Cruel is too scarce a word for this world.

The sun has risen in all its glory outside the curtains of my room. The birds are chirping and seeking sustenance for themselves and their young. The earth continues to revolve on its orbit, not the slightest bit of change, hindrance or impediment came about after my catastrophic night.

The tide rises, the tide falls.

I squint up at my wall: the poetry pieces stuck on it with floral washi tape but this once this poem does not make my heart move in awe, it stings like salt on a wound, antiseptic on open flesh, like the burn of green chillies on your skin if you're not careful when cutting them. And ya Allah, it doesn't go away.

I turn on my side, exhaustion seeping into my bones, a slow ache spreading from my heart to the tips of my fingers and my toes until my entire skeleton is throbbing. Her mattress is empty, her pillows and duvet untouched, undisturbed, no scrunched up face drooling in sleep. I used to think she dreamt complex plot twists hence the face and the creased forehead but I never found out. I never asked. And now she's not sleeping across from me anymore.

It's been four mornings waking like this. The last time I saw her sleeping was the day she bled to unconsciousness.

Hanaan.

I rip off the covers from my body, the dim light in my room from behind the curtains gives away the time; it must be well past morning. I check my phone, it is indeed past noon. I stumble towards the bathroom, head heavy, hungover with echoing laughter and hooting, body throbbing with eyes ravishing the clothes that clung tight to my chest and hips last night. I don't turn on the light in the bathroom. I don't meet my eyes in the mirror. I let the faucet run to drown the jeering catcalls but too soon, the guilt of wasting water hits me hard in the chest where dry branches poke about in my ribcage, nausea, humiliation and a maddening infuriation come along uninvited. I turn off the tap and hold my face in my hands.

Deep breaths, Hana. Deep breaths.

Did I deserve all that? The images of me photoshopped and engraved in Waheed bloody Qayser's mind? The privacy of mine violated like that? Pictures out in the open for strangers to stare at? Did I deserve it, the way he looked me up and down at the party last night? To be called out by him, flattery that offended me, made me feel assaulted, transgressed? And then to be pushed into a public pool and made a show of in such a vile crowd?

I draw in air.

No room for regret. No space for sympathy. I am the victim here but I will not endure the pain others have brought to me. I am Hana Junaid and I will not allow just anyone to make a public show of me. Be that my own sister or a stranger with selfish intentions. I will not allow it.

It takes a lot of strength to come out of the bathroom looking alive and unperturbed as though nothing at all happened last night, as though I didn't for once feel unsafe my by Mamu's side as he drove his midnight blue car at a speed above one twenty kilometres per hour, skidding past red lights, speeding across the trucks that reign the roads at night, his knuckles on the steering a ghastly white, jaw clenched so tight. He was angry, he was fuming and throughout the journey, he was also spitting bitter words at me.

If I survived all that, I can survive anything.

Before I step out of my room, I turn to Hanaan's wall for some reason. The quotes on printed paper speak to me in her voice only.

You kinda owe it to yourself to do all the things you've dreamed.

What's true in the light is still true in the dark.

Allah does not burden a soul beyond that it can bear. —Surah Baqarah, Verse 286

And He found you lost and guided you. —Quran 93/7

Did He not find you an orphan and give you refuge? —Quran 93/6

You are not a drop in the ocean. You are the entire ocean in a drop. —Rumi

Eventually everything will fall into place. Maybe it won't be as you imagined, maybe it will be even better. Maybe you couldn't reach for that star because you're meant to have the entire universe. — F.E.Marie

I turn away. My star is dead, what do I need the universe for? Did she put up all this for me?

It doesn't work like that, Hanaan. It just doesn't.

I step outside my room, hoping no one's home: Mama and Dadi are at the hospital, Baba definitely at work, just me and Baano who's also busy somewhere cleaning. I look left and right the way Nashwa doesn't when she drives and then step completely in the open of our lounge where bright sunlight streaks in through the high wall windows. I am grateful too soon for no one coming in sight because in the kitchen, standing over a simmering pot is my mother, stirring a spoon. She turns to me before I can run back to the safety of seclusion in my room.

She smiles. "You're awake."

I hum and turn away to the fridge. Hum is all I can do. Already a spiky lump is there in my throat, prickling me on the inside, the only thing that will come out of me is a flood work of tears and ugly hiccups and a yearning to be held in someone's arms but will anyone see through the splotches on my cheeks and sympathise with me, just hold me for a while and not ask what's wrong with me?

But I also don't want to be held, don't want to be touched, don't want to be seen.

I don't want to be.

I stare blankly at the fridge not registering what's inside it until Mama comes over and I step aside. It's noon, I should be prepared for a scolding, getting up so late and expecting breakfast at this hour when it's nearly time for lunch. She won't wonder why I got up so late today when I get up at seven every single day. No one looks that deep. But of course, she will ask questions about last night, the party, the people, the place, the food. Everyone looks that deep.

Mama pulls out a bowl and bread. She places it on the table and then closes the fridge to open the freezer instead. She pulls out a glass of mango milkshake and hands it to me.

"Here, have this while I make your French toast."

I don't have the milkshake. I watch her instead. She slices the white bread into half and dips them into the batter in the bowl that she pulled out of the fridge. She lights the stove, puts a frying pan on it, greases it with too much oil and I look at the batter again, the sugar it must contain, the fact she's using white bread and not bran bread. But I also look at her.

My mother's making me breakfast.

In desi households, that doesn't really happen for daughters. In our household, it sometimes does because Mama loves to cook continental food and she obviously has to cook for Hanaan, Hanaan can't even butter her own bread without buttering her arms too and even if she could, if she practiced enough, Mama would still do it for her. She'll always be the baby of our family, CP or no CP.

But Mama's making breakfast for me.

I sit down and drink the milkshake. The sugar in it does not poison me. The mangoes in it do not make my heart swell up with regret, I do not think of all the calories I will need to burn later and forever for having this treat.

I don't think of it because my mother made it for me.

It's been a while since she has made breakfast for me.

A pang hits my chest.

I should ask her how she's doing. I should ask her if she's been sleeping at all. I should tell her not to blame herself for Hanaan's condition—

No. No. This once, I should take what is being offered to me.

This once, I should welcome the care because it will not last long.

Mama keeps the French toast before me and I dig into it with a fork. I can already imagine Nashwa snapping her brows at me, sooo angrez, then proceeding to demonstrate how a French toast can be eaten by bare hands too. But the picture of Nashwa quickly disappears from my mind. The sweet flavour of custard in the French toast, born out of eggs milk and sugar fills me up inside and out. The crispy outer coating and the creamy texture of the bread on the inside is a moment too good for me and I savour in it, letting the food comfort my calamities. Mama doesn't sit in front of me to make me feel awkward, she turns back to the pot and keeps to it until I am done. Noticing Baano's absence, I wash my plate and glass remembering the dishes I did at Nashwa's and making a note to tell her I do sometimes clean after me.

Nashwa.

It only hits now.

"Nashwa Ahmad."

I hear her name in Waheed's voice and again, a wave of regret washes over me, making my knees go weak. I close the tap and remind myself. No room for regret. No space for sympathy. I am the victim here, I will not endure the pain others have brought to me. Besides, there's nothing Waheed has on Nashwa.

Mama washes her hands and then gestures to the door. "Baano's with Hanaan for now. Come, your father's waiting."

I follow numbly after my mother and into the lounge where a congregation awaits me. The spiky lump reappears in my throat, the dread of last night's recap outlasts the comfort of food, is this why my mother made me breakfast?

Baba smiles as he gestures towards the sofa seat by Dadi's who is also looking intently at me. "Calm down, mena, I can see the steam coming out that head of yours and no we didn't stuff you like a goat before it's slaughtered on Eid which reminds me, Eid is in two weeks, can we do a camel this year, Ma?" He turns to Dadi who gives him a dirty look.

"I don't suppose you're volunteering to sort out the meat afterwards?"

Baba gives her a sheepish smile. "My services are limited for the time being."

"Then request denied is my only answer, Mister Junaid."

He sighs. "I shall die with this wish in my heart, oh mother of mine." He turns to me and I curl up within myself, seeing the questions flashing behind his twinkling eyes.

He calls me mena, a bird that sings but croaks even viciously because of its territorial instincts. Hanaan is his jugnu, a firefly and it only exasperates her because not only is jugnu a term that befits boys better but also her name that is unisex. Jugnu henceforth became official.

"Mena, we know your life's been a mess, even if we haven't proved our presence and support in it for some time now. Especially since Hanaan's injury. It's been difficult to catch you, you crashed too soon, I came too late or slept at the hospital with Hanaan and we both know your mother only loves her daughter, trust me, she hasn't looked at me the same since you two were born."

Mama turns to him.

He raises a finger. "See, that's all how she looks at me."

Dadi holds the bridge of her nose. "Will you ever grow up, Junaid?"

He gives her a lopsided grin and turns back to me. "Your Mamu called too early this morning. Said we should check up on you."

He pauses and the silence enunciates the lurch in my heart, what more did Mamu tell them? I let my eyes flicker between my mother and father both of who are looking at me expectantly. Baba doesn't give away but Mama's eyes are an open book — like my own — it's easy to see the storm clouds brewing behind them but we don't carry storms inside us, we carry tornadoes of torments, emotions welled up, bottled, contained, restrained, that are fighting to pour out.

Is this why she didn't sit in front of me as I ate? Because she knew already and couldn't meet my eye?

There's no point in assuming. I ask, "Did he tell you everything?"

Baba weighs his words before saying them. "Hana, we know you fell into the pool." His eyes peer into mine and I am biting my lower lip to avoid getting up and running away from the other two pairs that also watch me. "In a party like that, I can understand if a youngster was trying mischief but because you had to be accompanied by someone there, no one would dare mess up with another powerful lawyer. Especially Ahmad. Is there more to all this?"

Do I tell him everything? Do I tell him his mena is hurt? His own jugnoo did it. That his honour and pride, that his integrity that he holds in the form of me has been threatened and harassed? Do I tell him everything and watch him run after Waheed, grab him by the collar and do something that will only put him behind bars or make things worse for both him and me? But how do I even tell him in the first place?

Tiny glass fragments prick my eyes, ready to come out in salted tears and raspy breaths. Deep breaths, Hana. Deep breaths.

"We know you too well, Hana," Dadi speaks. "You would not go to such a party the way your mother doesn't, the way even your father doesn't."

She's right. While my mother completely rejects such gatherings because of her religious beliefs, my father avoids them too because he detests the crowd, the way they laugh meaningfully, the way they touch one another, the way the people there show off wealth as a sign of affluence and power, inviting people only for the sake of intimidation and not for the sake of good company or being gracious hosts.

My father is an unconventional lawyer. He's more so a prosecutor, he fights cases for the government and not the petty private wealth power plays. He does wear a suit to court as is the uniform but sometimes, he rebels in his own way and wear a black kurta shalwar instead, letting that be enough to empower him.

He sits in front of me now, looks weary. He's not as fit and built as he used to be, he's still broad and tall and I credit him for my good height of five feet four inches unlike Nashwa who is about two inches shorter than me. Baba wears glasses too, his hair is messy and dishevelled and he does not gel it like Mamu does. Mamu's shave is also always well maintained and groomed. Baba's a bit dishevelled there too but overall, he looks approachable, he looks friendly, he looks humble and he smiles and jokes and the corners of his eyes crease. He doesn't look intimidating like Ahmad Mamu. He looks like home.

"That is what I said to her too, Amma," my mother adds. "But Ahmad was adamant on taking her along and she was adamant on going too."

"You and Nashwa had a scene. Pray do say, this had nothing to do with that," Dadi recalls.

"And we all know things haven't been the same between you and Hanaan either." Mama's eyes are glistening with pain. "What is going on, Hana? Hanaan falls from the stairs, why was she upstairs? We're adults, we can sense things are not okay but with you three, there's never really any sense at all. Is there something you should be telling us?"

The worry in her voice squeezes my heart, I want to tell her not to worry, to relax, to calm down, to be easy, nothing's wrong. But should I be lying?

"Mena." I turn to Baba. It's overwhelming to turn to each of them one by one. "It is time we talk I suppose. We're not oblivious, the adults. We've been holding our horses with you and Hanaan, watching you two keep your distance although we missed it so much. The two of you laughing like maniacs in the dead of the night or scavenging the fridge for a midnight treat or hiding a fake mouse in your Dadi's covers and then doing makeup on me while I slept in because your mother was angry at me for always coming too late from work." The corners of his mouth pull up. "We wanted to sit you both down, sort things out we did—"

"Why?" I cut him. "Why didn't you sit us both down and sort it out, Baba?"

He smiles sadly. "It was doing you good, Hana." He shakes his head and sighs. "I know, kid, it's not easy admitting it, I know you feel it, we look too much at Hanaan and too less at you in our already busy schedules. It wasn't okay to see you making decisions all based off of Hanaan, especially with that stunt you pulled on your ninth grade results—"

I look away. He does not need to remind me, Hanaan did that well in her recordings.

"—when you both fought and distanced yourself, your mother and Dadi instantly wanted to sort out things between you two but I told them not to, to let you two sort it out on your own in your own time and not to intervene. I wasn't expecting it to stretch so long. I also wasn't expecting to see you look at yourself with such focus. You lost weight remarkably well, you regained confidence, hung out with your friends more at social gatherings, your grades weren't affected either, yes we noticed."

Mama's smile is too downcast. "I wanted to cook for you, I wanted to be the one to help you out in your journey but—" she shuts her eyes tight and I can see the various shades of regret painted all over her face. But I focused on Hanaan entirely.

I want to force her to complete her sentence. I want to make her accept her fault out loud. Hanaan needed focus but did she need all the focus? And just because I turned out a butterfly from this torment, does it justify their negligence? Does it make their inconsideration of me alright?

It doesn't.

Why won't all this come out of my mouth? Why can't I say what I feel?

I can't do this, I realise.

Make my father or my mother feel guilty, not when they're sitting here already trying to be supportive, present for me, not when Hanaan's in the hospital, in a coma. I can't even if it's ripping me apart on the inside to hold all this frustration inside me. I want to make them realise my worth, my value, my need for their time, their love, their attention but how do I demand it without making them sacrifice their only ounces of sleep and rest that they don't already spend in earning for my clothes, food, education and well-being?

Allah. This 'caring' will kill me one day.

"Hana?"

I look at Baba. It takes a lot of strength to not break down in tears, to not just give away everything, to tell them I've always been the one to suffer, at their hands, at Hanaan's hands, at this world's hands. I want them to look at Hanaan the way she deserves to be looked at after all this, but can I do this? Make them hate their daughter while she's already fighting for her life at the hospital.

Wow, Hanaan, wow. And wow, Hana.

What happened to 'no room for regret, no space for sympathy'?

Nashwa was right those years ago when we fought. I don't make my own decisions, all my decisions are based on those around me. But this is my decision too, to care about those around me and God, I just can't do this now.

"There is something going on," I speak slowly. "But I can't tell you."

Baba beats Dadi and Mama on their questioning. "Is it something wrong? Something you're scared of telling us because you think we'll judge you?" When I don't answer, he breaths out. "Hana. When your Mamu told us what happened at the party, the way you were pushed, we were completely alarmed and shook, there's no pain more painful for parents than the pain of their child and you're our mena, our Hana." He holds my mother's hand in his, interlacing his fingers with hers, eyes still boring deep into mine. "Whatever's done is now done, you need not live in it by yourself."

I look away. Of course they think I have done something wrong.

I shake my head. "I can't—"

"We will stand by you, we will help you correct it, we will support you and get you out of this mess. Mistakes happen, Hana, sometimes we do things we later regret—"

"Junaid," Dadi cuts him. "Slow down." She turns to me. "Hana was it you or was it Nashwa or Hanaan?"

I open my mouth and then close it. Why does saying names sound so wrong now?

"Hana?" She repeats my name and I just look into her eyes, begging her to understand. It feels wrong, for some reason, it feels wrong to tell them Hanaan did all this, the pain they felt to hear I was pushed into a pool and all that happened afterwards, it was because of Hanaan. Didn't Hanaan already say she was sorry?

"It's okay." Baba leans forward. "Does Ahmad know everything?"

I nod numbly, furiously wiping away at the stray tear that escapes my cheek. "He knows everything and he's helping and I promise something like last night won't happen again."

"Hana—" my mother's voice is as torn as my own and Baba squeezes her hand in his.

"It's okay, kid." Baba takes charge again. "It's okay. As long as an adult is involved, someone you can trust and lean on to feel safe, we're okay, we'll be okay but, Hana, I'm still here, I'll be waiting, I'll still be standing by your side anytime you want to come and pour out your heart and let me assure you, we will not judge, we will not scold, we will help you get out of whatever mess you've been trapped in, I have a feeling you didn't bring it upon you."

I'm only looking at my hands, my fingers intertwined in each other, a teardrop falls onto them and I wipe again at my cheek. Dadi reaches over to put a hand on my shoulder and I hold back the ugly hiccups ready to make a show.

Deep breaths, Hana. Deep breaths.

Baba leans back again. "Ahmad also mentioned an apology. He shouldn't have been angry at you last night although he added then, he was right to be angry but he shouldn't have been angry." He turns to my mother. "Your brother is totally weird."

My mother shoots him her signature pointed look. Just as the pain of having too many feelings subsides, the pain of last night returns and this time I don't hear people laughing at me, I hear my Mamu hissing at me in his car, red with anger, driving with a speed very crazy and completely shaking. If he scared me at his office by lashing at that glass he broke, he terrified me in his car.

The moment we had closed the car doors behind us, he pulled out a bottle of pills from the dashboard and gulped down three. While he drove, I noticed the whitening of his knuckles, his hands tightly clasped on the steering wheel and how his jaw was clenched so tightly. He was quiet the first half, the speedometer slowly increasing until he couldn't hold it in.

When he spoke, his voice was gruff. "Are you happy now?"

I didn't turn to look at him, the inferno I knew he would have in his eyes.

"Are you happy; is this what you came for?"

The car skidded as he turned it onto another road. "God dammit, Hana, I told you not to interact with that bastard, I told you to steer clear and you fricking go ahead and invite him into your arms—"

"I didn't!"

"You bloody did, Yahya saw it all, he told me!"

Did I really invite Waheed in my arms?

"But no." He covered his mouth with a hand, holding his chin, the other hand clasping the steering. "Dearest Hana had to be reckless, had to be dauntless, had to play games with those who lay down nets for their prey."

He struck his palm against the wheel. "How am I supposed to ruin them in court when they're going to ask me every damn time with a sick smile on their mouths, how is our Hana these days? Still wet?"

His chest was rising and falling, his entire body quivered, I could tell he was holding back his anger but I hadn't seen him like this ever before.

His voice raised. "For once, Hana, for once why couldn't you just listen to me, trust me, obey me—"

"Because I don't! I don't trust you, how can I when you don't care for your own daughter—"

"Don't you dare drag Nashwa in this, Hana, don't you dare!"

At that moment, I couldn't decipher. Did he not want to hear of Nashwa, in his antagonism of her or was he scared she would be preyed upon as I was if she were dragged into this mess too?

He laughed hysterically. "Of course, this had to happen, what the bloody hell was I thinking you could survive a few hours at that party, not the finest one too for you to have seen yet, you're so sensitive, so fragile, so completely—" he gave me a once over, my clothes still wet and in that moment I felt nothing but repulsion for him. He was insulting me.

"Keep going like this, Hana." He spoke in a low voice, car still speeding, racing rather over speed breakers and bumps in the road. "Keep going on, you won't make it past twenty at all. If you do, you'll be scarred so bad you won't be Hana at all. You'll just be a broken, harassed, bitter girl. An empty shell. Nothing more, everything less."

Was he not supposed to be looking out for me?

"Why is he like that?" I ask now.

Mama and Baba look up.

I shake my head. "He's always been so tender with me, so gentle, so affectionate, but I've begun to see the harsher parts of him, the anger in him. Is that what he's more and less of what he puts a show of in front of me?"

They communicate with their eyes again. Baba squeezes my mother's hand. "You know your Mamu, Hana, he's had a tough transition from teenager to adult, first his parents passed away, he and your mother were bounced around among relatives, none prepared to sustain them for long and then I married your mother and whisked her away across the globe too, to study, he was completely alone."

Dadi squeezes my shoulder. "I took him in," she says. "Your Dada and I did because our son was gone now and we needed a young hand around. Your Dada gave him a part time job while he still attended his morning classes. It was tough to keep Ahmad on a strict routine and principles and though he was respectful, he still broke the curfew rules, jumped the gate and slept in the garden if I wouldn't stay up too late to open the inner door for him."

"I was worried for him too," Mama adds. "Coming home so late, what was he getting himself into? Gambling? Wrong companies? I requested your Dadi to find him a wife. Apparently, males mature when they get married and carry a responsibility—" her eyes accuse my father.

He grins at her. "I'm your one in a million, aren't I?"

She rolls her eyes, a small smile playing on her lips. "Zarminah was everything to Ahmad although—" she laughs, "Ahmad was not everything for her. She initially married him only because she had two sisters in line after her, waiting for marriage while she herself pursued her doctor's degree. My parents left some inheritance for us and we used it this way, some to buy property and the rest to support Ahmad and Zarminah but soon Zarminah was expecting and she wasn't able to continue studying, her health was affected too much. Ahmad pressed her, that he'll take care of the baby, he'll take care of the house, she should pursue her dreams but she didn't agree. Nashwa was born then and Ahmad's eyes had stars in them."

Baba nudges her lightly. "Do you remember when Zarminah gave birth, how worried Ahmad was? The man was completely unravelled, completely distressed, hadn't slept for days, hair messy, eyes red, he just kept praying and rushing back and forth between doctors, his wife would be okay, right? His child would be okay, right? It wouldn't hurt so very much, right?"

Mama laughs. "And Zarminah wasn't the least bit scared by the idea of giving birth. She was so chill she had her parents push him out of the room she was held in while she was in labour, he was disturbing her peace."

Baba sighs. "Everything changed three years after then, one dark night no one knows much about except Ahmad himself. He'd taken Zarminah and Nashwa on a trip to the northern areas and they were in Murree. He was sending us pictures one morning and the next he arrived back in Karachi, a casket with Zarminah's body, a heavy bandage on his own head, eyes and tongue refusing to speak and little Nashwa just crying and crying and bruised herself."

"He wouldn't speak." Mama's voice broke off. "He handed Nashwa to her Mamu and Mami straight away, stayed for three days to attend Zarminah's funeral, her parents begged him for answers, he didn't speak at all. And then he was gone again, buck to Murree, didn't come back until six months later and I knew I hadn't seen so much darkness in his eyes before. Everything in him has changed since then."

A silence falls in our lounge. I look around, Dadi, Baba, Mama, all eyes in another realm as though reminiscing those days.

"What happened that night?" I ask.

Baba shrugs. "That's the thing, mena. No one knows still. Zarminah's parents even filed a case against Ahmad, accusing him of having a hand in their daughter's death but Ahmad violently fought off the police, the lawyers, the court notices demanding an appearance. It was tough to get to him, I helped him then to ward off the people asking him for answers but didn't ask any myself. He slipped it off to me then that it was some thugs, nothing more and since that night, till this day he hasn't spoken of the night at all."

"Can you imagine that, Hana?" Mama's voice is torn. "Whatever happened that night, only he knows and it kills me inside to ponder over all the possibilities. Were they hired men, someone Ahmad was opposing in court? Were they drunk men, did they harass Zarminah and could they have done something to little Nashwa too?"

My heart is thudding too loud in my chest. Ya Allah.

"But he doesn't say a word. To this day, I know he's searching for some of his own answers, Ahmad is, but he just wouldn't share the burden at all." Mama is crying, tears streaking down her cheeks. "Is that why he avoids Nashwa? Because he feels he couldn't protect her? Her mother? The woman of his heart?" She sniffles and it shatters my heart like glass.

Oh, Nashwa.

"I try so hard," Mama continues, steeling her voice. "To get him to get over it, take Nashwa back into his arms, we all remember her running to him and him picking her in his arms and twirling her in the air replying with 'yes, Baba kee jaan' and it tears me apart, it absolutely breaks me to see the hostility in his eyes now. Even if Zarminah died protecting Nashwa, that is no excuse for him to desert his child like that, they are equally drowning in pain. But he doesn't listen."

Mama hiccups and Baba pulls her closer. Dadi gets up and I keep looking at my fingers. Hanaan's tragedy. Nashwa's tragedy. Mine is nothing compared to theirs. If I were in their place, I would not have survived this far at all.

The verse on Hanaan's wall comes back to mind. Allah does not burden a soul beyond that it can bear. Oh, Allah, ease all our burdens please, ease all our turmoils please. We're only just humans, your fragile hearted humans. Don't put us through so much. Dadi returns with a glass of water and gives it to my mother. Baba helps her drink it and I take this moment to slip away and back into my room.

Each step I take is heavy, the so-called heart in my chest is spurting blood all inside me, stabbed so deep with this revelation, this possibility, could Nashwa have been harassed in her childhood? In front of Ahmad Mamu?

I pull out the piles of clothes, dig them out and throw them all across my room until I have reached the bottom of my closet where indeed the shoe box sits as Hanaan recalled it to. I unlid it and find the three scrunchies from our bake sale, a reminder for Nashwa of our golden days, white and blue and star themed. I will give this to her even if it does her no good, even if we've matured too much for this to matter now.

I also find a notebook page, folded. I straighten it, Hanaan's messy scribbles look back at me and every word on them further shatters my glass heart:

For when Hana loves me again:

Adopt a new Persian cat.

Dye Nashwa's hair brown again.

Teach Dadi how to cook from Food Fusion.

Order pizza with Nashwa and Hana after midnight but before dawn.

Spa day with the Girl Gang.

Memorise some Quran.

— Hana's sorry sister: Hanaan

apologies for the length. you'll have to bear with it for the entire part three. i did realise the over flow, tried my best to cut it down. if i separated scenes into further different chapters it would disturb the transition.

all i can ask is do your chores first and then settle in with some tissues and snacks ( ꈍᴗꈍ)

i already owe you all so much for coming this far with me <3 𝓂𝒶𝓃𝒶𝒽𝒾𝓁 .