"So . . . what are you gonna do with this dress?"
"I don't know. It was cute before it got wet and muddy."
Cardboard boxes took up all of Samira's apartment. Any clothes, furniture, or kitchenware was to be donated. She felt a distinct urge to purge herself of these. . . reminders. So far, her suitcase was stuffed with half of her wardrobe, a few books, and a bunch of gifts to bring back home.
"Are you going to dry clean it? Or give it back to Harry?" Alexia asked, sweeping the bedroom floor with a broom.
Samira frowned, looking at the ravaged yellow dress hanging in her otherwise emptied closet.
"I don't know," she mumbled. "I'll just have to donate it, I guess."
Samira lay on her bed, relieved that she wasn't doing this alone. Everything was cleaned and put away within the last two days. All of her friends had come over at some point that day to help out or give her something to take home: Fizza brought fresh food from her Baba's restaurant, Yaani and Natalie taped boxes, Waseem came with chocolates, and even Cameron stopped by to say his farewells, though it was in the usual reclusive manner. Small gestures like those were the greatest gift in and of themselves: She could almost forget the whirlwind of emotions she'd had to endure for the last month.
Tasneem closed a box: "There's someone coming to pick up all of this?"
"Yeah. Tomorrow morning." Samira sat back up, running a hand through her curls. "Fizza will take all of the stuff to the mosque a few blocks down. Muslim students dorm on the top floor and I thought they would appreciate these things."
"So you're giving everything?" Alexia sat down next to her, sighing. "That's very kind of you."
Samira shrugged, pursing her lips into a smile. It didn't quite hit her that she was leaving Liverpool𑁋so quickly had Wapa changed her flight. There was no judgment nor doubt in his voice when he told her she could come home early, and for that, she was grateful.
"Alright," Alexia began, looking around the vacant room. She dusted off her jeans. "I think we'll go now." She shot Samira a small, sideways smile.
Samira followed Tasneem and Alexia gingerly to the front door. Alexia reached over to squeeze her hand, a sincere look in her eye. A warm feeling filled Samira's chest.
"I know we didn't spend a lot of time together," Alexia said.
"I'm sorry we didn't," Samira replied remorsefully. "Thank you for all your help these last few days."
As they stood in front of the door, Alexia opened her arms, and Samira gladly accepted them. She nestled her head into Alexia's neck, relishing the comfort.
"You can always call me if you need anything," Alexia reminded, rubbing her back. "Give those sweets to your little brother, okay?"
"Of course. Thank you."
Tasneem turned to Samira: "I'll see you tomorrow. Don't cook or buy anything until then. I'll take care of that."
"I appreciate it," Samira nodded, grinning.
Alexia turned the knob, opening the door.
When the light from her apartment seeped into the hall, Samira's breath hitched. Her skin crawled as she froze in her steps. Utter silence.
Harry stood timidly in front of her.
"Oh . . . hello, Harry," Alexia greeted ineptly as she stepped into the hall. Tasneem followed, heading to her apartment, keeping her eyes to the floor.
Samira cleared her throat, giving Alexia an apologetic smile. But Alexia shook her head softly, forgivingly. She said with her eyes what could not be said aloud.
"Bye, Samira."
"Bye."
As much as she tried, she couldn't tear her eyes away from Alexia's silhouette; it shrank smaller and smaller with every step.
The light she felt in Alexia's presence had faded with every second she looked into Harry's eyes.
He averted his eyes quickly to the floor, shifting bashfully in the doorway. His fists were stuffed into the pocket of his black hoodie—actually, all of what he wore was black. Unkempt, stubble had begun to collect on his cheeks. A beanie covered his disheveled waves of hair.
Samira thought she'd gotten the last word. It'd been days, and Harry never chased after her when she stormed out, nor did he call or text. She really believed it was the last time she'd ever seen him.
But Samira couldn't catch a minute of sleep when the absence of his warmth literally hurt. He was her everything. Her albi, her thangam. If he meant nothing to her, she wouldn't feel so . . . shitty.
"Are you here to get your stuff?" Samira asked quietly, leaning her head against the doorframe. "I also have the . . . Georgie coat and recipe book packed over there." She pointed to a box, neatly wrapped on the kitchen counter.
Harry took a deep breath, eyes glued to the floor.
"That's not why I'm here," he responded quietly.
Samira blinked, startled: "Then?"
"Um . . . when are you leaving?"
Her teeth sank into her lips.
"Tomorrow night."
Their eyes finally met. A dark storm filled his eyes, and he didn't even bother to have subtlety.
"Oh," Harry replied, clearing his throat awkwardly. His face was drained of color. "That's . . . soon."
"Harry," she called quietly. "What is it?"
Harry swept his tongue over his lips, taking a step closer. He closed his eyes for a moment, grimacing as though he had a bad taste in his mouth.
"I don't like the way we ended."
Her stony gaze turned soft. After all, God's work was what brought him before her.
"We can talk," she sighed.
"No." Harry shook his head profusely. "That's not enough . . . for us."
She tilted her head, pursing her lips tightly: "What do you mean?"
"A conversation isn't closure," he answered. "I know you might be busy, but . . . spend some time with me today."
"Harry—"
"Sam . . . please," he interjected, inching closer. "This is the only thing I need from you."
Her instincts clung desperately to the idea of supporting him in his time of need. He wasn't the only one in need, though: Her own heart withered in her chest, empty and bruised, yearning to be healed.
"Now?" she breathed.
He nodded softly: "Now."
Samira inhaled through her nose, biting the inside of her cheek.
"Alright."
Head resting on the car window, she occasionally peered over at him. His shoulders were far too tense for it to seem like he was driving comfortably. In the moments of silence, the tension roared in their ears.
Though Harry's timidity might have prevented her from trusting his itinerary, she found that she did trust him. She followed him out of the car when he parked it at the train station and handed her an orange ticket.
She squinted her eyes at the paper she held: "Chester?"
Harry nodded silently as the train arrived. A few other people were aboard, though, for the most part, this car was all theirs. Harry took the seat across from her, eyes glued to the pattering rain rolling across the glass next to him. Samira crossed her arms and leaned as far back into the seat as she could, her gaze to the floor.
The wind howled loudly in Chester; Samira wrapped her arms around herself when they stepped off the train. A small smile stretched over her lips as she remembered coming here alone nearly a year ago to admire the beautiful town.
Neither of them bothered to speak. Harry kept his gaze ahead, growing more confident with each step as Samira trailed behind him. The farther they walked, the louder it became: thrashing water.
They soon reached a river. Water lapped violently, but it washed out all else that existed. All of the pain in the world had disappeared. A dark brick bridge sat above it; carved into it were little Chesire cats. Shrubs of daisies were planted by the edges, and willow trees were rooted in the grass.
He sat down on a bench, rubbing his hands together as fog escaped his lips. Samira joined Harry, though she occupied the farthest space from him.
The scenery was pleasant, but she was a bit confused. Why here?
Before she could utter a word, Harry turned her way.
"I used to come here after therapy. This was why I was always so late to see you, sometimes." His breath hitched, so he had no option but to speak curtly. "I would write in a journal before coming home. I kind of always wanted to bring you here."
She recalled those innocent beginnings when Harry struggled to be open with her. Now, he was completely vulnerable, without fear.
Guilt started to eat her up like a raging beast. Her pride tried to fight it off, but it was too weak.
Don't, Samira. You don't owe him shit.
. . . But it's not right to leave him hanging.
"I'm sorry I slapped you," Samira blurted, squeezing her eyes shut.
"It's okay—"
"No, it's not." she countered, shaking her head. "I just . . ."
Samira paused. She'd gotten so used to being interrupted by him that she expected him to do so now. She met his concerned eyes; he stayed silent, watching her attentively.
"I'm sorry," she repeated.
"Sam," Harry began, lips a tight line. "It's fine."
His eyes reflected her own guilt. Samira swallowed, struggling to find comfort in herself.
"I just hate being called . . . selfish," she began, looking down at her shoes. "You can call me anything you want but that."
Again, Harry didn't utter a word.
"I left home so I would stop being called that."
A storm of words rumbled on her tongue.
"I was never taught to do things for myself. Always for others. I had different rules than my siblings." Samira bit her lip, teeth piercing her skin. It was a rather peculiar sensation—rambling about herself. "If I bothered to choose myself, even if it was small, it was wrong. I'd feel abandoned. I didn't feel as loved."
She swallowed, feeling tension spread in her throat.
"I'm the emotional support in my family. I'm their reputation. The backbone. I'm the punching bag, the rag, the third parent. But when I don't want to be, I'm called selfish."
Samira leaned forward, letting the wind brush over her. Her eyes were squeezed shut. A chuckle of disbelief escaped her when she realized that of all the people she could tell, she was telling him.
"Still, the most selfish person in the house was always Ayan. He expected everything to be handed to him. Boys . . . boys are babies their whole life. It makes them 'powerful' in the household. And when it's time for them to grow up, that power no longer exists. They become cowards."
She opened her eyes, hoping the surging river would drown out her hammering heart—it didn't.
"I thought he'd matured after college, but the way he treated me never changed. He'd belittle me. Put down my achievements. Make me feel worthless. But no one ever saw me making fun of him for being a dropout."
A warm, welcoming touch blanketed Samira's hand. Harry took it from her lap, holding it in his. Impulsively, she almost jerked it back, but solace enveloped her when he squeezed it softly.
"One day, I just started yelling at him, and I couldn't stop." She leaned into her palm, covering her face as she shook her head. "I was twenty at the time and he was twenty-eight—ridiculous, right? I said things he didn't want to hear, and when he couldn't defend himself, he started throwing things . . . and he punched me in the face.
"And the worst part of it all? My dad told me I should've stayed quiet."
All she wanted to do was laugh off the traumatic memory, but the hurt started to pour in. Samira held her palm to her mouth, cries muffled. Her chest ached, and her cheeks were wet with tears.
"Yeah, I love Wapa, but I hate how his opinions matter so much to me. How can he expect me to carry the family but look at Ayan and not expect shit? And why did Ayan hate that I was raised differently? That's not my fault."
Samira grimaced, feeling her ears engulf with heat. Her heart was pounding, but Harry's soft gaze slowed its thrashing. The way he looked at her felt so foreign, yet so intimate.
"This part of me buried deep inside began screaming, so I let it out. I wanted not to give a fuck. I stopped listening to my dad. I didn't come home on the weekends; I had sex, drank. But it felt pointless, and I knew I was depressed—as long as I lived under that roof, no one was going to give me the help I needed. I wanted to be me, but happy. I worked hard, fought my way to study here because I just wanted to find myself, alone. And I was called selfish for that too.
"So yeah, sure, I'm independent, but I'm better off alone, too. I came here thinking my family was the problem, but maybe it's just me."
She rested her chin on her fist, taking a deep breath. She felt a thick sludge run through her veins, its thorny surface scraping painfully inside her. Each layer of her guard was peeling back, bit by bit, leaving her completely exposed.
"I don't care about his life, nor how he's doing. I know I shouldn't be feeling bad about it, but I do."
But being this vulnerable in front of Harry after all of the pain he'd had been through, and that she put him through, sent shame running down her spine.
"I'm sorry," Samira apologized, wiping her face. "I'll shut up."
Harry leaned in close.
She breathed in a whiff of sandalwood, the tension in her body fading away as she did. Hints of nostalgia seeped into her. He had that scent at the train station all that time ago. She remembered why she loved him in the first place: he was there for her when she needed it.
"I learned more about you in the last few minutes than I have in the last few months," Harry said tenderly. His face held woe.
Samira traced the dew on the arm of the bench, repeating: "I'm sorry."
"No." Harry took both her hands in his own, forcing her to turn to him. His eyebrows were furrowed. "You always listened to me . . . but I stopped listening to you."
For once, she felt visible, clearer than a crystal. She had been heard, acknowledged. She was real; Harry just confirmed it.
Her lips curled slightly: "Is that why you brought me here?"
Harry nodded, returning the small smile.
"I thought of the first thing you've ever taught me."
She batted her eyes, caught off guard: "What do you mean?"
"You're really brave, Samira," Harry began. "That day on the train, I was in awe of your boldness. You didn't give a shit about what anyone thought of you. Hell, you confronted me on the spot.
"I'm a coward, always have been, and sometimes, I wonder if it's too late to change."
"Oh," Samira replied thinly, feeling a speck of regret settle in her heart. "I miss when we were friends."
Harry breathed sharply.
"We can still be . . . right?"
A friendship was all she could ever want.
"Yeah."
They spent the afternoon walking around Chester, laughing and playing so happily that it first felt unnatural.
Old memories resurfaced on the train back to Liverpool. She kept taking a peek at Harry in the corner of her eye. He looked her way every time.
The way he sat, quietly with a twinkle of luster in his eyes𑁋she couldn't stop wondering what his name was.
Things got clearer as the day went by. Light, golden and warm, began dancing through the glass𑁋a rare spectacle indeed. Samira talked and Harry listened—as simple as it was, her heart gushed uncontrollably.
They went to all of their spots when they returned to Liverpool.
She saw an innocent girl with a curly mane of black hair kicking a football around a cute boy with dimpled cheeks when passing the park. She peered through the window of the bubble waffles shop, finding a happy brown girl giggling as she watched the green-eyed boy bite into his food. She strolled down the patterned walkway of the Royal Albert Dock as the sun set; in the distance, a boy with tousled brown hair was looking desperately for solace in the girl beside him.
When the sky was blanketed by a twinkling shadow, they sang with the windows rolled down and the speakers blasting Bollywood. Here they were, choosing to live in a time as simple as friendship, having forgotten all of the times afterward.
But they couldn't really pick and choose the reality of their past. They couldn't be just friends. They were lovers, and now exes. As long as they kept pretending, pain loomed over them; she felt it when Harry pulled up in front of her apartment. The breeze came to a halt. Music hummed quietly.
"Yeh Ladki Hai Allah?" Samira giggled. "You like this song?"
"The movie is my favorite," Harry responded, chuckling.
"You're so basic."
"Or maybe you're a coconut."
"Okay, colonizer."
Harry laughed: "It was also Zayn's favorite."
Samira's heart softened: "Oh . . . that's cute."
He didn't seem to have any trouble talking about Zayn anymore, even with Bea gone.
The movie Harry loved was about family. Any passerby wouldn't be able to tell that the two sitting in that car over there at the edge of the road came from broken households.
She ignored the impending.
The clock ticked. Their time together was coming to an end. Samira reached for her seatbelt, ready to bid him a farewell𑁋but as she reached for the door handle, the song changed.
She stopped in her tracks.
Her heart leaped from her chest. The beat to 'Do I Wanna Know?' bounced off the walls of the car.
"Oh, God," Samira chuckled.
Harry grinned bashfully: "This was our song, wasn't it?"
"It was."
Their eyes locked.
Her heart pounded in her ears; she could barely hear the music. His breath was shallow, shaky.
As much as she wanted to, she couldn't pull away: she gazed as the stars in his eyes, the twinkle she had grown to love. She remembered the peace that engulfed her when she first learned his name. Longing swelled in her chest.
The space between them grew humid with each second. Even the moon tried to tempt her, casting its glow onto him. His skin drank the light right up, beaming with an ethereal glow. How meticulously chiseled his cheeks were, how striking his gaze was.
Like ice in the sun, she melted right into her seat, dreamily watching his lips. How they'd fit perfectly into hers, how soft they were. How just one kiss could instantly turn her into a puddle. How she craved for even a ghost of them to tickle her skin.
Harry leaned in, just an inch.
And so did Samira.
Then she watched his eyes, how they darkened like the night sky. Harry's lips parted; the music disappeared altogether, and all that filled her ears were his quiet breaths.
Their foreheads touched; their noses brushed. Warmth sank into her leg; Samira felt his hand grip her thigh, just like how it did on a long night's drive, when they were in love, when everything was okay.
She imagined a world in which she never met him: She saw herself radiating happiness and strength and love. And yet𑁋here she was, willing to drop everything for him. Detestation crawled through her stomach.
"Samira." He was so close, their breaths mingled.
At the sound of her name rolling off his lips, at the pure desire in the way he whispered it, her tempest of emotions rained with lust. Not a bone in her body wanted to pull away.
There Samira sat, staring into the ocean of his eyes. She was sucked in by the wave, pulled away from the shore, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. She tried to swim, frantically wading through the water, but it was too late.
She drowned in the tangled lips, gasping for breath that wasn't there.
Like waves, they crashed, just as though it were the first time.