DISCLAIMER-
**For any new and old readers: This book incorporates close encounters with two characters (both of opposite genders) not in any way inappropriate but in an Islamic context, being in close contact (talking without appropriate reason, looking at, being inappropriately near, uncovered etc) with a non-mahram (person of which that individual is eligible to marry) is HARAM. One should always lower their gaze in front of the opposite gender if they are their non-mahram and avoid free talking. Of course, this is a work of fiction and I know I might come of as being hypocritical for saying this and then still including these scenarios into my story but you have to understand that in life (whether you want it or not) you will come across the opposite gender (be it in school or at work) especially here, since these characters have family that are close friends making lack of contact almost unavoidable. Honestly, it is up to YOU to control your emotions and temptations. These characters are NOT by any means PERFECT (slightly misguided in fact) like any of us here on Earth and the display of difficulty of being thrown into uncomfortable situations such as these encounters explored is seemingly relatable (maybe) to anyone. I also want to say that along the way, the characters develop the wrongness of it all. But the fact that these characters initially fall into thinking that what they are experiencing is normal is NOT what I am trying to preach. If any of you have feelings for the opposite gender, please do the right thing and talk to your parents about potentially marrying them. Any sort of dating and friendships to learn if you do in fact love them etc is WRONG. PLEASE DO NOT FREELY MIX WITH THE OPPOSITE GENDER OR TAKE THIS BOOK AS YOUR GUIDE TO ANY LIFE DECISIONS**
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This story is a journey, if you are patient, you'll hopefully like it! :)
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After a couple seconds of hovering over the doorbell, my index finger finally braves the act; this invokes the echo of an irritable ringing noise. I make distance between the door whilst gripping a tray that sweats to hold the home cooked food mama and I prepared.
The lengthening minutes exploit my exposure to the unwelcoming wind. I can empathize with my dancing teeth as soon as I look around.
The clouds have absorbed an angry grey tone. The lack of human existence feels like a novel sight; a symptom of this approaching storm.
I find myself feeling impatient when time races by me. The uncontrollable shivering eventually cuts off my last strips of tolerance. I resort to the infamous door knock. Strange enough, some background noise mutes, slow scuffling evolves.
My anxiety makes an appearance, acting in the form of repetitive shuffling, sweaty palms, and an overworking heart.
When the doorknob jerks to one side, I try to calm my breathing, but time fails me because the door swings open too fast.
Behind it, an overwhelmingly tall broad shouldered male figure surrounded by the blinding darkness of his vast foyer. The sight slightly increases the width of my eyes.
His physical presence further shovels the practicality of respiration. And it's only because I am overwhelmingly unprepared for this. Having to come by his house was one thing but his appearance was just another; It is thick of bitter sweetness. I attempt to focus on who's in front of me, aiming to win over the noise crowding my mind.
I deposit all my attention on how the baby blue shirt and loose grey sweatpants he is wearing, collides swimmingly with the unruly hair crowding around his head. My unintentional ogling doesn't seem to go unnoticed because his caramel orbs stare at me in amusement.
I attempt to compose myself while he stands there, an expectant smirk plastered across his face.
I quickly lower my gaze and helplessly search for the right words, while clumsily directing the tray towards him.
"Ramadan Mubarak."
He must acknowledge the tray because I feel it gently being robbed from me.
"And to you too," he responds in a low tone. His voice sounds foreign from how I last remembered it. Yet, the same sweetness spills onto concrete floors. And I realize that that's the only thing familiar about it.
"Thank you," I muster, although my voice abruptly becomes inaudible.
He nods sincerely.
And just like that, I am left to look down at my worn out Toms.
When the deafening silence consumes us, I make the decision to turn around and start my walk back home. Without any form of farewell, I hear the door behind me slam shut.
That was interesting.
The breeze continues practicing its sadistic pirouettes around my body. It's routine nips at my exposed face and bare hands. I pull my sweater sleeves over my icy appendages and scold myself for not wearing a jacket.
While taking the last few steps towards home, I feel a trickle of water droplets on the tip of my nose. In no time, the clouds start pouring their tears. I turn my walk into a sprint leading to my front porch.
The canopy above provides me refuge from the wet as I wait for the door. I inhale the fresh smell of rain and watch perfect spheres of rain droplets form on individual pieces of grass. The evident platter of rain follows a form of rhythm that relaxes my still fast paced heart. I stand there for a couple more seconds, completely in awe with the setting before me.
"Hurry inside," I hear my mom rush behind me, her arms crossed over her chest.
I make my way through the door and quickly become engulfed in the blessing warmth. The house smells of freshly made rice and bread.
"Were Adam's parents home?" Mama inquires as I rub my hands over the heater.
"Adam took the tray from me so I assume they weren't there."
"JazakAllah Khair for taking it."
"Of course," I smile.
"Of course," my brother mocks with a questionable facial expression.
"I really hope it doesn't start hailing," my dad comments while making his way down the stairs, his focus on inserting his suit cuff's button to its corresponding hole.
For the rest of the day, we read the Qur'an and pray until Iftar. When it starts pouring hail, we collectively laugh at my father's sigh of disappointment towards the prospect of ice damaging our windows.
When the sun sets, we break our fast with a date and follow it through with a variety of colourful foods.
At around eleven O' clock, we prepare to leave for Taraweeh prayer. I wear my black abaya with the diamond covered sleeves and matching hijab. Mama wears an almost identical one to my own.
Once everyone is ready, we leave together.
The masjid is a warm brown tone with fragile carvings. Its four massive pillars overpower the base and lighting all around. It smells of childhood Sunday classes.
Mama and I follow the lit up pathway towards the ladies prayer section, leaving my father and Aasif towards the other.
I am instantly welcomed into a familiar heated room that expands a great fifty or so meters in width. The presence of multiple different women and children brings forth a sense of unity. My mother is greeted by multiple figures. She leaves with them and becomes completely engulfed in their love and laughter.
Upon taking my seat along one of the corners of the room, I am pushed face first into the soft carpet.
"Aamirah!" they both scream and I instantly recall who is suffocating me. After a couple seconds of struggle, they let me go.
We all end up bursting with exaggerated laughter.
"I can't wait for school tomorrow!" Sophia whispers, overly excited.
"Senior year, whoop whoop!" Nura chips in, throwing her fist up into the air with Sophia joining shortly after.
"So excited!" I broadcast my most believable smile to cover for the extent of apathy I had for this coming year.
We all make small conversation until the sound of the Azhaan circles.
After finishing, I wave my farewells and exit the mosque behind mama. The smell of concrete still mourns the death of rain, as do the perturb chills of the wind.
My eyes wander from the road towards a figure watching me, the slight bit of paranoia I had felt making sense now.
His glinted eyes pierce though mine with pure entertainment; my self consciousness reflects in them. I endure the violence of gravity's hold around my feet as I observe his white thawb and presentable hair.
Eventually, I spring forward when my father and Aasif come in sight.
The last thing I see before getting into the car is Adam disappearing behind the ridiculous amount of vehicles, without so much as another glance back.