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Adonis (flower): Painful recollections
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Once again, I sit and simply stare at the college application.

Before, when everything was okay, I vowed I would never be one of those students who would apply to Rallie University. Because it was right there, practically in our backyards. And everyone went to Rallie.

Despite the fact that the university is one of the top in the country, I guess we all take it for granted because again — it's right there.

But now, I know I don't have another choice. After the way everything went down, it isn't feasible for me to be away from home to go to college.

Even if it means closing the tab on my Princeton University admissions letter and sealing that chapter.

I never told anyone in my family about my acceptance into Princeton. I know they would have all gone crazy with delight — my parents would've made a dinner reservation at my favorite restaurant, my brothers would've taken me out somewhere to celebrate. They all would have boasted to every person within a six foot radius that I would be attending one of the most prestigious universities in the world.

But after my acceptance, everything happened so fast. One minute I was squealing and jumping up and down in my bedroom, and the next my mom received The Phone Call.

The Phone Call that ended all our lives.

After that, I just didn't want to go to college at all. I didn't want to study. I didn't want to make friends. I didn't want to do anything.

But my dad approached me two weeks ago and begged me to start anew. Said that I could take a gap semester in the fall and start studying in the spring if I wanted. Said that he couldn't bear to see me so burdened with responsibilities that weren't mine.

I hate it when he says stuff like that. He makes me seem like some amazing person doing my entire family a favor. God, if only he knew how badly the grief drowns me under every day, my arms flailing helplessly above the water. If he only he knew how badly I just want my family back. Radiant, cheerful mom. Jokester, prankster Ihsaan.

Maybe even carefree, happy-go-lucky Hayat.

But that Hayat is gone. She died the day her brother did.

So now, what with everything that's changed, I have no choice but to apply to Rallie, the place I promised myself I would never step foot in.

After having thoroughly browsed the many websites detailing the university's admissions process and various programs of study, I had been shocked to discover that the place seems so . . . lively. All the programs, all the organizations and clubs, all the extracurriculars, everything is so colorful and vibrant and full of life that I found myself eager to apply.

I finished the application a week ago. The only thing remaining — which gives me pause each day that I open it — is the personal essay question.

When I applied to Princeton, the essay question I ended up answering was the one asking me to describe an interest that was extremely meaningful to me. So I talked about my flowers. The garden in my backyard. My love for creating something new from something as small and seemingly insignificant as a seed.

But I can't answer that question anymore. The flowers have all wilted, the seeds scattered somewhere in a nook in the garage, the watering cans lying forgotten on their sides.

Instead I stare at the question on the application that seems to scream at me.

The lessons we take from obstacles we encounter can be fundamental to later success. Recount a time when you faced a challenge, setback, or failure. How did it affect you, and what did you learn from the experience?

It's no wonder I haven't been able to finish this application.

I shut the computer lid and let out a deep sigh.

. . .

Later that night at 2:47 AM, when insomnia accompanies me as usual, I tiptoe downstairs to grab a glass of water. The house is dark and eerily quiet, both dangerous situations to be in because they force memories down my throat like scalding hot water.

Flashes of images pass through my mind and I squeeze my eyes shut, attempting to combat the agony crawling under my skin. Sitting at the dinner table and laughing. Bantering with one another. My brothers treating me to someplace fancy every time I succeeded in even a minor accomplishment.

Arafat.

My eyes fly open, glass of water suspended in my hand in the dark, quiet stairwell.

I'm abruptly and violently interrupted by a disturbing sound coming from Ihsaan's room. I head back downstairs and tiptoe towards his ajar door, anticipating clawing up my throat.

I swallow and take a deep breath before pushing his door wide open.

Ihsaan is sitting upright in tangled sheets, head buried in his hands and loud, heaving breaths erupting from him. I furrow my eyebrows at his shaky shoulders, hunched posture, and quiet whimpers.

I step forward unsurely and a floorboard creaks.

Ihsaan's head snaps up, eyes bloodshot and watery. And for a moment I pause, almost afraid to step closer to the haunted look in his eyes.

Silly Hayat, a voice in my head whispers. It's Ihsaan.

"Are you okay?" I murmur, walking forward and standing uncertainly by the edge of the bed.

He swallows, Adam's apple bobbing up and down, before nodding shakily.

Of course it's a complete lie. He's still shuddering violently and sweat is beading at his forehead.

I perch at the edge of the bed hesitantly and hand him my glass of water. "Did you have a nightmare?"

He takes the water and sips it slowly, carefully before nodding. He must see the concern in my eyes because he croaks out, "Don't worry. Happens sometimes." Before I can question him further he asks, "Why are you up?"

"Couldn't sleep."

He nods as if he understands. Then, after a pause, "Can you do me a favor? There's a medicine bottle in that drawer over there. Can you give it to me?"

I stand to retrieve the medicine and hand it to him, once again surprised by the neatness of his drawers, something my mom used to have to scold him to do.

He shakes a pill out and downs it with water. I furrow my brows. "What is that for?"

He swallows and murmurs, "Anxiety."

My eyebrows shoot up. "Shouldn't you not be taking anxiety medication that isn't prescribed to you?"

He caps the bottle and sets it on his bedside table. "It is prescribed."

He says it so casually, like a passing statement. I widen my eyes in disbelief. "What? Since when?"

He wipes the sweat from the back of his neck, unaffected by my freak out. "Like two months."

"Ihsaan, you've been having nightmares for two months straight?"

He doesn't reply, simply rubs his eyes tiredly.

"Why didn't you tell anyone?" I whisper. Why didn't you tell me?

He looks up at the tone of my voice and sighs long and loud. Then he reaches forward and grasps my hand, giving it a squeeze. It's such a casual touch but my breath catches in my throat at the old gesture that has long been forgotten.

"I didn't want anyone to worry. Everyone's already going through so much . . ." Abruptly he trails off. At the look in my eyes, he lifts his hand tentatively and smooths my hair back. "Relax, Hayat. Don't worry about it."

Don't worry about it? God, Ihsaan and I used to bother and tease each other so much it was impossible for us not to know crucial details in the other's life. And I'm only now discovering after two months that he takes anxiety medication?

I stand quickly, unable to mask the hurt from my face. He raises his eyes to mine and opens his mouth as if he wants to say something but closes it right after. "Go to bed, Hayat. It's already so late, get some sleep."

Without another word, I turn on my heel and walk out of my brother's room to trudge back upstairs to my own. All the while trying to tamp down the ache that has grown considerably heavier in my broken heart.

. . .

Assalaamu 'Alaikum,

what do we think of my guy Ihsaan so far?

thanks for reading!