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Alstroemeria: A strong bond
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Rameez has been awfully quiet for the past couple of hours.

I know he said he would give me space and allow me to think about our conversation, but I didn't realize how attached I've become to him and his constant texts and check-ins. Restlessness consumes me all morning as I reread our past conversations to bring myself some semblance of comfort.

It feels as if a storm is brewing around me. Rameez is giving me space, his twin and I still aren't speaking, Ihsaan and Aneela's situation is troubling me, and on top of it all my heart has decided it feels some kind of way about Mikaal Zaman. The last one has been bothering me so much, and normally Abeer is the one I turn to for matters like this, but as I can't do that, I had desperately confided in Aneela. And even though she's the sweetest person ever and talked to me at length about it, it wasn't the same as ranting to Abeer. No one can replace what I have with her.

I have the strongest urge to sit in the middle of the storm brewing around me, wrap my arms around my legs, and simply rock back and forth like a baby. All the fight has left me; I don't have the energy to do anything.

But Ihsaan said he would practice driving with me today. And if I refuse, he'll know something's up, since I was the one who requested him to accompany me.

I knock on his door after dhuhr prayer. His loud "Oh, shoot" startles me; I hurriedly open his door to see what's wrong.

He removes his headset and sets his Xbox controller aside, and I let out a sigh of relief. Yells and PG-13 curses were commonly heard from Ihsaan's room before, but it's been so long that I'm unused to the youthful spark in his eyes as he turns from his screen to me.

"You killed me, Hayat," he grumbles.

I raise my brows. "Maybe you're just out of practice."

He rolls his eyes. "Ha ha."

I watch him carefully, tracing his carefree expression and relaxed posture. He doesn't seem to be faking nonchalance, but with Ihsaan nothing is ever as it seems. He's become too good at pretending everything is alright.

I fold my arms and lean against the doorframe. "You owe me something."

His eyes flick to the clock on his table. "Oh, shoot, you're right. I lost track of time. Let me pray dhuhr and then we'll head out, okay?"

I nod and head downstairs. Ihsaan arrives fifteen minutes later, eyes oddly red and puffy as he throws me a lighthearted smile. I don't comment on it, and together we don our coats and bid our parents goodbye.

Due to disuse, the Volkswagen Bug Arafat gifted me is parked behind Ihsaan's car at the back of the driveway. Ihsaan tells me to wait as he pulls his car out of the driveway and parks it behind Papa's car, then jogs back to me.

Once I'm in the Bug, I take a deep breath and turn to Ihsaan.

His brows incline. "Ready?"

"Shouldn't you, like, test my knowledge before we go?"

Ihsaan's lips turn up at one corner. "Driving's like breathing; you never forget how to do it. Now stop making excuses and start the car."

I fill my cheeks with air before blowing out a loud sigh. My heart is beating like helicopter blades against my chest. Despite the November chill, sweat begins to bead at my hairline and on top of my lip.

And then Ihsaan's hand is on top of mine, and he squeezes once before letting go. "You can do it," he whispers. "You're Hayat freaking Amanullah. You got this."

I let out a breathless chuckle, raising a trembling hand to fit the key in the ignition.

Then I start the car.

The engine rumbles to life, the seat lightly vibrating underneath me. A bewildered laugh bubbles out of me, accompanied by the racing of my heart.

"Good job," Ihsaan says. "Now shift gears."

"Wait!" I say hurriedly. "I need a second."

Ihsaan quiets, waiting for me to gain my bearings. A few moments later, I place a foot on the brake pedal and a shaky hand on the gear shift before shifting to drive.

"Awesome," Ihsaan murmurs, lightly bumping my shoulder in encouragement. He's not one to constantly give positive affirmation or physical affection, so his behavior is warming my heart and making this significantly easier. "Now slowly take your foot off the brake pedal and move to the gas pedal."

I do as he says and the car begins idling forward, trekking down the driveway. As if on cue, my breaths begin coming faster, but I muster up the courage to turn the corner of the driveway and lightly press on the gas.

"You're doing great," Ihsaan says quietly. I feel his eyes honing on in my hands clenched around the steering wheel. "Everything's fine, see? Just think of how excited you were when you first got your license in junior year."

I smile softly as we drive through the neighborhood. A minute or so later, my hands relax on the steering wheel and my breathing begins to return to normal.

"Hey, wanna hear a joke?" Ihsaan says brightly. "I was driving home from work the other day and there was a woman driving in front of me. She put on her left indicator and guess what?"

"What?"

"She actually turned left!"

I huff out a laugh and roll my eyes, braking at a stop sign. "Not the sexist driving jokes."

Ihsaan shrugs. "I mean, come on, look at the way you're sitting." He mocks me and hunches forward all the way against the dashboard, lifting his hands over an imaginary steering wheel and squinting extra hard at the road.

Boisterous laughter bursts of me as I press on the gas again. "Oh, shut up. At least we don't drive like it's a competition on who can successively honk the most and the fastest in the span of two seconds."

"Touché."

As we're trekking down the block, we pass by Mikaal's house. A weight lodges in my throat as my eyes rove over the little garden in the front yard, the one I had been standing in just a few days ago. The ache that has accompanied his memory for the past few days returns, and I find myself fighting the sharp prick of oncoming tears.

"Uh, Hayat?" I blink as Ihsaan waves a hand in front of my face. "Not that you're not a spectacular driver, but eyes on the road, yeah?

"Right, sorry," I say hurriedly.

As I'm driving, Ihsaan begins randomly searching the car. He opens the dashboard drawer and rifles through the insurance paperwork, then sticks his hands into the flaps behind our seats, then reaches down to feel for something under his chair.

"What are you doing? You're supposed to be watching me, remember?" I say.

"Just checking. I told you driving is like breathing—you're a pro at this; you don't even need me. Aha, found something." He pulls something from underneath the chair and sits back up, grinning at me. "Everyone always leaves some sort of trinket behind in their cars." He turns back to the item in his hand, dusting it off and twisting it to inspect it.

Judging by the way he has gone still and completely silent, it's probably something of value. I sneak a peek at him and clock the widening of his eyes as he grips the item in his hand. Which turns out to be a perfume bottle.

"What's wrong? Are you okay?" I say, alternating between glancing at my brother and the road.

"This was Arafat's," Ihsaan mumbles, uncapping the perfume bottle. "He must have left it in here by accident." He hesitates, then presses the bottle against the inside of his wrist and sprays it once.

In a couple seconds, the entire car fills with the familiar, comforting scent of our older brother. And as if on cue, the tears I had been holding back since Mikaal's house surge forward now.

It's astonishing, how quickly my body reacts to the scent. I remember learning about how scent is the only sense that doesn't go through the thalamus and goes straight to the primary olfactory cortex of the brain, hence why we experience it differently than the other four senses.

It also explains why, as soon as Ihsaan sprays the perfume bottle, I'm so overcome with emotion that I barely make it to the curb and shift the gear to park, turning the car off. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, I wipe my eyes of the tears that have accumulated.

"I'm sorry," Ihsaan whispers to me, but his eyes too are glazed over as he hugs the bottle against his chest.

It's strange, how one moment we can be bantering like normal siblings and the next grief suddenly overpowers us, reminding us that we had gone too long without it. I've often felt guilty when I've laughed or cracked a joke or tried to have a good day because my brother is dead and that is an undeniable fact. But recently I've somewhat come to terms with things and even settled for a peaceful acceptance of what has occurred; the what ifs had only made me restless and plagued by anxiety.

But sometimes, sometimes a single moment changes everything. Like when I'm driving with my brother and remember how the last time I drove this car, I had two brothers. Or how I used to be the kind of girl who would burst into tears in a situation like this, but right now I feel oddly patient and composed.

Especially when I think of Arafat's words from my dream: You're stronger than that.

I take a deep breath, inhaling the scent that has taken up space in the car and in our hearts. "Ihsaan, can I ask you something?" He nods for me to continue. "What was the last thing you spoke to him about?"

He sucks in a sharp breath, turning to me with wounded eyes. "You tell me first."

"I said good night to him," I murmur. "The next morning he left for the hospital before I woke up and we got the call later that evening and...that was the last time I ever spoke to him."

Ihsaan cradles the perfume bottle in his hands like it's the most precious thing he owns. "I...I told him I could never be like him. That I would always be trying and trying and trying but I would never be able to come close to the man he was: the doctor, the better brother, the pride of our parents, the better person in every way." He laughs bitterly. "It's terrifying, not knowing what your last words to someone are."

His words are laced with so much agony that I want nothing more than to reach forward and wrap him in the warmest, tightest hug. But knowing he prefers physical distance especially during emotional moments, I settle for schooling my expression into a neutral one.

No wonder Ihsaan has looked so haunted over the past couple of months. We both lost our brother and have both been grieving in our own ways, but Ihsaan is drowning in the guilt of the last conversation he had with him. Of desperately voicing how he had been so insecure about himself and felt he would never amount to his older brother.

Dream Arafat's words about Ihsaan flit through my mind again. You've been striving towards excellence for months. To be honest, you're too hard on yourself, but you're trying to achieve beauty and perfection in everything that you do. "Ihsaan..." I whisper. "I saw Arafat in my dream the other day."

His head snaps towards me, eyes alight with hunger. "Really? I never see him in my dreams. It's like he's mad at me or something."

This statement is so absurd that I reach forward and squeeze Ihsaan's shoulder. "Stop, Ihsaan. Why do you burden yourself with thoughts like that? You know that's crazy, right? First, why would he be mad at you? And second, you know that's not how it works, right? Dreams are either from your subconscious, from Allah, or from Shaitan, but you have no control over who appears or doesn't appear. Don't do that to yourself, please."

He's quiet for a moment before he says, "What did you see in your dream?"

I relay the dream to him, describing at length what Arafat said about Ihsaan and the meaning of his name. As I'm speaking, Ihsaan's posture goes from rigid to sagging. All the fight leaves him, and a cleft appears between his brows. His eyes, in a rare moment of vulnerability, fill with tears.

I can't help it; I entwine my fingers with his when I'm done relaying the dream. "Ihsaan," I say quietly. "Arafat was right, even if it was a dream. You're too hard on yourself. There's absolutely nothing wrong with who you are; stop trying to be someone else or achieve perfection. Ihsaan means the pursuit of excellence, not excellence itself. Try every day to be a better man than you were yesterday, but not because you feel like you aren't enough. Be a better man not because you're trying to be Arafat, but because you want to be a better Ihsaan. You are, and will always be, enough."

He catches me totally off guard by leaning forward and crushing me against his chest, burying his face in my hair. I quickly return the embrace, rubbing a soothing palm against his back.

"You scare me, did you know that?" he mumbles against my hair. "When you talk like a grown up. It freaks me out. And it makes it hard for me to keep roasting you and calling you churail."

I huff out a laugh and pull back, lightly shoving his shoulder. "Leave it to you to ruin the moment."

He grins, but it doesn't reach his eyes.

I tilt my head. "There's something else."

"Oh, no. I don't know how much more of therapist Hayat Amanullah I can handle."

"Don't worry, our session is almost over." I turn so my body is angled towards him and fold my arms across my chest. "Aneela?"

"Ugh," he groans, covering his face with his hands. "Can we not, please?"

I tug at his hands. "We have to. You can't run away from me forever."

He peeks at me through his fingers. "This is really damn awkward, okay? Let's just not do this."

I shove his hands off his face and lock them in an iron grip. "Do you love her?"

He doesn't respond, just struggles against my grip. But his silence is answer enough.

"Then fight for her, Ihsaan. Adding on to everything I just said, you don't deserve to suffer." Ihsaan struggles against my hold but gives up when I relentlessly pin his hands down. "Our brother was an amazing, amazing person. He always cared about us and always wanted the best for us. For all of us. If he was here right now, do you know what he would say?"

"If Arafat was here, things would be different," Ihsaan mumbles, casting his eyes downward. "He would be marrying Aneela."

I huff. "Metaphorically, I mean. If he was here with us in this moment, he would say it's the qadr of Allah. That God's plan works in wonderful, mysterious ways. And that above everything else, Arafat cared about your happiness." I let go of Ihsaan's hands and duck to look into his eyes. "Don't do this to yourself, please. You've been unnecessarily drowning in guilt for so long; blaming yourself because you think you aren't enough and because of the last words you said to him."

For a moment, the car is silent, echoing with the force of my words. Then I cover his hand with mine and squeeze comfortingly. "Let it go, Ihsaan. Let the guilt go. It's bogging you down and it isn't letting you move forward. And moving forward doesn't mean you're forgetting your brother or dishonoring his memory; on the contrary it means you're honoring his memory by living your life the way he would have wanted: happily."

Ihsaan is silent, but he covers my fingers with his and simply stares at our entwined hands, as if the sight of them is the only thing grounding him right now.

The next morning, my mom rushes into my room with twinkling eyes and a bright smile. She settles at the edge of my bed and grabs my hand. "Hayat," she says hurriedly, voice alight with excitement. "He said yes!"

"Who said yes, Mama?" I sit up and touch her cheek. "What are you talking about?"

"I don't know what changed his mind, but Ihsaan said we can talk to Aneela's parents to see what she thinks and what she's feeling." She covers her mouth with trembling fingers, eyes glittering with happiness. "And if Aneela agrees, we can arrange a meeting for her and Ihsaan!"

It takes me a moment to process her words. Then a slow grin spreads across my face.

. . .

Assalaamu 'Alaikum,

Ahh I loved writing this chapter. Ihsaan is my cute squishy little baby fr I love him.

Thanks for reading!