Samira's heart was full.
And as Harry's grew everyday, everything became a bit overwhelming.
They spent their days having fun together, each making an effort to be entirely engaged. It was a calm and cool Saturday night—the perfect conditions to dance to The Beatles at the underground Cavern Club.
It had an earthy smell, fancy brick walls, and dim lights—Harry held Samira's waist, being mindful with his feet as twirled her around to the live music.
Samira watched him as though he were the only person in the room. Every second, he became more beautiful, and she fell deeper and deeper, eyes caught in the depth of his. The faint lights did his divine complexion well, and his smile shined brighter than anyone else's. It was astonishing to remember how wilted he once was now that he had bloomed all on his own.
Every time Samira caught Harry's eyes lingering longer than they should, she could hear her father's voice:
I love you more today than yesterday.
By the end of the night, adrenaline pumped vicariously through her veins. They ran up the stairs and out of the club, passionately making out in a corner. Her back was against cold bricks; his hands groped her backside, giggles erupting from Samira. And when their taxi arrived, they kissed in the backseat, lips throbbing.
Later that night, Samira gingerly tucked Harry into his bed, listening quietly to his drunken words. She watched his lips move, hearing everything he said. Soon enough, his eyes came closed, his head resting on her chest.
It was late, almost noon, when the sun woke Samira up. The bed was empty; Harry had gone out for a run.
Samira yawned profoundly, stretching as she heard the loud cracks of her body. She looked through the window, seeing dark clouds on the other side of the city. At least it wasn't always raining as it used to because now she and Harry could find moments to go out for walks again.
The door of the bedroom opened—Harry stepped in. He wore a beanie, a pair of black joggers, and a grey hoodie drenched in sweat.
"You look gross," she commented, cringing jocularly.
"Good morning to you, too," Harry replied, laughing. "Will you get in the shower with me?"
"Ew, no."
"Yes." Harry walked toward her, grabbing her ankle. Samira squealed at his unanticipated actions.
"Okay! I will," she shrieked, pulling her leg away from him.
"You've been waking up late," he mentioned, taking his beanie off, then his hoodie. "Wasn't your period over a few days ago?"
Samira looked down at the chipped polish on her nails.
"Yeah," she answered, feeling a pang of guilt.
When Samira pulled her shirt off in the bathroom, she had a hard time studying herself in the mirror. Her hair touched the top of her shoulders; she noticed a bit of the flesh that once clung to her hips disappeared.
"What's wrong?" Harry asked, twirling her hair in his fingers.
Samira blinked, looking from the mirror. "Nothing."
Luckily, he asked nothing more, pulling her in the shower with him. Samira stood in front of Harry, biting the inside of her cheek. He put his big arms around her neck, allowing the warm water to hit their skin.
"Babe," he mumbled, squeezing her. She could feel his wet lips pressing kisses to her temple—it made her smile.
"What?"
"Are you busy today?"
"No," she answered. "I actually could use your help."
"With Stats? Again?" He giggled, lathering shampoo into her hair.
"No," Samira replied, rolling her eyes as she laughed. "I have some interpersonal com assignment." She let out a sigh; his fingers soothed her in the way she needed.
"So I'm your lab rat?"
She laughed. "Sure."
"Can we take Bea to the park after?"
"Okay."
She felt his hand reach down to her stomach, squeezing her cookie pouch; he would do that a lot—it was equivalent to a kiss on the cheek. But this time, she felt her face crimson, feeling almost awkward.
It was her turn to massage him, so she turned around, grabbed the bottle, and squeezed the soap onto her fingers. There was, yet again, that twinkle in Harry's eyes. His pupils dilated at the sight of her, a sign that he was absolutely in love. It was only recently that Samira could pick up on the love in Harry's eyes. But now that she knew it, she'd always get a feeling that there was also something else on his mind.
"What?"
Harry made a face, scrunching his nose. "Nothing."
"Hey."
Harry pressed his lips to hers, muttering I love you.
Sometimes, those three words were hard to swallow, and she struggled to spit them back—it was odd Harry wasn't fazed by it, and he had never asked if she loved him, too. But Samira did, deeply; she just didn't know what was holding her back from saying so.
The heat grew on them, and they collided like fire and ice. It caught her by surprise—they hadn't had sex since he last opened up to her. Samira always knew that his biggest fear was vulnerability, and for a while, she thought he would never go back to it again. But the more time went by, the more comfortable he became.
"Harry," Samira whined. "Are you—"
His eyes darkened, conveying exactly what he wanted. It overwhelmed her.
"I need you."
Those words invaded her heart like a parasite.
He pushed her against the shower wall, wrapping his hand around her neck and planting kisses down her skin; his touch had her panting, moaning, squirming.
Samira could sense the effort to make sure she felt loved, and it was in everything he did. At that moment, she wanted so badly to feel love as deeply as he did, to be able to grasp at the pure affection he showed her each day. Her mind became fuzzy; everything in it blurred like a room filled with smoke.
Harry lifted Samira against the shower wall, aligning their hips and taking her passionately. He groaned Samira's name, thrusting roughly; she kissed Harry sloppily, crying out at his movements, feeling him fill her to the brim. She watched the droplets roll down his skin, his scarlet lips, and the veins on his neck.
He kept saying the words, I love you, I love you, I love you, and he fucked her so good that she almost said it back. Almost.
Their teeth clanked while their tongues mangled; Samira's legs shook, and she came onto him, almost screaming.
The water ran cold; after turning the faucet off, Harry wrapped a towel around her body. She watched his eyes, examining his actions. With everything he did, there was love, nothing less.
After they ate brunch together, Samira sat on the floor of the living room with her laptop out. She was interviewing Harry for her thesis. Harry sat on the couch adjacent from her—she gave him a look, studying his face.
"So, what's your name?" She asked, looking from the screen. "Harry? Or Haroon?"
Harry smiled like an idiot, running a hand over the kind amount of stubble on his cheeks.
"I want to shave it."
"No. I won't let you."
Samira pulled up the document for her assignment and began a voice memo on her phone.
"So . . ." Samira began. "You have to pretend like I'm someone else when I ask you these questions. You have to be honest."
"Go ahead," he replied confidently.
"Okay," she began. "What would constitute a perfect day for you?"
"Well," he mumbled. "Waking up, seeing my girlfriend next to me. She's pretty hot."
Samira rolled her eyes, suppressing a smile.
"She brightens my day. She doesn't know that, but anything with her would be perfect. Any weather. Any situation. The good and the bad."
Her heart fluttered, and she was almost intimidated by how intensely he locked his eyes on hers.
"Do you have a secret hunch about how you'll die?"
"Hopefully, doing something good."
Harry answered the next few questions smoothly, but the following question had Samira taken aback.
"Name three things you and your partner appear to have in common."
"That's an easy one." Harry sat up straight. "We perceive the world the same way. I've noticed we don't argue about certain things, but any disagreement we have, we can really understand each others' opinions."
Wow. He was right. She didn't realize that until he said it.
"We both are good at cooking. I think I'm the better cook. Don't tell her." Harry winked; she rolled her eyes again. "And I always thought I was the bigger softie, but after getting to know her, she is one too."
That was when Samira failed to hide her simper.
"We both have dimples . . . hers are cuter, though. Then, our trouble with faith . . . but she's doing better than I am—sometimes I think I should try harder like she does. And we root for each other, always, I think that's very special. And we even have our . . . daddy issues."
But Samira still had her father; Harry didn't. She wanted to interrupt him, but the rule was that she couldn't interfere.
"I named more than three, didn't I?"
She then nodded, trying her best to keep a straight face; Harry laughed.
"Is there something you dreamed of for a long time? If so, why haven't you done it?"
Harry bit the inside of his cheek, looking to the ground. He licked his lips before looking back up.
"I guess it's . . ." he paused, taking a deep breath. "Loving myself and what I do, because it's hard moving on from the past. And in terms of other goals . . . Leaf isn't my restaurant, and I know it's going to be hard to let go of because I enjoy my position a lot. But one day I want to have a restaurant of my own maybe, but to handle that, I need to be happy. I think I'm making progress, but I'm not sure if I'm . . . there."
Samira had already begun to see Harry's genuine happiness, but she had just learned he was still figuring it out.
"If a crystal ball could tell you something about your future, or anything, what would you want to know?"
Harry's expression blanked: "If Samira would still be by my side."
The answer was like an airborne brick, hitting her chest hard. It was difficult to foresee because she never actually sat down, alone, and thought about it—what would happen later when she'd leave?
"Tell your partner what you like about them. Be very honest, say things you wouldn't say if you were to first meet them."
Then his smile was back.
"I love everything about Samira. Her smile, her voice, her confidence, how she's always there no matter what. She wears the pants. And she's so pretty. And people may think she's an asshole, but she says things with the right intentions. I thought she'd just be my friend, but I got lucky. And she's not only my girlfriend, but my best friend."
Samira's eyes softened; it meant a lot to be called that, from anyone, let alone Harry.
"What is some advice you want from your partner? For what? Your partner will answer back."
Harry sighed, swallowing. His lips twitched, almost turning into a frown. He finally stopped looking at her, slumping his shoulders, leaning back on the couch.
"How do I move on from Zayn?"
Harry asked the question to the ceiling, his tone hopelessly calm.
"Samira has her life together, and she knows everything. Everything she does is perfect. How would she deal with this? She'd know, right?"
She then closed her laptop, sitting up from the ground. Harry watched her, almost startled by her actions when she sat on his thighs. Samira held his face in her hands, looking right at him.
"Teach me to be you," he said, holding her wrists. "You're so smart, and you know what you're doing. And I'm a fucking mess—"
"Hey," she interrupted, her heart already breaking at his words—everything he said was wrong. "Don't say that."
A tear rolled down his cheek, but he shook his head at himself, wiping it away. He awaited her words patiently—his strength shined through his eyes.
"I know Zayn's not here," Samira began, wiping his tears with her thumbs. "But that doesn't mean your life is over, too."
"But—"
"Listen," Samira retorted, sealing his mouth shut. "I know you can't have the closure nor the forgiveness you wanted, but now it's time you forgive yourself. Because no one hates you, Harry. No one. It's you. You're the reason you're not happy because you haven't accepted that you're a fucking human and you make mistakes. Accept it."
Her words didn't hit like bullets. He took each one. He listened.
"You said something bad," Samira clarified, gawking right into his eyes. "But that doesn't make you a bad person."
Harry swallowed—gulped down the misery, the self-loathing, the last decade of anguish. Put away, once and for all.
Behind his irises, the storm subsided, and the sun shined. A whole garden blossomed.
"I've been waiting my whole life for someone to tell me that."
Like a hammer to a nail, he allowed the idea of loving himself to sink into his head, letting go of what tore him down.
"You don't need me to understand this," she reminded, playing with the curl around his ear. "All you need is yourself, Harry."
Harry gripped her wrist, kissing her palm. Samira shifted, sitting next to him, leaning her head on his shoulder.
"You're strong," she reminded. "And you've grown a lot. Give yourself some credit."
Harry fiddled with her hand: "I have to give you some too."
"I did nothing."
"You always say that."
That was the one thing he passionately argued about—how Samira was always right, but she would always disagree.
"I don't know where I would be right now if I didn't have you." He kissed her hand.
Samira then took his hand, playing with his rings. She took them off his fingers, putting them on her own; he joined her timid actions.
"You're totally different from the man I met," Samira commented. "You couldn't even look at me then."
"I mean." Harry squeezed her hand, his tone lighter. "You're too pretty to look at."
"Shut up."
Even while they were busy, they always found a way to make time for each other. But time was running out, and Samira found it hard to keep her patience.
"I have nothing to do on Saturday because you'll be in London." He paused. "Can I come with you?"
Samira almost forgot; one of her distant cousins was getting married, and she was the makeup artist for the bride. The only people she knew who were going to be there were Noureen and Baneen Aunty.
"I wish you could."
"I hate being without you." Harry sighed. "We don't have a lot of time."
"Stop."
"We have to talk about it, you know."
"I know," Samira replied defeatedly. "Just not now."
Harry was silent for a moment, fondling with his rings on her fingers.
"But will you be there?" He asked quietly. "By my side?"
Samira lifted her head to look at him; Harry searched her eyes, seeking the answer he'd been waiting for. Unfortunately, she had nothing.
"Insha-Allah," she replied softly.