author's note: keep a pack of tissues handy for this chapter :)

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Yellow tulips: Unrequited/hopeless love
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My gardening gloves are covered in mud when I get a text message back from Aneela.

Salaam! Sure, I would love to look over your scholarship applications. When do you wanna meet?

I dust my gloves off and hurriedly pull them off my hands. whenever you're free!

I'm free today! she responds immediately. If you're okay with that.

I text her a thumbs-up and a time to meet, then busy myself with gardening again.

I asked Abeer if she could run to the store and grab sunflower seeds for me. I wanted to get back into gardening with something relatively easy. I was reading a chapter on sunflowers in one of the books Steph lent me, and I found all the pictures mesmerizing. The vibrancy, timelessness, and cheerfulness of sunflowers is something I think my family is in dire need of right now.

Plus, I know they're secretly Ihsaan's favorite flowers. He acts all manly and responsible now, but sometimes I think a man just needs to be given flowers. He'll never admit it, but I used to see the way he would happily tag along with me to the sunflower farms in the fall, asking the farmers all sorts of interesting questions about them.

I'm so busy working that I lose track of time and am momentarily thrown off by the sound of the doorbell.

"Hayat," my mom calls. "It's Aneela, beta."

"Coming!" I shout, shoving my gloves off and hurriedly placing my flowerpot to the side.

When I'm inside the house, my mom has already sat Aneela down and is asking her whether she would like something to drink. The way my mom watches her—all starry-eyed and laugh lines—is adorable. It brings a pang to my chest.

I wish I could see Arafat in this configuration—sitting on the sofa with his arms around the woman who would have been his wife, conversing casually with his mom and her. I wonder if he would have been shy around Aneela, if the love of a woman would bring out a whole new side of him.

My thoughts are shaken out of my head when Aneela stands to greet me.

"Sorry!" I say sheepishly, dusting myself off. "I'm a bit of a mess right now. Would you mind just giving me five minutes to clean myself up?"

"Of course!" she says brightly. "Auntie is such wonderful company."

My mom positively glows at the compliment. I rush upstairs and change out of my gardening clothes, splashing some cold water on my face to get rid of the grime. By the time I'm back downstairs, Aneela and my mom are at the dining table drinking apple cider juice and eating donuts.

I furrow my brows. "Did Ihsaan bring donuts?"

My mom shakes her head and gestures to Aneela. "Ihsaan's not home yet. Aneela beti brought them. I told her she really shouldn't have gone through the trouble."

"Oh, auntie, it's no big deal!" Aneela waves her off. "I didn't want to come empty-handed."

I join them at the table, securing my too-long hair in a low bun with a claw clip. "I will be annoying you even more now that I've decided to go the pre-med track, which means you will probably be here more often. So please don't feel like you need to bring something every time."

She smiles and pinches my nose lightly. "You're not annoying at all."

God, I wish Arafat were here.

My mom leaves the two of us to our work after a bit, and Aneela reviews my scholarship applications with me. A couple times while she's speaking, my eyes glaze over and I begin to zone off. I snap back to attention when she asks me a question, sheepishly requesting her to repeat herself.

Aneela closes my laptop lid and turns to me after the third time. She raises her brows. "Hayat, are you okay?"

My cheeks heat with embarrassment. "Oh, God, I'm so sorry, Aneela. This is so rude of me. You came all the way to my house to help me and I'm—"

She shakes her head, cutting me off. "Hey, don't apologize. I'm just worried about you. You seem distracted. Is everything okay?

My eyes track her fingers as they drum my laptop lid. She has such pretty, slender fingers.

Her ring finger looks so bare.

"Hayat?"

I blink and refocus on Aneela's worried gaze. "I'm sorry,"  I murmur.

"Stop saying sorry, please. What's wrong? I'm worried about you."

I blow out a sigh and shrug. "I'm missing Arafat a little extra these days, I think."

Aneela quiets immediately, and I risk darting a glance at her face. A pained expression has taken over her features, and her eyes have taken on a faraway look.

Shaking my head, I grasp her hand. "I'm sorry," I whisper. "I always talk about how hard it is for me, but I don't think I've ever asked you how you're doing."

She smiles as tears well in her eyes. "You know..." Her voice cracks as she speaks after a few moments. "It's not always likely that you end up doing rotations in the same hospital after attending the same med school and being a part of the same community. I mean, it's not impossible, but it's kind of surprising." My thumb traces her palm soothingly as she speaks. "I was always fascinated by how Arafat and I ended up in relatively the same circles for the past decade ish, first in undergrad, then med school, then residency. I think I've always had a special place in my heart for him. It's like I always knew he would be the one."

She sniffs and clears her throat. "Arafat always used to say this phrase that would reaffirm my faith and make me believe anything is possible."

"It's the qadr of Allah," we both whisper in unison. Our eyes meet, and by now we're both silently crying. Aneela's lips are trembling, and a teardrop slides down her cheek as she takes a deep breath.

"As difficult as this is," she says. "It's the qadr of Allah. Even on nights when I cry myself to sleep and days where his absence feels like a physical ache, I try to remind myself of what Arafat would always say: this is Allah's will. And there is khair in it, whatever it is." She quiets and drops her head, watching our clasped hands with a forlorn expression.

I lean forward and wrap her in a hug I think we both desperately need. She returns the embrace, squeezing me tightly and stroking my hair.

When we pull back, she shakes her head and laughs sheepishly. "I didn't mean to get emotional. Sorry about that. We were talking about you."

I furrow my brows. "Who's saying sorry now? Listen, you can talk to me whenever you need to. I'm always here for you."

Aneela smiles, grabbing a tissue and dabbing her face with it. "I know. Thank you, Hayat. Now will you tell me what else is bothering you? Because I know it's not just Arafat."

Fingering the dining table lace cover, I glance up at her through my lashes. "You really are too perceptive for your own good."

She chuckles. "So I've been told."

I sigh, then hesitantly ask, "Have you ever done something that feels so good but may not be good for you?"

She doesn't hesitate. "Yes."

"When did you know it wasn't good for you?"

"When I started to dislike the person I was becoming as a result of it."

I freeze, feeling oddly attacked by her words. "But is change bad if it makes you feel good while you're doing it?"

Aneela cocks her head to the side, and for a moment, I'm once again stunned by her beauty. She exudes a radiance uncommon for most people in our age range. "If you feel good temporarily, then you've answered your own question."

I quiet, continuing to finger the table cover.

"Hayat," Aneela says slowly. "Is something going on? Do you want to talk about it?"

I take a deep breath and shake my head. "No, nothing specific. I'm just curious."

She gives me a dubious look but doesn't further press me. We continue discussing the scholarship applications until the doorbell rings.

"I'll get it!" Aneela chirps. "You finish up that question."

I nod gratefully as I continue typing, momentarily confused as to who could be here right now. Ihsaan would've just unlocked the door with his keys.

"Salaam!" I hear Aneela say. "Sorry for the shocker, Hayat is a little preoccupied right now."

"I, uh—Wa 'Alaikum Salaam." It is Ihsaan. And his voice has an odd tremble to it.

I finish up the question I was working on and hurriedly stand to greet my brother.

Ihsaan walks into the kitchen with two bags of food in his hand, hence why he couldn't unlock the door himself. The color has visibly drained from his face, and his hands are shaking.

"Hey," I murmur, avoiding his eyes.

"Hi," he says, a little breathless.

Aneela enters and stands to the side as Ihsaan sets the food on the kitchen island. "How are you doing, Ihsaan?"

His shoulders tense, and his voice comes out shaky as he replies, "I'm, uh, I'm good, Alhamdulillah. How are you?"

"Good, Alhamdulillah. Hayat and I were having such a great time."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah, she's so much fun. I wish we had met earlier."

Tension descends in the kitchen as the implication of her words hits us. She seems to realize the same thing as she shakes her head and looks at her watch. "Anyways, I won't intrude on your night now. I should get going. We'll talk soon, Hayat, okay?"

I nod as she begins to gather her things. "Thank you so much, Aneela. I appreciate it so much. I know you're busy, so you taking out the time means so much to me—"

"Oh, hush," she murmurs as she pulls me in for a hug. "What are friends for?"

Friend feels too minuscule to describe what she has begun to mean to me, but I smile nonetheless and begin walking her to the door.

Aneela turns to Ihsaan before heading out of the kitchen and smiles. "Have a good night, Ihsaan. Salaam!"

"Yeah," he responds, a little too late and a little too quietly. "You too."

Once she's gone, I'm oddly wary to return to the kitchen. Having Ihsaan and Aneela in the same vicinity always feels strange. I can physically feel the tension rolling off of my brother in waves, tension he won't give a name to and won't allow me to understand. I don't understand why he seems to be so fearful or apprehensive of her presence, or even the mere mention of her name.

I've never seen him react to anyone else in this manner.

When I reluctantly trudge back into the kitchen, Ihsaan is lost in thought, a faraway look in his eyes. He startles at the sound of my footsteps and hurriedly turns away from me, but not before I see the pained expression on his face.

"Ihsaan," I say exasperatedly, throwing my hands up in the air. "Will you please, for the love of God, tell me what's wrong?"

He shakes his head and hastily uses the corner of his shirt to wipe his eyes. My eyes almost bug out of my head. "Ihsaan!" I whisper-shout. "Are you crying?"

I haven't seen my brother cry since Arafat's funeral.

"What the hell? No, of course not," he says vehemently, but he's angling his body away from me and discreetly trying to rush out of the kitchen.

I grab his arm as he's halfway up the stairs. "Not today, Ihsaan," I hiss lowly so as not to disturb our mom as she's reading in her room. "You need to tell me what's going on."

Ihsaan is visibly trembling now, and the sight brings a pang to my chest. My expression softens. "Okay. Relax, Ihsaan. Do you need to take your meds?"

He nods and I follow him to his room, shaking a pill out of his medication bottle and handing him a bottle of water. Once he downs the pill, he places his head in his hands.

"God, Hayat," he says hoarsely a few moments later. Venom laces his words as he glances up at me. "I keep telling you not to invite her or be close to her or anything. It's like you purposely do it to drive me crazy!"

I hesitate, confused by the terror in his eyes. "Why would my hanging out with Aneela drive you crazy!"

He stands abruptly and shouts, "Because I'm in love with her!"

Silence descends on us. Thick, heavy, and suffocating. Ihsaan's eyes are wide, his chest heaving with the pressure of breathing. My hand is on my chest, eyes wide as I stare at my brother and his confession echoes in my ears, one I've been desperate to hear but utterly unprepared for.

After a moment, Ihsaan turns away and shoves a hand through his hair, shaking his head back and forth.

"You're...in love with Aneela?" I whisper, my voice incredibly loud in the silent room.

Ihsaan's shoulders are shaking. Instead of responding, he shoves past me and rushes out of the room.

I follow him down the stairs and grab his arm just as he's looping his keys through his fingers and heading out the front door.

"Ihsaan!" I say sharply, yanking him backwards to face me and shutting the front door. "Stop. Just stop. When will you stop running away?"

"Hayat." Ihsaan's voice is trembling. It seems the anti-anxiety meds haven't had their desired effect yet. "Please just let me go."

I move to block the front door and fold my arms. "No, Ihsaan. How long will you keep running away from yourself and your feelings? You don't realize it, but every time you do this, you push yourself deeper into quicksand." Slowly, I place a gentle hand on his arm. "Please talk to me. Just let it out."

He hangs his head, eyes trained to the floor, and I'm once again struck by how fatigue coats every inch of him. Tired eyes parenthesized by almost-purple eye bags, accompanied by an ever-present hunch in his shoulders and a trudge in his step. Ihsaan isn't just tired; he's completely depleted and spent. This is the same guy who used to tug at my hair and rip off all my terrace garden Post-its and call me a churail at every opportunity.

I want to lead him into the living room and have this conversation in a relaxed environment, but I'm afraid he'll run away again if I suggest that, so I rub my hand along his arm soothingly and murmur, "Since when?"

He takes a deep breath and meets my eyes, tentative. "Since Arafat introduced us so I could supervise them when they wanted to get to know each other for marriage."

I suck in a sharp breath and release my hold on his arm. Ihsaan's eyes track my movements, and he steps back with a wounded expression.

"No!" I rush to say. "No, no, I'm not mad or weirded out. I'm just surprised. Please don't stop talking." I squeeze his shoulder as a form of reassurance, then gently continue, "And what were you planning on doing about it then?"

He shrugs, but I detect the hurt behind the casual movement. "I had to tamp it down, obviously. And it became a little easier to ignore my feelings when the two of them so clearly liked each other." Ihsaan fingers a thread coming off of his shirt. He's avoiding my gaze, but he's visibly less tense than a couple moments ago, as if blurting the truth has significantly reduced his mental burden.

"And now?" I ask quietly.

He furrows his brows. "Now what?"

"How do you feel now?"

The confusion immediately vanishes from his face. He rubs a hand behind his neck and squeezes his eyes shut. When he reopens them, he steps away from my comforting grasp on his arm and shakes his head. "Can we please stop talking about this now?" He turns away and begins heading upstairs.

I rush forward and stop him halfway. "Stop," I say exasperatedly. "Just let it all out right now. Please. We were finally getting somewhere."

Ihsaan throws his hands up in the air and shouts, "Fine! What do you want me to say? Yes, I'm still in love with my brother's love. Yes, I'm a horrible person for it. Yes, it eats away at me everyday and no, your constant pestering does not make it easier for me!"

"It doesn't make you a horrible person," I murmur quietly. "It just makes you human."

He laughs in bewilderment. "She was supposed to marry Arafat!" he explodes, eyes wide. "How is it right for me to want what was supposed to be his?"

There's a moment of strained silence as I witness the depth of grief in his eyes. Something in me breaks at the sacrifice in his posture. "He would've wanted you to be happy," I whisper.

Ihsaan scoffs vehemently. "I don't deserve to be happy when my brother is dead." He presses his nose between his thumb and forefinger and shakes his head, letting out a mirthless laugh. "His name was Arafat!" His eyes are two wide pools of grief as he turns to me and gestures a mountain. "Arafat!" Then, quieter, "How am I supposed to top that?"

"You don't have to top it," I say softly. "You just have to be Ihsaan."

Another scoff and a shake of his head. "That will never be enough."

I watch speechlessly as he turns to trudge back upstairs, and only when he's disappeared from sight do I see something I was too distracted to notice before. Something that gives me pause.

My mom, standing in the far corner of the upstairs hallway, a hand clutching her chest and her eyes as wide as two saucers as she locks gazes with me.

. . .

Assalaamu 'Alaikum (peace be upon you),

Phew. My boy Ihsaan has really been suffering in silence for way too long.

What did everyone think of his confession?

Thanks for reading!