~
"Allah does not burden a soul beyond what it can bear." (Qur'an 2:286)
~

"Three, two, one, hold still. Perfect. Now turn your face to the side. Beautiful."

Cameras flash, lights dance. The model in front of the green screen places a hand on her hip and turns the other way, the Pakistani shalwar kameez decorating her in bright and vibrant colors.

Zoya Zameer walks around the crew, fanning herself with her favorite flower-patterned fan. She decided to join the shoot after a very long time today, telling herself her decision had nothing to do with the new intern. She struggles to make good on that statement, however, as she steals frequent glances at Haroun Suleiman.

Zoya tilts her head and narrows her eyes, attention momentarily straying from him when she senses something off in the shoot. "Halt," she says, and everyone freezes in their tracks. She points to the model. "We need some of Abeer sitting. Maybe with crossed legs and the dupatta draped across the chaise. It's going to look fabulous," she singsongs.

The crew obeys her command and—when she isn't looking—the photographing lead shoots her a glare.

Haroun stands to the side with a clipboard in hand, noting the breakdown of the photo shoot. Zoya sees an opening and walks over to him, fluffing her hair and shooting him her perfect Colgate-teeth smile. His responding smile is polite but reserved.

Zoya flips her curls over her shoulders. "What do you think?" Her voice is sugary sweet.

He continues to take frantic notes. She notices how he avoids looking at the female model as much as possible, focusing instead on the props around her or flickering his gaze to the male photographer instead. "I'm sorry, about what?"

Zoya grins. "The shoot, sweetheart."

His jaw tightens. Zoya gauges it must be a response to the word sweetheart, which only makes her grin wider. "Oh," he says. "It's very nice."

She raises her eyebrows. "Very descriptive."

"I apologize," he says, looking up from his notes with a tired smile. "I'm just trying not to miss anything."

Zoya lets out a peal of high-pitched laughter. "Week one and already Zameer has gotten you into the nitty gritty of things?"

He nods, continuously glancing at the photographer, who is now focused on a male dressed in an intricately embroidered wedding sherwani. The prop team shuffles around and grabs things to add and take away from the set.

Zoya's eyes trace Haroun's features, and again she is surprised by how attractive she finds him. "So what do you think of this model's clothes?"

"Hmm? Oh, they're nice."

"Just nice?" she challenges. Come on, she pleads silently. I know you've got more in you.

Haroun stops writing and turns to Zoya. He's a good head taller than her, but with her confident posture and bright eyes, Zoya is able to intimidate all.

There is an agitated look on his face, and he seems distracted as his gaze darts around. But to Zoya's surprise, his voice still comes out courteous when he speaks. "It's fantastic, Ms. Zoya."

"Really? That doesn't sound very wholehearted, Mr. Suleiman."

He twirls his pen. "No, seriously, it's awesome. Really. Great job." With the way he's speaking, one would think he's picking cereal flavors rather than designed embroideries.

The lights continue to flash around them. Flora, one of Zoya's favorite and most dedicated workers, walks forward and sets a lamp on the table beside the chaise.

"I'm glad you like it. You know—" Zoya stops instantly, gaze zeroing in on the lamp. The soft orange light spreads in a halo under the umbrella of the lamp. Zoya's breath catches, and Haroun watches her expectantly, eyes boring into the side of her head.

"Ms. Zoya?"

No.

She cannot seem to speak. Her hand flies to her chest, bangles jingling merrily. Her heart starts to beat like helicopter blades, quick and persistent.

"Um, Ms. Zoya?"

The lamp shade squeaks as her hand flies to the bedside table, almost knocking it over. The sharp beads at the bottom of the lamp shade slice her wrist.

"Stop," she whimpers.

"Get that off the set," Zoya breaks out of the memory and finally finds her voice. "Flora, off the set right now. I don't want to see it again. Throw it away. Burn it. I don't care. Don't ever bring that in front of me again." Her voice holds so much venom in comparison to a minute ago.

A frantic Flora stammers something incomprehensible before rushing forward, grabbing the lamp, and hurrying away with it.

Zoya's breath comes in sporadic waves. She turns on her pale pink heel and rushes into the elevator, insistently pushing the button for the doors to close.

"Ms. Zoya, where are you going?" Haroun calls out, his voice revealing utter confusion.

Zoya spins on her heel, furrows her brows together as if in deep thought, then points to her wrist suddenly. "It's Dhuhr time," she declares, continuing to frantically push the elevator buttons.

Then the doors slide closed and Zoya's distressed face disappears.

~

Haroun continues to grip his pen and stare at the elevator in confusion. After a moment of silence, the shoot resumes, and a very confused group of employees direct the models back to their positions. The photographing lead is hissing at Flora: "How could you forget? Don't you remember that time when she—"

But Haroun loses focus on the rest of the conversation because something is nagging at him. Oh, he thinks suddenly. It is Dhuhr time. A bout of frustration consumes him at having not paid attention to the time, and he looks around at his environment with great distaste. Then he walks over to Bill and hands him the clipboard. "Mr. Krenak, do you mind taking care of this for a little bit?"

Bill raises his eyebrows. "Are you going on vacation?"

Haroun thinks of his five daily prayers. "Something like that." He sees the skeptical look on Bill's face and almost laughs. "I'm going to pray."

Immediately, the senior manager's face goes from disbelieving to serious. "Oh, right, sorry."

"Don't apologize. Do you know where I can pray? Where does Ms. Zoya usually pray?"

Bill rubs his chin. "In her office, I think. But you're not allowed in there unless it's strictly work-related." Bill shrugs. "You can use my office whenever you want. And we also have an interfaith room on the fourth floor."

Haroun's eyes light up. "Really? Thank you, Mr. Krenak."

"Bill. Call me Bill." He shoots Haroun a lopsided grin.

Haroun walks into the elevator and pushes the button to go up. When the doors slide open ten seconds later, he stops in surprise.

Zoya's back is to him, her head down and one hand pressed against the wall, the other clutching her stomach.

"Ms. Zoya?" Haroun says. She flinches in surprise but doesn't turn around. "Are you alright?" He can hear her laborious breathing even from a few feet away. Her shoulders are shaking.

"I'm fine." Her voice sounds distant. "Don't worry about me. You can go back to the shoot. I'll be there in a minute."

Haroun's body is positioned in the opposite direction, ready to leave, surprising even himself. Something tells him these are dangerous waters. But his heart keeps him rooted to the ground. "I give you counsel that you be good to women," the Prophet Muhammad had said. His mother has strictly drilled that into his head.

"Are you sure you're alright?"

Zoya's curls fly as she whips around. "I said I'm fine." Her eyebrows furrow, gaze resting at a point somewhere behind Haroun. She fumbles for the fan hooked to the side of her kameez and unclasps it, spreading it open and fanning herself. Her shoulders shake as she breathes heavily.

Suddenly she turns to Haroun and gives him a wide, artificial grin. "I'm okay, sweetheart."

Haroun grimaces slightly. Sweetheart.

"Did you need something?" she asks in a tone of forced calm.

"I just needed to pray. I was going to the interfaith room—"

"You can use my office," she interrupts, flashing him a bright smile.

But you're not allowed in there unless it's strictly work-related.

Haroun lowers his gaze. "It's okay. Thank you for the offer, but I'll use the interfaith room." And before she can say anything else, he steps back and walks away from the unsettling aura in that hallway.

When he's a safe distance away, he shakes his head, trying to stave off the disturbing feeling that has formed in his heart.

~

Assalamu 'Alaikum :)

i hope you enjoyed this chapter!

translations:

shalwar kameez: south asian cultural clothing

sherwani: formal south asian clothing for men

dhuhr: second of five daily prayers for Muslims

prophet Muhammad: the last messenger of islam, a highly honored and respected man (this definition doesn't do justice to his marvelous, kind character. please do look him up if you need more clarification and you can reach out to me for trusted, accurate websites for answers).

thanks for reading!