Samira and Harry. Harry and Samira.
The light didn't shine on them the way it used to. The skies were gray, the winds passed through her ears, and the world seemed to have stopped. But all that kept going was time, and it didn't freeze for Samira.
It froze for no one.
The curtains were closed, the lights were off. Samira walked through the hall of Harry's apartment, heading to his bedroom. The cold air sent a chill down her spine. She could feel it, Harry's loneliness, especially without the sound of Bea's jingly collar.
The darkness in Harry's room consumed her. Albi, her heart, was alone in his bed, buried beneath the sheets.
Samira's heart had never been so swollen—it was filled with Harry, even the parts that were too much for her to handle. Right now, for him, she had to let her heart be saturated, she had to put him first, again.
Every time she looked at him, memories of the night she returned to him flashed in her mind. When she got off the bus and rushed to the veterinary hospital, she found Harry sitting in the hallway, alone. His eyes were bloodshot, his hands shaking, and he couldn't rip his eyes from the floor. But as soon as Samira sat next to Harry, touching her thigh to his and gently whispering his name, he broke out in heart-wrenching sobs. He pulled her close, crying on her shoulder.
And Samira was hurting too, for Harry, because Bea was all he had left from the times he spent with his late friend, Zayn. She presumed the flower that he finally got to bloom had wilted, and she was having trouble tending it—her own had lost its petals, too.
Now, Samira tiptoed into the room, sitting next to Harry, running her fingers through his soft locks. A faint azure color swelled beneath his eyes, and little hairs peppered on his cheeks.
He then opened his eyes, revealing a dull pair of irises. It broke her heart—his glow had vanished.
Harry pulled her into the sheets wordlessly, locking her in his arms. He nestled his head in her neck, breathing her in.
"Have you eaten?" Samira asked, kissing his forehead.
There was silence, but that meant his answer was no. It felt strange, not being able to hear his voice. He was as blank as a slate.
"You can't starve yourself." Samira took his arms, tugging him out of bed. Her stance was languid, and she tried to stand up straight.
"Come," she urged.
Harry embraced the pillow, hiding his face.
"It's going to be okay." She caressed his face with her thumb. "You have to try."
But Harry wasn't okay. His routine was more sluggish than ever; he became accustomed to dragging himself out of bed only to return to it in a matter of hours. All Harry offered Samira was silence. She would often find herself irritated that he wasn't telling her how he felt; she was so used to hearing him go on and on.
"Is there anything you want, albi?"
But then Harry, to Samira's surprise, got out of bed. He took her hand, leading her out the room to the kitchen. They were quick to feel her absence, the utter emptiness. Together, they savored memories of how Bea was always ready to pounce at their entrance, to smother them with kisses. Samira resented the feelings that arose, unable to imagine how Harry was coping himself.
Samira stood in front of the counter, watching Harry look around the cabinets. He bit his lip, squinting his eyes in thought. Then he turned around, opening the fridge—he returned with a pineapple.
Samira furrowed her eyebrows. Did he want to just eat the pineapple? Make it into a fruit salad?
"Wait—" Samira paused. "Curry?"
Of course, that was what Harry wanted. It was his favorite.
"Okay." She took the pineapple from him. "Will you chop it for me?"
Samira boiled some rice, heating up oil in another pot. Harry stood behind her, watching her closely.
As they cooked, Samira's mind pondered all of the things that could be said to fill this uncomfortable silence. Harry's heart had been twice broken in the past week—once because of her. She cringed at her remembrance: only a day prior, she was dead set on telling him the truth, of how she found the ring, of how she needed this to end. Of how, for the first time, she needed this one thing, one thing, from him. It felt like a lifetime ago, considering how far her plans went off the rails.
So what did all of it mean? Was God telling her not to give up? To make things work? That she was wrong about her doubts? That He had Harry's name written right next to hers all along?
Samira cursed under her breath; distracted by her thoughts, she allowed the bottom of the sticky rice to burn. As she carefully salvaged the remaining grains, Harry grabbed her wrist, stopping her. Instead, he took some of the burnt rice and put it in the bowl.
"You like theenju soru?" Samira asked. For a moment, she thought of her father, how he made her mother burn the rice just for him.
God. They have so much in common.
"Can you say something, Harry?" She asked quietly. "Please."
Harry finally looked at her. He took the spoon, leading it to her mouth.
Samira shook her head: "No, it's for you."
Harry glared at her, raising his eyebrows and inching the spoon closer.
So she sighed, opening her mouth. Harry put the food in, and she chewed like a mule as he gazed.
Samira shrugged, swallowing: "It tastes fine."
Harry took a step toward her, leaning in. He kissed her forehead, and she did her best not to grimace or pull away—it was the most intimacy they'd had over the last few days.
"Thank you," he expressed softly. "You're all I have."
Samira swallowed, her heart swelling even more.
They passed the next few hours, attempting to retain some sense of normalcy. She began to wash the dishes, and he stood beside her, wiping them dry. It was peaceful, and she prayed it would stay this way.
After trying to watch television, they ended up lying back in bed. As Harry tried to fall asleep, Samira was typing away, finishing her work.
Harry's eyes were wide open—he still hadn't slept. Samira had tried so many ways to help him fall asleep the last few nights, but herbal tea and bubble baths had failed her. She remained relentless.
"Hey." Samira gently scratched at the stubble on his cheeks. "Wanna read my thesis?"
Harry sat up immediately, and she was taken aback by it. She placed the computer in his lap after scrolling up to the beginning of the document.
Diversity vs. Representation
Do People of Colour Really See Themselves in Television and Movies?
Research by Noureen Jaleel and Samira Muhammad
Harry read quietly and intensely. Samira rested her head on his shoulder, following along with him. Soon enough, her eyelids grew heavy, and her breathing slowed; she'd forgotten how slow of a reader he was.
But before she could fall asleep, she heard a tap. She snapped her eyes open, seeing that Harry had shut the laptop.
Samira shifted to face Harry. His countenance remained dull.
"What do you think?" She asked.
A faint smile, but it didn't crack his face: "It was . . . really good."
"Oh." Samira plastered on a small smile. "Thank you."
Harry gave Samira a nod, shutting the lamp off. Pitch black filled the room, suppressing the tranquil mood. Harry lay down, and Samira could feel him stare at the ceiling. It was disappointing.
Samira propped herself up with her elbow: "What's up?"
He sighed for the millionth time that night. Shaking his head slightly, he lifted his hands, only to drop them.
"My life still feels like it's going nowhere," Harry said. His voice was laced with desperation.
Samira pretended to be oblivious to his reference, but it was hopelessly so. It all began that night, in the rain, when she left him, saying words she shouldn't have. This was the first time she'd ever feared confrontation.
He took a deep breath.
"Like, I see you and the things you're going to do. You know how to not let things get in the way," Harry began. "But when I see myself, I see a disaster. I lost so many people, even myself, and now I lost Jalebi."
Harry had been calling his dog Jalebi instead of Bea since she'd passed. Of course, the real name held so much more value. It hurt all the more because he hadn't called her by that name when he was still able to keep her in his arms.
"Harry—"
"Samira," he interjected. "Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't tell me I'm going to be okay."
He had been deteriorating right before her eyes. She found herself continually snapping him back into the moment and out of whatever dark trance captured him. But she couldn't force happiness on him.
"You don't have to be okay now."
Harry rolled over, resting on his belly.
"Why did you leave that night?" He murmured under his breath, almost inaudibly, as he shifted closer. He was asking more for himself than anything else.
Samira swallowed painfully at his words; she feared to break the pieces of his heart into a million more. She couldn't do it, not here, not while they lie next to each other so vulnerable.
"Were you afraid to meet Mum?"
Samira knew that if anything false came from her mouth, it would only result in an avalanche. Nevertheless, the image of a snowball rolling, growing in size, the image was all she could think of.
"I was a little afraid to meet her, if I'm honest." It was a little snowball of a lie, but she knew too well that the avalanche was coming regardless.
Her stomach turned inside out at her own words. The voice in her head started to scream at her, begging her to tell the truth. But it was too late, and she couldn't take it back. Samira hated herself for everything she had done and for everything she was about to do.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"I-I panicked. I'm sorry if I embarrassed you."
"No, no, you didn't. She just hoped you were okay," Harry interjected, squeezing her hand. "But . . . did you mean it?"
"What?"
"When you said you didn't need me?"
The snowball turned into a boulder.
"I didn't . . ." Samira kept lying, but she couldn't even stop herself. "I just wanted to be left alone."
Harry drew in a shaky breath, then blew out a raspberry.
"It really fucking sucked when you said that."
Samira caressed his neck: "I'm sorry."
She was sorry. Not that she said it—that she meant it.
Harry looked her in the eye. His hands held her nape, pulling her close.
"I don't want space, Samira."
That had always been the last thing he wanted. Of course, it was. And how could she deny him his wish, even if she needed space? She couldn't be selfish, not right now, not like this.
Their noses brushed, and their lips touched. It was a slow, gentle kiss. Samira could feel his exhaustion, the fatigue in his touch—he had been losing sleep, thinking that she meant all of the hurt she gave him. Her words had changed everything.
Their close proximity reminded Samira of why she was still by his side: she loved him. But the kiss didn't last very long. He gripped her wrist, squeezing it. His eyes sauntered down her body; her cheeks reddened.
He froze. "You've lost weight," he said. "Are you eating, Sam? Are you taking your iron tablets?"
That was what everyone had been asking her. If she was eating enough, if she was losing weight. After spending so long thinking, 'How did I do this to myself?', she gave up. She diverted all of her attention towards the one thing she felt she could control: her body. She felt worthless whenever her body underwent a slight change, and she failed to take note of it.
"I am. I'm eating fine." She turned her back to him.
Harry bit his lip, reaching over to turn her back to him. He pinched Samira's cheek. His eyes wandered everywhere with full attentiveness. His fingers grasped her arm, then her neck. All the places he touched felt oddly hollow.
"You love me, right?"
"Yes."
"So, you wouldn't lie to me?"
That was the last thing Samira wanted to be asked—everything inside of her urged her not to lie. But she had felt the weight of all his burdens, and she didn't want to become another.
"I'm fine, thangam."
Harry's frown disappeared in a heartbeat. How naive. Samira fought the urge to scream the truth at the top of her lungs, wondering if that was all he had wanted to hear this entire time. That she was okay. What left her bewildered was how blatant her lie was. She so clearly looked sick, so why didn't he argue with her? Why did he deny it just as she did?
He fell asleep shortly after. Samira watched Harry with teary eyes; these next two months were going to be the longest of her life. The snowball was only growing, and she prepared for it to overtake her, to suffocate her.
Samira prepared herself because deep down, she felt it was what she deserved.