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Perwinkle (flower): Nostalgia/remembrance
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That night, I dream of Arafat.

It's a memory, one from just a few days before his death. He's entering the house and holding something behind his back, grinning at me and waggling his brows.

"Guess what's in my ha-and," he singsongs.

I stop chewing my food, narrowing my eyes and scrutinizing him. "A grenade?"

"God, Hayat." Arafat shakes his head. "Seriously."

I gasp. "Strawberry cake? Oh, my God, Arafat, you're the best."

He flinches. "Not strawberry cake. But I'll get you that, too. Later."

I pout. "What's better than strawberry cake?"

I turn to look at my parents, who are both sitting at the dining table and exchanging knowing smiles. My gaze flits to Ihsaan, who's busy fixing his broken Xbox controller. He glances up for a moment and rolls his eyes. "Drama queen," he mutters.

Arafat approaches me and says, "Okay, close your eyes."

My eyes narrow, darting between both of my brothers. "Is this another one of your stupid pranks, Ihsaan?"

Ihsaan's jaw drops. He looks at my parents, raising his hands defensively. "See? You tell me to be nice to her, but she's mean to me all the time. I mean"—he gestures to himself—"Look at this face. Does this look like the face of a prankster?"

Scoffing, I raise my brows. I open my mouth to retaliate, but Arafat sighs, nudging my shoulder. "Ignore him." He leans closer and whispers, "Do you think I would be part of one of his dumb pranks?"

I giggle, and Ihsaan throws his hands up in mock anger, shaking his head. My mom chuckles and pats Ihsaan's hand affectionately.

"Okay," Arafat continues. "Now close your eyes." I do as he says, and he grasps my arm. I sense him not so subtly whispering and rapidly gesturing to my family members, and then their footsteps head towards the front door.

"Bhai," I say. "What's going on?"

"You'll find out." Arafat lets go of my arm, using his hands to shield my eyes. "Just follow my directions and don't open your eyes until I tell you to, okay?"

"O-kay," I draw out, heart beating in anticipation.

I sense him leading me out the door, the warm spring air kissing my skin. Arafat removes his hands from my eyes, then whispers, "Okay. Now open your eyes."

I do as he says, and for a moment I attempt to register what I'm seeing. Then I scream in delight, jumping up and down and turning to give Arafat a soul-crushing hug.

"Oh, my God!" I yell. "You got me a Volkswagen Bug?"

Arafat beams. "Not just me." He nods behind me. "Ihsaan made a bit of a contribution, too."

I turn back around, eyes snagging on the tiny yellow beauty sitting in my driveway. Next to it stand my parents, beaming with pride, and Ihsaan, sticking his tongue out at me.

"You, too?" I say, bewildered.

"Yeah, yeah." He rolls his eyes in mock annoyance. "I still don't like you, so don't get the wrong idea."

I scream delightedly, pulling Arafat with me and rushing to hug my parents. "Thank you, thank you, thank you!" I exclaim, kissing their cheeks.

My mom laughs incredulously, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. "Beta, why are you thanking us? It was your brothers."

"Thank you for giving birth to my amazing brothers!" I yell, wrapping an arm around Arafat and attempting to hug Ihsaan, who scrunches his nose and ducks away.

My dad chuckles, his eyes lighting up. "It was all Arafat's idea. And then Ihsaan begged to contribute a bit."

I stick my tongue out at Ihsaan. "You'll never admit it, but I'm actually your favorite sibling."

"God, no." Ihsaan's face twists in mock disgust. "You're literally a churail."

"Will you guys stop it for once?" Arafat says exasperatedly. He grabs my hand and nods towards the car, lips curving up in an eager smile. "Wanna give it a go?"

I wake to my heart thudding rapidly against my chest, as if it's attempting to escape the confines of my ribcage. I press a hand against my chest, taking deep breaths until my heartbeat slows.

There are dry tears caked on my cheeks.

The clock on my bedside table reads 4:30 AM. Even though I'm not praying today, I don't think I'll be able to go back to bed. Rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, I sit up and gaze outside the window.

The September sky is slowly morphing from navy blue to light periwinkle. There is yet some time before the sun fully rises, but the birds are awake, chittering and chirping madly away.

I shove the covers aside and trudge to the bathroom, freshening up before changing and heading downstairs.

There's a brief moment of hesitation, then resolve propels my feet towards the door. I grab the keys and head outside, making my way to the car I've been avoiding even looking at for the past four months.

There's dust on the windows of the Volkswagen Bug, and bird poop litters the hood and windshield. The vibrant yellow paint is fading as a result of prolonged disuse and standing in the same spot for months. I run my hand along the driver's side window and observe the grime sticking to my fingertips.

Then I open the door, take a deep breath, and duck inside. Resting back against the seat, I close my eyes and simply inhale.

It smells like Arafat.

Of course it would; the last time this car was used was the day in my dream/memory, when he and Ihsaan accompanied me as I took it out for a drive. We first went to the ice cream shop nearby, then spontaneously headed to the movie theater.

We had a blast that night.

I haven't had the heart to even look at this car since then—Arafat passed away only days later.

I wipe away the sudden tears that have trickled down my face, inhaling through my nose and exhaling through my mouth to regain my bearings.

I run my hands along the seats, the visors, the dashboard, the gear shift. As I'm exploring, my sleeve snags on an envelope wedged between the center console and the passenger seat.

Picking it up curiously, I flip it over to see who it's addressed to.

To Hayat.

My heart jolts, eyes widening in something close to alarm. I run shaky fingers along the two words written in familiar handwriting, my breath beginning to come in short puffs.

The envelope is worn, the corners dog-eared. This was not put in here recently.

This is from Arafat.

A strangled sound escapes my throat, and I clutch it to dispel the sudden anxiety coursing rapidly through me.

With trembling hands, I open the envelope and pull out the letter. The two pages fall into my lap, and I hesitantly unfold them.

As soon as I see Arafat's handwriting, tears rapidly well in my eyes and splatter the page. I press a hand to my chest, underneath which my heart is beating so fast I can feel it in my ears.

Hayat,

If you're reading this, you've officially graduated high school, and you're officially the coolest person on the planet. I'm so proud of you, kiddo. I think you already know that, but I have to keep saying it.

So you know I'm a bit of a sentimental guy. I like the little things. And I thought I should tell my baby sister all the reasons she's amazing in a letter. Plus, I've got some secrets to tell you, and I prefer this medium. It's much more personal.

I wanted to give you this letter with the car, but by the time you get to the end of it, you might kill me for not telling you sooner, so I'm saving myself from your wrath (call me selfish, but you're a little scary when you're mad).

But first, reasons why you're a sweetheart and my favorite sibling (don't tell Ihsaan):

1) You're super intelligent. I don't think you realize just how smart you are, but sometimes when you're talking about your classes or your schoolwork, I just get this warm, prideful feeling. You have a quick brain, and you're extremely observant. I'm often surprised by how you are so young but so cognizant. You put us all to shame.

2) You're emotionally intelligent. To reiterate my last point, seeing and observing are two very different things, and you are always so conscious of what's happening around you, how people are feeling, and how you are asserting yourself.

3) You're passionate. Whatever you love, you give all of your heart to it. I love seeing the care and attention you give to your garden, how your eyes spark when you talk to someone about flowers. May your eyes always, always light up.

4) You're lively. Whatever room you walk into, you immediately transform the environment. You have a bright, consuming presence, one that puts a smile on anyone's face (and if it doesn't, they're either asleep or crazy).

5) You're funny. Seriously, you are the comic relief in our house (okay, fine, Ihsaan is pretty funny, too).

6) You're adorable. I just wanna squish your cheeks.

7) You're intuitive and sporadic. You don't really make plans or strictly organize things, you kind of just go with the flow (I envy that sometimes).

8) You have a carefree and youthful spirit. I hope it always remains that way.

9) I secretly love it when you ask me for money (don't tell Ihsaan). I've seen some pretty strained sibling relationships, and it comforts me that our bond is so strong that you don't mind asking me for things. May Allah always keep it that way.

10) You are the best baby sister anyone could ever ask for.

I have to pause reading to contain the tremors racking throughout my body. Tears are rapidly pooling down my cheeks, and my chest is aching. I take a deep, shuddering breath and summon an ounce of willpower before returning to the next page of the letter.

Enough flattery. Now, on to the secrets.

When you were a freshman, do you remember that day you came home crying and complaining about how you were failing biology and hated science and wanted to just give up? And then we sat down together and worked through what was troubling you, came up with a plan for you to better understand the concepts, and discussed getting extra help from your teacher? I never told you this, but ironically, ever since that day, I've had a secret wish.

I want you to become a doctor.

Your passion, compassion, and intelligence is so valuable on its own, and even more valuable in an industry like medicine. Every time I look at you now, I cannot imagine your future without a lab coat and a stethoscope around your neck. When you were crying that day, do you know what I saw? I saw a girl becoming a woman. I saw your pain and anger towards science as fuel for what would come after.

And what happened?

You not only passed the class, you did extremely well. And then, throughout high school, you excelled in all your science classes. You excelled in chemistry, physics, and anatomy. I don't think you've ever realized how much that one day changed your life, and how you began to gravitate towards what you once found too difficult to handle.

My point is: When you put your mind towards something, you don't simply complete the task, you give it everything that you have. In medicine, not only will you survive, you will thrive. You will give it everything in you, and you will be a force to be reckoned with.

If this is something you would even consider, I would be the happiest brother alive. At the end of the day it is, of course, entirely up to you. But I hope you think about it. Even for a little bit.

Secret #2 (which I think you might kill me for not telling you in person):

I don't want to make this letter about myself. But when I was thinking of the best way to tell you this, a letter felt like the best way to break the ice. I can be a little shy sometimes, you know me.

Okay, here goes:

I like someone.

And I want to marry her.

She's one of the most amazing people I've ever had the pleasure of knowing. I went to med school with her, and now we are coincidentally doing the same rotations at the same hospital. I can't help but feel like Allah is answering all my du'aas. This doesn't feel real, but it is. Alhamdulillah.

Okay, enough about me.

When you come rushing to me after you read this letter and demand me to give you more information, I'll tell you all about her.

Until then, much love.

Your (favorite) brother,

Arafat

By the time I finish reading the letter, I'm crying so much that I have a difficult time breathing. My body shakes with violent sobs, my throat raw with tears. I press my forehead to the steering wheel, trying to contain my tremors, but to no avail.

I push open the car door and step outside, desperately gulping fresh air to refill my dangerously depleted lungs. I stumble forward a few steps, then break out into a run, wind whipping against my hair as I head to the bike trail. My eyes blur and burn as I run, but I don't stop. I can't stop.

I'm crossing the road to get to the bike trail when my footsteps slow. I can't seem to catch my breath and stumble forward, knees crumpling on the asphalt. Coughing and spluttering, I take heaving breaths, but my chest doesn't fill with the air I desperately need.

My head is spinning dangerously, my thoughts spiraling into nothingness.

"Hayat?" A voice reaches me through my haze of panic, and I manage to look up.

Mikaal's blurred face emerges in front of me, and he's repeatedly saying my name, but I can't gain my bearings enough to respond. He sits on the asphalt in front of me, holding both his hands up.

"Okay, listen to me," he instructs in a clinical voice. It's oddly comforting, and I focus on it with the barest slip of consciousness left in me. "Watch my fingers, okay? On the count of three, inhale." As he counts, he pulls his fingers down into his palm. "Good. Now exhale. Relax. Just focus on breathing, okay? And keep watching my fingers."

We continue to do this for a couple minutes until my vision is no longer hazy and my head is no longer spinning. I blink slowly, registering Mikaal in a new light.

He was out on his morning walk, hence the tracksuit. And he's still sitting on the asphalt in front of me, hands held up and eyebrows raised cautiously.

"Okay," he says. "Are you okay? Feeling better? Can you breathe alright now?"

I merely nod, lacking the energy to even speak. My eyes snag on the letter that has fallen to the ground in front of me, and my chin begins to tremble again.

"Stay put for a moment," Mikaal says, pulling out his phone and going to the call app.

"What are you doing?" I immediately panic, reaching forward as if to snatch his phone.

He stands and backs away. "I'm not doing this anymore, Hayat. I kept your secret last time because you asked me to, but your family—at least your brother—should be aware of this."

I stand quickly, pressing a hand against a tree trunk to catch my balance. Alarm crawls up my throat. "There is no this, Mikaal. I'm fine. Please."

He runs a hand through his hair, eyes darkening. "So you're not having frequent panic attacks? You're not sleepwalking?" His eyebrows rise as he waits for my reply.

I'm silent for a moment before I mumble, "Please don't. Please."

Mikaal shakes his head, dialing a number and pressing his phone to his ear. "I'm sorry, Hayat."

I watch him helplessly as he waits for Ihsaan to pick up. "Hello?" he says moments later, and my heart jolts. "Yeah, salaam, Ihsaan. Sorry to bother you at a time like this, but could you come outside your house real quick? Near the bike trail? It's..." He glances at me. "Kind of an emergency. Yes, yes, everything's fine. Don't worry. Just come outside."

Ten minutes later, when an anxious Ihsaan has checked me for injuries and had a conversation with Mikaal, I'm standing in front of the two guys with my head down, both of whom have their arms folded.

"Thank you, Mikaal. Really," Ihsaan says, throwing me a look warring between angry and pitiful. "God knows what could have happened if you weren't there every time."

"No, man, don't say thank you. I just thought..." Mikaal hesitates as I raise my sharp gaze to his. "You deserved to know."

Ihsaan nods, and the two of them do the dude handshake before Mikaal heads off, throwing me one last unreadable glance.

My brother sighs, rubbing a hand along his face. I open my mouth to say something, but he shakes his head. "Don't." His cold gaze flits across me again, clocking me for injuries even though I told him my knees and palms were just a little scraped from the road.

For a moment, I think of how Arafat would have reacted if he were here. He would have hugged and comforted me first and asked questions later.

But this is Ihsaan. Classic Ihsaan. He gets angry first and seldom provides physical comfort later.

"Do you have any idea," he murmurs slowly. "What that one minute was like? From when Mikaal called me to when I rushed downstairs? Do you have any idea the horrible thoughts that went through my head?"

"Ihsaan, I—"

"Don't apologize, Hayat," he snaps, voice uncharacteristically harsh. Ever since Arafat died, his voice has been either exhausted or indifferent. Harshness, I am unaccustomed to.

Tears pool in my eyes.

Ihsaan laughs bitterly. "I find out my sister is struggling from a third person. I find out she's sleepwalking in the neighborhood at 1 AM, having a panic attack in the hallways of a hospital, having a panic attack and collapsing in the middle of the road—something could have happened to you if Mikaal wasn't there every time, Hayat." His voice rises an octave. "Something could have happened to you, do you understand me?"

"But it didn't," I mumble quietly.

Ihsaan scoffs, taking a step back and splaying his hands out. "Do you even hear yourself right now? You're lucky Mikaal was there. And God knows what other stuff has happened that you've told no one about."

I remain quiet.

"Hayat." Ihsaan's eyes soften, but his stance remains stiff. Cold. "Why didn't you tell me you were struggling? Why didn't you say anything?" His voice breaks almost imperceptibly. "Why are you suffering alone?"

"Well, it's not like you're open to sharing everything," I shoot back, my voice rising. "You're apparently diagnosed with anxiety, taking anti-anxiety meds, have some secret fear of Aneela, don't tell anyone you're being promoted unless someone asks, and God knows what else. So don't be like that."

Ihsaan is rapidly spinning the ring on his finger, lips pursed as he considers me. "That's different," he finally says, voice quiet. "I'm the oldest sibling now, whether we like it or not. And I need to..." he swallows, takes a deep breath. "I need to take care of you now."

There is pin drop silence as the breeze blows between us, whispering secrets we can't hear.

"I'm sorry," I finally whisper, tears welling up again.

After a charged moment, Ihsaan steps forward and wraps his arms around me, my face buried in his chest and his chin resting on my head. "No, I'm sorry," he mumbles. "I should've been there for you. I should've known. I should've—"

I shake my head, my throat burning from holding back tears. "Stop. It's not your fault."

He pulls back after a couple seconds, and I sense that even though he's trying for me, physical affection is still something Ihsaan shies away from.

"Can we talk about what happened?" he says, eyes darting down to the envelope still clutched in my hands.

I hesitate, then lift it to show him the handwriting on the outside. His eyes widen as recognition flits through them. "Is that..."

I nod, taking a deep breath. "A letter from Arafat. I found it in the Bug."

My brother stands absolutely still, absolutely speechless. Eyes roving hungrily over the letter as if it could somehow bring our brother back, he takes a shaky breath. "I'm sorry for getting mad at you."

I shake my head. "Please stop saying sorry." My lips curve up hesitantly. "It doesn't suit you."

My attempt at a joke doesn't faze him, and he continues to eye the letter as if he's a drowning man and the sight of it is his first breath of air.

"He wanted me to be a doctor," I whisper, clutching the letter to my chest. "Did you know?"

Ihsaan's eyes flick to mine as comprehension dawns on his face. He looks away for a moment, the breeze blowing between us as the post-sunrise rays flash in his hair. Finally he murmurs, "Yes."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

He turns back to me. "Because he didn't want you to feel pressured into making a decision."

"Ihsaan...this is my dead brother's last wish for me." He flinches when I say the word dead.

As the morning sun warms me, I allow myself to think of Arafat fondly, without the constant ache accompanied with his memory. My sweet, loving eldest brother. Who studied medicine and liked spicy Takis. Who laughed like laughs were limited and he was determined to use them all up. Who set his alarm fifteen minutes early every morning to carefully iron his lab coat. Who mediated between me and Ihsaan every time we bickered. Who bought my parents flowers without any occasion.

Who loved like love was air, and he was desperate to breathe it all in.

I take a deep breath, bringing the letter to my lips and pressing a tender kiss to it. "I'm going to honor his wish."

. . . 

Assalaamu 'Alaikum (peace be upon you).

I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry. 

You're all seriously the most patient people ever. I failed miserably in my "I'm thinking of updating every Monday!!" statement.

I'm really, really, really struggling with my writing. But this story keeps calling to me, and I want to give it justice.

Thank you all for reading and for being here, always. <3