.
Then, Samira heard it—a hum—Harry's quiet rasp emitted, dancing through her ears. He cleared his throat softly, and Samira could immediately imagine his mouth parting to speak.
"Hi, Sam, darling."
The air shifted. Samira pressed her palm against her mouth, almost gasping at the sound of Harry's voice. The image of Harry's twinkly smaragdine eyes and the dimples cratering his cheeks consumed her mind as she listened to his voice.
"Good morning. I'm struggling to record this, but I hope you can hear me, haha. It's quite early here in England; I woke up a while ago. I um . . . I hope this message finds you well. It's very nice to hear from you. Uh . . . I see that you're getting married in a few weeks . . . and I'm very happy for you. It's very kind of you to invite me to your wedding. And I will definitely be there. I can't wait to see you."