✧❀ compromise ❀✧
☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:⠀ *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆☽
Blinking up at the person and their dark brown gaze, Medha's lips part into a small gasp as her eyes drink in the sheer everything of the person in front of her.
Wine red lips curled up into a wry smile, hijab in the exact same shade, not a shade lighter, not a shade darker, thick and black eyebrows raised up in a sort of questioning amusement— the person is... beautiful.
But Medha has always found people astoundingly beautiful. There's always been something about the people in Farmond and their eyes that tell stories that differ so vastly from the next person that captivates her and makes her believe that they're all equally mesmerizing.
Nevertheless, the person before her is ethereal. More so than most other people her eyes have had the privilege of seeing.
"So?" the person asks, and God, if she wasn't already in pure awe of their appearance, she might have gasped again at how lovely their voice is. "Is there anything you want to confess to?"
Gaze dragging down to the abundant apples in her bag, and then, to the green stalks of grass beneath her feet, she shakes her head and squeaks out a quiet, "I'm sorry! I do this all the time, I didn't know this place was owned by anyone! I thought this was—"
"An abandoned plot of land?" Huffing, a small laugh blows out of their mouth, and even though Medha isn't looking at them— she's afraid she might lose all train of thought if she does—, she knows that their eyes are rolling in annoyance. "I can't believe this. Do you steal fruits from girls' backyards all the time?"
If she wasn't so entranced by how smooth the girl's tone is, and if her mind wasn't blossoming comparisons of her voice to slow-dripping golden honey and churning butter, she might have raised her head up to hold gaze while speaking to her.
However, now, with the girl's voice that sends Medha floating on clouds and her delicate cadence of speech, like she's in on a secret with herself and no one else, she can't begin to bring herself to even attempt to raise her head.
"I promise you, I didn't know I was stealing!" she defends, eyes carefully moving upwards, slowly, steadily, absorbing the girl's appearance in all her glory.
Her embroidered top with flowers, leaves, buds running down the sleeves, the dark brown cloth of her skirt brushing against the fresh ground underneath the two of them, the sandy brown glow in her cheeks— she's one with the nature, blending in with the trees and the earth and the apples dangling from the branches.
Quickly, Medha finds that she can't take her eyes off of her.
Maybe the reason she's so spellbound by the girl is because her mind has grown so familiar to everyone else in the town— to the way their noses scrunch when they laugh, to the way their eyes crinkle when they smile, to the way their lips knit together when they're chastising her for rolling down the hills and getting her pure white kurtas muddy.
The girl in front of her isn't familiar, not in the least bit.
She doesn't know if that thought scares her or allures her.
"... So many trees with fruits. Fresh fruits," the girl whose name Medha would know if she could read the sign on her door in the near distance, one that she sees only now, after taking her fruits, says. Snapping back into focus, Medha frowns, glancing down at the fruits in her bag. "How do you see that and then think that the place isn't owned by anyone? Did you think the trees water themselves? I wish they did. They're so dependent."
Do I have to return these fruits? Please, no. They're so fresh.
"I didn't..." Medha trails off, because really, now that she thinks about it, trees don't grow themselves. "I've never been to this side of Farmond, I really thought this was an abandoned clearing, but evidently, it isn't." Flatter her so that you don't have to return the fruits. Obviously, that will work. "I am so sorry, I wasn't— you have a lovely garden! You maintain it so well and—"
"Because it's my produce!" the girl huffs, eyes trailing down to Medha's bag. And then, she gasps. "My blueberries!"
"They looked so good!"
Again, the girl huffs, but the hardness behind her eyes melts away like butter, gets replaced by a small twinkle.
And Medha didn't think it was possible, but the girl seems to get even prettier.
She's found people pretty before, of course she has. In fact, she finds everything pretty— trees with pendulous branches that almost brush against her hair when she walks, climbers of vibrant blue morning glory flowers that coil around hedges, squirrels that nestle themselves in cavity dens of trees, dried grass that cracks under her feet, fresh grass that her feet sink into, everything.
But she's never found anyone or anything pretty to an extent where she can't take her eyes off of them.
Inhaling deeply, the girl peers further into the bag, gaze flitting around from fruit to fruit. "I know they look good," she mutters, voice quiet. "Of course they do, I grow all my fruits on my own, here, in my backyard. I sell them at the market."
The market? There are four markets.
"The main market of Farmond," the girl corrects, it's evident that Medha said the words out loud. "Noor Qadri, that's me." You have the most beautiful name I've ever heard. "I sell my produce almost every week. On Mondays. How have you never seen me?"
Out of the entire tangent of words that flow so easily out of Noor's mouth, Medha only follows half, if not less, her mind anchored only to her voice and nothing else.
But she grasps enough.
"Well, have you seen me?" Medha retorts, she doesn't know why, but there's something about the girl— Noor, her mind reminds her— that brings out a side of her that she hasn't ever known. A bite-back, claws-conjured side.
Somehow, she doesn't hate it.
"Huh?" she repeats in a joking taunt, because for a reason she doesn't quite understand completely, now that she knows the girl's name, she isn't so intimidated anymore. More enthralled than anything. "Do you know who I am? Have you seen me around?" she persists, already prepared for the plain no from Noor.
But Noor continues to surprise her. Though the fact that she does isn't much of a surprise anymore.
"Medha Ranjan," she informs with a nonchalance, as though it's just that obvious. "Did I pronounce that right?"
Surprisingly enough, yes. More than right. "Mhm," Medha gets out, it's the only thing she can get out without being in complete awe of the fact that this girl, who's definitely Aphrodite-reincarnated, knows who she is. "You got it."
A satisfied smile blooms on Noor's face, perfectly smooth lips curving upwards, but all Medha can stare at is the barely visible crater in her left cheek, similiar to the dimple in her own cheek. "You're the one who sells baked goods, yes? And drops them off at everyone's doorstep?"
Is that what she's known for? Selling bread to the people in Farmond?
It's not the worst thing to be known for in this town; there isn't much else to do in a place like Farmond, where the rain falls exactly when the plants need it, so the crops don't require watering and where the people live on the resources they're dealt— nothing more, nothing less.
But it isn't the best thing either.
In all her years of living here, all she's ever wished for has been to make her mark on the little town. To do something more. Something meaningful. Make herself known.
Something tells her that being known as the "one who sells bread" isn't making much of an impact.
"Uh..." she trails off, her voice has gotten quieter, she realises. It's always been a bit quiet, but not once because of self-doubt. Only because she doesn't like scaring away the birds with a loud voice. "Yes, that's me," she admits in a mumble.
"Oh," Noor says, it's all she says, and for a moment, Medha's convinced her heart stops. Is she judging me? I do that enough to myself. "That's— that's oddly endearing."
Out of everything Medha expected Noor to say, it wasn't that. Never that.
Until now, endearing wasn't ever a word that people even used to describe her.
That's oddly endearing.
She doesn't know why she expected Noor to be rude about it. There wasn't any malice to Noor's voice when she asked her that question, there was no judgement. There was no elitism of I sell produce for a living and make an impact on everyone's lives by giving them food to eat every day. What do you do? in her voice either.
And she hasn't been rude any time during the conversation that they've been having. Only justifiably annoyed— Medha was stealing from her backyard, even if she didn't know it at the time.
"Thank you," is all she can get out without letting it be known that being called something so whimsical as endearing is affecting her more than it should be. "Y-Yeah. Thank you."
Noor smiles. Just smiles.
And again, Medha's brain short-circuits.
What's wrong with me? I should just... snap out of it, ask her if I can keep the fruits, and go back—
"Would you like to come in? To my home?"
"Can I keep the fruits?" she asks at the exact same time.
And only after the words leave her mouth does she realise what Noor has said to her. What Noor has asked her.
Before she can get anything else out of her mouth, maybe apologise for being so unbelievably rude by asking if she could keep the fruits that she attempted to steal, Noor is speaking again, that same cadence burrowing itself in Medha's ears, warm like honey on a warmer day.
"I'll answer that question once we're in a place that isn't in my backyard, where we're stepping on all the grass. We can take this conversation back to inside my house, hm?"
Stranger, Medha's mind reminds her in a quip. She's a stranger.
But at the same time, she isn't entirely sure if anyone really is a stranger in Farmond. Even if you haven't spoken to everyone, you know them. There's that benign ease with everyone regardless of whether or not you've spoken to them. And though this girl— Noor— isn't familiar and though this side of Farmond isn't a known territory to Medha, the people who live here are still a part of Farmond, and no one is a stranger in Farmond.
"I made tea," Noor offers, and Medha doesn't know why she's pushing so hard for her to go to her home, but who is she to disagree? Especially when Noor's shoulders rise into a small shrug, lips curl up into a smaller smile, as she says, in a sort of question, "The tea has flowers in it?"
Really, who is Medha to disagree?
"Okay," Medha agrees, and then repeats, "Okay. I'll come in."
In less than an instant, the small smile on Noor's lips curves into a much larger one.
Frankly, if Medha wasn't convinced to go with Noor to her house then, she's definitely convinced now.
So, leaving her bicycle at the fence where she had parked it, she trails behind Noor, eyes fixed on the back of her top as she studies the intricacy of the threaded flowers that run up the cloth.
They walk all the way around the backyard, passing through the trees she was stealing from mere moments ago, through the stones that form a sort of pathway, and finally, they reach Noor's house.
The first thing to catch Medha's eyes is the sign on the door, the one that she knows says, NOOR QADRI, not because she can read it fluently, but because she can hazily recognise the letters 'N', 'R' and 'Q' in their spiral font, and she doesn't know many other words that have those three letters in them.
The second thing to catch her eyes is how quaint Noor's house is.
It's... completely unlike her backyard which was overflowing with richness and colour. The exterior and the interior of the house is anything but— beige brick walls, a dark brown door that Medha walks in with ease, while Noor crouches slightly, brown walls covered in plants and a clock and hanging utensils and the fresh scent of fruits jam-packing the house.
"Your home..." she starts in a whisper, setting her bag of fruits down on the small table. "It's so pretty," Medha gets out, hopefully, without gawking too much. And she doesn't know why, but even though she has only known Noor for mere minutes, she can already tell that her house perfectly encapsulates her.
Noor laughs. Medha melts. "Thank you," she says, dragging out a chair for herself and for Medha, but not before setting down a cup of tea on the table. "I'm sure yours is too. You seem like the kind to have a good home."
That's the best compliment anyone has ever given me. You've given me so many of the best compliments anyone has every given me today, Medha wants to say, but instead, she says, "I like your teacups."
"Bought them at the market!" Noor exclaims— it's the first time she's shown excitement today— as she holds up the cup by its handle, thin and yellow. "The one where I sell my fruits. The ones you wanted to steal."
"I really am sorry," Medha starts all over again. "I didn't think—"
"I know." Giving her a reassuring smile, Noor takes a single sip of her tea, the steam rising up in curled tendrils and settling in the air. "Let's say I do give you the fruits... What do I get in return?"
In return. That means she can keep the fruits. That means that technically, she won't be stealing anything at all.
It also means that for once in her life, she can put her knitting skills to good use. For things other than the occasional embellished tablecloths and blankets that are utilised only during the winter by the townspeople.
"I can make you something," Medha offers up; her voice comes out more hesitant than she expects it to, but brushing it aside, she continues, "If you want, that is. I can make something for you."
Raising an eyebrow, Noor laughs quietly— it's a melodic one that bounces off the thick walls of the house and snuggles itself right into the left of Medha's chest. "Make something like bread?"
With a shake of her head, she points up to the sleeve of her dress and tugs at it softly, before reaching up to point at the small patch of embroidery on the right pocket— a tiny red rose she stitched onto it when she was bored at home.
"Clothes," she corrects, a lilt to her voice, one that she's aware only arises when she talks about something she's proud of. She knows because there isn't much that she's truly proud of. "I make my own clothes! Stitching, knitting, crocheting, embroidery. I can do all of it. Even this—" Pointing at her own dress again, she smiles. "This dress. Made it myself! I can make you something in return for the fruits."
Noor's lips settle into a thin line, eyes focusing even more than they did before, in pure contemplation. But while Medha knows that Noor is contemplating it, tossing up the idea of saying yes, she doesn't know if she's actually going to say yes.
God, she hopes it's a yes.
For a moment, Noor doesn't say anything. And then it becomes two moments, and then three, and then, she doesn't say anything at all. She just hums under her breath, drinks her tea, waits until Medha finishes her own tea, sets both the cups in her too-clean sink.
And she does nothing else.
Her eyes stay focused on the bag of fruits, so focused that Medha is certain that she's going to tell her to leave the fruits and let herself out.
Until, of course, she's proven wrong again.
"On Monday— that's three days from now—, I'll be at the market," Noor says, it's quiet, hidden behind the faint chirp of birds perched on her windowsill. "Main market. I'll be selling my fruits there, third stall to the far left. You can come by with— with whatever you make for me and you can give it to me then."
And Medha's heart soars.
"Really?" she asks, just to be sure she isn't hearing things. But when Noor gives her a smile and a nod, she's sure. She's more than sure.
In a haste, bursting up from her seat, she grabs the bag of fruits and clutches it tight in her hands, giving Noor the brightest of smiles she can manage without blinding her. Though she's convinced that Noor's own smile could blind herself when she looks in the mirror. "Okay, okay, I'm going to—"
Cutting herself off with a small squeak— because it's been so long since she made something for someone just for the sake of making it—, she slings the bag around her shoulder, the ribbon in her hair getting caught in it and fluttering down to the ground in the process.
A soft laugh leaves Noor's mouth as she bends to pick up, but Medha quickly shakes her head and rushes out, body buzzing with thrill. "I'll get the ribbon later!" she assures, thick strands of hair falling to the front of her face. "On Monday. I'll— I'll make something for you and I'll see you then. On Monday."
"On Monday," Noor confirms with a laugh, and if that isn't the best sound Medha has heard in her life, she doesn't know what is. "I'll see you on Monday."
That's the last Medha hears of Noor, her feet taking her faster than her mind can process as she rushes out of the little brown house with the little brown windows, raising her hand up to wave at Noor, who just shoots her another smile and a single raise of her hand.
She mounts herself on her bicycle, wind in her hair as she pushes her feet down on the pedals, the April breeze blowing the entirety of her hair back in a thick black wave that feels like a parachute raising her higher and higher.
And as she continues to pedal through the narrow roads littered with flowers and sticks and stones and petals, all she sees in her head is wine red lips and a twinkling pair of eyes.
☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:⠀ *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆☽
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AN: chapter 2 !!!!! we've met noor who is the absolute light of my life !!! i hope everyone enjoyed :,)
i just wanted to quickly say that updates for this book may not be as frequent as i hoped, so! until i finish all the updates for come what may, this book will update once a week, and after come what may is finished, i'll pick up the pace !!!
thank you all so much for your support on the previous chapter <3 i appreciate u all sm, it's unreal
thank u for reading !!! and have a good day everyone 💓