The first message had come through Asiya's phone on the Friday after their first counselling session. 

Two commanding words from an unknown messenger. 

The anonymity didn't raise Asiya's suspicion. She shrugged the text off and labelled it as a mistake.

Someone had gotten the wrong number.

The second message came through on Saturday night, just when Asiya had started to forget the first. She had blinked at the two lines.

The messages were digital and too short to give away someone's language style. There was also no need for scrutiny because only one person was bothered enough by Asiya's presence to let her know it wasn't welcome anywhere near them.

After a few more blinks at the messages, Asiya asked Yusuf for Hina's number. She had made up a reason that he didn't believe. When he had pressed for the real reason, she had loudly snapped at him (and apologised later). Yusuf had only raised a confused brow before giving it to her.

Later, when Asiya clicked the unknown contact and tried to check the number against the one Yusuf had given her, she cursed. No Caller ID.

Coward, she thought. That's why she had texted. Didn't call or say it to her face. That's why she had hidden her number. Although there was no evidence, Asiya felt she didn't need any. She had never gotten sent accidental messages. She had never been a victim of a juvenile version of pretty little liars, either. That was fiction. This was a cowardly act. Hina was a coward, Asiya had concluded.

She was so much of a coward that two anonymous messages had probably exhausted her and blown her straw housedown. She wouldn't message again.

No more texts had come through that weekend.

- 

The flame that had struck itself lit in Asiya that day at Hina's house burned within her chest as she glared at her phone.

She thought it had gone out. But as she sat in her office, heat tickling through her chest, she realised it had stayed. Flickering inside of her, spreading smoky shadows that were blurring her vision.

The messages were stabbing through her. The sentences were stringing themselves around her neck like a noose. This heat inside of her was instigating her feelings into volatile outbursts.

Asiya was sitting perfectly still. Her eyes fixed on her screen, but her insides felt like they were catching fire.

"Asiya." Kerry's voice lulled Asiya out of her thoughts. "Shouldn't you have lunch, dear? And pray?"

Asiya glanced at the clock on the wall.

"Isn't it your prayer times, dear?" Kerry asked again.

Asiya nodded robotically because if she opened her mouth, the fire that was catching would exit it like a dragon.

Kerry gave Asiya a comforting smile before lowering her head back into her laptop.

Asiya slipped her feet back into her black ballet flats and went to the bathroom.

You're just having a bad day, Asiya. The messages aren't a big deal. Shake it off. Shake them off, Asiya recited to herself as she walked.

She placed her hand against the bathroom door and paused. The sounds from the toilet were faint, but she could hear them. They sounded like scuffling and furious, quiet stints of blowing.

This was meant to be her bathroom. They were marked on the office map, but no one used them. The toilets were nestled in a dark corner on her floor. Too far for most employees to walk to. They were isolated. No one was supposed to remember them, and Asiya had gotten so used to being the only one who used them.

Pins and needles punctured through Asiya's spine as she tried to compose herself.

It's a toilet, Asiya, she inwardly deadpanned. You can't be possessive over a toilet. Weirdo.

She had two options. 

She could either enter a bathroom stall, use her phone to kill time and wait for whoever was in there to leave so she could perform her whudu after, in peace.

Or Asiya could enter, perform her whudu quickly and carelessly and still risk having to explain why she was removing her hijab and had her feet in the sink.

The flame rattled inside of her as she thought about having to explain herself.

"I'm sick of this. Bun this," Asiya snapped out loud before she pushed the bathroom door open and stepped inside, hoping a decision would come to her when she was standing in front of the sink or the intruder.

When Asiya entered, there was no one in the bathroom. The small sounds she had heard had now been replaced by a pin-drop silence.

"Hello? Is someone in here?" Asiya shouted into the bathroom from the door.

Her voice rippled through the atmosphere and hit against the dozen stall doors. There was no reply. 

Asiya closed her mouth and joined the silence. She waited for a few more minutes, and when her ears didn't pick up any further sounds, she ventured further into the bathroom.

She stood at one of the sinks and unbuttoned her shirt sleeve.

Sniff. Shuffle. Sniff

Asiya whipped her head backwards and didn't move.

After five minutes, when she heard nothing else, she willed herself to continue making whudu. She pushed her white long-sleeves up to her elbows.

As Asiya turned the tap handle, her ears pricked up like a cat's.

There it is again. I'm either going crazy, or there's someone in here, Asiya said to herself. Unless...It's a rat! Her heartbeat accelerated as she thought about being trapped in a bathroom with a sonic-speeding rodent.

Desperate to prove herself wrong, she began to push each stall door open and silently prayed the sounds were due to the floorboards groaning or the insulation sweating and were not because of rats.

"Fatimah?" Asiya gasped as she gently kicked the eighth stall door open.

Asiya cautiously lunged for her friend. Fatimah's legs were pressed up against her chest, and she had sandwiched herself into a corner of the stall.

Fatimah's almond-shaped eyes lacked their usual excited shine, and the dark, smudgy border on her lower lash line was a tell-tale sign that her eye makeup had run.

"Fatimah, what's wrong?" Asiya asked urgently as she dragged her knees across the floor and moved closer to her friend

Fatimah was bubbly. She was the cheerful one. The chatty one out of the younger apprentices. She was always up for an adventure and often reminded Asiya of her younger sister, Kulthum. Maybe that was why Asiya treated her like a sister, too.

"I'm sorry," Fatimah sniffed. "Mum says never let them see you cry. That's why I came in here. I know you get ready for prayers in here because it's quiet. I didn't mean to take over your space."

"It's okay. It's not mine. Why are you crying, though? What's happened?" Asiya asked in an airy voice.

"It's Gouge. He's so mean, Asiya," Fatimah responded. "I understand why you didn't want to report him now. How do you report someone like that? Especially when they're in charge."

Asiya's jaw straightened. Hr guy. The man who had indirectly accused Asiya of being aggressive. Misbranded and rewrote her passion into something else. Something scary and threatening when she had asked for concessions with her salah.

"One of the other guys in my department, Timothy, kept trying to touch my hair. I kept pushing him off, but he continued. He started attracting attention. Some of the other stupid boys joined in. Timothy kept asking me how I get it to change styles and stuff, and I told him it's none of his business," Fatimah started.

"Gouge came over. He started saying that they were just asking questions. They just wanted to know stuff," Fatimah spat. "I told him that, respectfully, my hair has nothing to do with my work, just like my sister taught me to say. Gouge said it does because I walk in here every other week with a different hairstyle, and it's distracting. It's natural for people to have questions. I said I'm in my right to not answer them, and Timothy doesn't have to touch my hair to get an answer."

Asiya lowered her chin, nodding slightly, proud that Fatimah had stood her ground and defended herself.

Fatimah raised her hands to unroll the tissue roll next to her. She cut herself a few squares and loudly blew her nose into them before continuing.

"I went back to my desk, thinking it was done. Gouge came over. He started saying I should be nicer. More accommodating. That my hair is strange, and people are just curious. That curiosity is good. It means people are interested, especially because my hair sometimes makes me look cheap, like I'm not an apprentice at a good company. He said I was lucky for this opportunity, and if I was mean to the people around me, I wouldn't get another because, and I quote, people like me don't get these opportunities."

Asiya held her breath as tears discoloured Fatimah's honey-coloured eyes, making them look dark and heavy.

"I didn't want to cry, Asiya, but he was so close." Her voice was thick, and her sentences were broken up by hiccups.

"I could feel his breath on my face," Fatimah touched her cheek, "I thought he was going to touch me, and everyone was watching. It was so embarrassing."

Asiya nodded understandingly. She knew how close Gouge could get. He liked to get close enough for one to be able to hear the effects of the cigarettes on his vocal cords. To count every line on his face and see the small grey clouds of hair escaping from his ears.

"Did anyone say anything?" Asiya asked calmly.

Fatimah shook her head. "Then he just laughed and said I'm in the big world now. Crying gets me nowhere, but I couldn't control myself. I had to leave."

"While he was talking, I kept thinking I should've never got these locs done. I should've just worn a straight wig and stuck to it, like my mother suggested," Fatimah whimpered.

"It's okay," Asiya verbally petted Fatimah. "You've done nothing wrong. It's not your fault," she cooed as Fatimah wriggled out from the corner and threw her head into Asiya's hijab.

"I just hate the fact that I cried," Fatimah blubbered.

"There's nothing wrong with crying," Asiya said with a voice harder than intended.

Her jaw was clamped up, and that stupid heat was spreading.

Asiya began to stroke Fatimah's back; her hands were moving, but her fingers were straight and paralysed. Asiya was so heated that if she moved too abruptly, without conscious thought, she was sure tiny embers would spit out of her skin, set her surroundings alight and devour her, Fatimah and the entire office whole.

After a few minutes, Asiya helped Fatimah onto her feet, and they exited the stall.

"Sorry about your scarf," Fatimah grimaced as she motioned towards the dark splotches on Asiya's hijab.

"It's okay."

"Your scarf. My face. What a mess," Fatimah pointed at the ashy tear streaks that had drawn lines through her foundation. "I can fix this, though."

She swung her black Telfar bag onto the sink counter and pulled a small, spotted pencil case out. "I always carry a kit inca–wait! Asiya! Asiya! Asiya! Where the hell are you going!?" 

- 

Chapter Glossary 

Salah: Arabic term. It means prayer.

Whudu: Purifying routine that must be performed before prayer.

Hijab: A head covering worn by Muslim women. Hijab is meant to cover your hair, ears, neck and chest.