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Daffodil: Uncertainty
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My parents waste no time in calling Aneela's parents. They have a lengthy conversation over the phone, which I unabashedly eavesdrop on, and when my mom is turning the phone off I rush quickly away from their bedroom door.

Only to find Ihsaan not far from where I had been standing, huddled in a corner of the hallway and trying to make himself invisible.

I fold my arms and smirk. "I can see you, you know."

He squeezes his eyes shut and presses himself against the wall. "No. Nothing to see here. This is just another part of the wall."

A burst of giggles escapes me. I walk up to my brother and poke his shoulder. He opens one eye and gives me a sheepish look. "Ihsaan, were you eavesdropping?"

His other eye opens and he sighs, rubbing the spot where I poked him. "Why do your fingers feel like screws?"

"Why are you avoiding the question?"

"Well, you were eavesdropping too," he shoots back defensively.

A slow, mischievous smile spreads across my face. "Dear, dear, Ihsaan Amanullah. This excited to hear what Aneela's parents have to say, are we?"

He opens his mouth to retaliate but at that moment my parents exit their room. Immediately Ihsaan and I straighten, wiping the smiles off our faces and standing shoulder to shoulder with our arms behind our backs.

Papa's eyes are glittering as his gaze darts between the two of us. "Do I need to ask what you two are doing here?"

My mom tsks. "Sharam karo. Listening to your parents' conversations." Then her face breaks into a smile as she fixes her attention on Ihsaan. "Beta, her parents were very happy. Aneela happened to be home, and they spoke to her before calling us back. She seemed a bit shocked, understandably, but she has asked for some time to think about it and pray istikhara, as you did."

I snap my head towards Ihsaan, barely contained excitement roiling throughout me. He tries to play the news off as nonchalant, but I don't miss the spark of happiness in his eyes. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment as if in contentment, then reopens them and nods to my parents.

I nudge him playfully. "We can see right through your act."

"Oh, shut up." He lightly shoves my shoulder and dashes downstairs, leaving the three of us exchanging overjoyed glances.

"I hope she really considers it and gives it some thought," my mom murmurs.

Papa wraps an arm around her shoulder. "She will, Insha Allah. And Allah will grant both of them what is best for them."

A week later, my mom receives a phone call from Aneela's mom. I wait with bated breath as she picks it up in front of me, then squeal as soon as she turns it off a few minutes later.

Aneela has agreed to a meeting.

Maybe it's the excitement of our home finally being showered with happiness, or maybe the thought has been marinating in my head for the past two weeks anyway, but the first person I want to share the news with is Abeer. I rush to my room and grab my phone, prepared to text her a footlong apology and urge her to meet me.

I stop short when I see a text from Rameez, sent thirty-two minutes ago.

how are you?

Guilt immediately seizes me. I've been thinking of him constantly over the past few days but haven't had the courage to reach out. Every time I would open our chat, something stopped me from typing out a request to meet and talk. I felt as if I was having an out of body experience.

He probably thinks I don't give two damns about him. And after our last conversation and the radio silence on my end, I may have reinforced this idea.

I sigh, my fingers hovering over the screen as I mull over an appropriate response.

Maybe it's the adrenaline from hearing about Aneela's decision, but a couple seconds and a spur of the moment decision later, I've sent Rameez a text that reads: do you wanna meet today?

This is it. Maybe today I can tell him how I really feel, what I'm comfortable with, and how we should go about whatever is between us. Maybe we can finally come to some sort of understanding, one we can both be content with.

An hour later, once I've changed and am heading downstairs, Mama asks, "Where are you going, Hayat?"

I hesitate, eyes roving over her sweater dress and cheeks stained with rouge. "Just meeting some friends."

Her face falls. "Oh. Your dad and Ihsaan are off today, so we were making plans to go out. Ihsaan wanted to try this new halal Korean barbecue place."

"Oh." I'm rooted in place by her words. We haven't gone out as a family since Arafat passed away.

But...if I go back on my plan to meet Rameez, I might further reinforce the idea that I don't care about him. Already the image of the crestfallen expression on his face from the last time we met is branded in my mind's eye.

Arafat would always say Kuch bhi karo, lekin kisi ka dil kabhi na dukhao.

I don't want to intentionally hurt anyone or break anyone's heart.

Mama must sense my hesitation because she quickly adds, "It's okay, though. You go ahead and have fun."

Uneasiness crawls throughout me. Why do I feel as if I'm standing at a crossroads, and a step in any direction will be costly? We haven't gone out as a family for months, but I don't want to upset Rameez either, especially not when I've already said yes to him.

Sighing, I kiss my mom's forehead and bid her goodbye. Every step out of the house feels like trudging through water. When I finally make it to Rameez's car at the end of the block, I've been fisting my hands so tight that there are half-moon indentations in my palms.

When Rameez sees me, his face breaks into a tentative smile. Just the sight of it causes my worries to momentarily melt away. I shove everything but him to the back of my mind as I settle in the passenger seat.

"How are you?" he asks.

I nod. "I'm well, thank you. How are you?"

This feels strangely formal. But what does one say to someone they haven't spoken to in over a week? Especially if the radio silence has been initiated from one side?

"Good. Where to?" Rameez's voice breaks me out of my thoughts. I turn to him, eyes roving over the expectant look on his face.

"You pick," I murmur, then rush to add, "just not anywhere near the new halal Korean spot."

He gives me a skeptical look. "You don't like that area?"

"No, it's just...my family's gonna be there."

Immediately his expression shutters. For a moment guilt takes a hold of me, but then Rameez nods and begins driving.

The entire ride, he chatters nonstop, a faux expression of happiness on his face. As if he's trying his absolute hardest to pretend like everything is okay between us. I play along, giggling extra loud at his jokes and batting my eyelashes extra quickly.

All the while, dread begins to consume me, slow and painful. You know when you're at a bonfire and huddle close to the fire for warmth, but simultaneously take great care not to get too close, even by accident? I feel as if I've gotten too close, and instead of nursing my burns, I'm continuing to sit dangerously close to the fire.

Why have I begun to feel this way in Rameez's presence? Admittedly when we began...whatever this is, I had been wary since day one, mainly because I knew I was partaking in something that didn't align with my morals. But over time, as I grew more lenient with breaking my own boundaries, it became easier to shove my anxieties to the back of my mind.

Recently, however, it's been increasingly difficult to just live in the moment and put a pin in my worries. I don't know if it's because my poorly made decisions are finally catching up to me, or if it's because my feelings and priorities have changed.

Maybe Arafat was right in my dream. Maybe I really have grown up and am beginning to take life more seriously.

I take a deep breath once we reach the parking lot of a Turkish restaurant and plaster on a smile. I just have to get through this evening. Then we'll see what needs to be done later.

We enter and slide into a booth near the window as the waiter takes our orders. Once he leaves, Rameez drums his fingers against the tabletop, and I scramble for a topic of conversation.

He saves me by saying, "So are you excited about attending Princeton?"

It takes me a moment to process his words before an odd sort of sadness envelops me. A brief thought flashes through my mind: how would I manage to potentially stay away from someone who knows so much about me and cares so sincerely about my desires and dreams?

"I am," I reply. "But also nervous and anxious, to be honest. I don't want to leave my family, especially my mom." Speaking of, I wonder if they've reached the Korean place yet. A strange pang resonates within my chest at the thought of having abandoned them.

"I know what you mean." Rameez reaches forward and caresses my fingers. His eyes are guarded as he observes my reaction, but when I don't pull away he continues to rub soothing circles on my skin.

God, how would I be able to go back to a time when I didn't know how this felt? More importantly, why am I thinking of a time in which I won't have this?

"You okay?" His voice is soft, breaking down my already crumbling walls. I smile weakly and nod, grateful when our appetizers arrive.

We dig in, quiet save for the occasional "wow, this is good." Our main courses arrive a few minutes later, and we make small talk as we eat off of one another's plates.

I don't know if it's the heightened tension between us, or the fact that I'm so used to sharing our food with each other, or an amalgamation of several things, but suddenly my throat is thick with tears and I'm unable to raise my gaze to his.

The bell on the door jingles, and the sound breaks me out of my trance. I barely make out an "excuse me" as I rush to the back exit, tears blurring my vision. Rameez calls my name several times, but I ignore him and keep walking.

I stumble outside, the cold air whipping sharply against my face. My tears halt momentarily, and  I feel infinitesimally better.

The door swings open behind me. "Hayat," Rameez says breathlessly. "Are you okay? What's wrong?

Having left my jacket inside, I wrap my arms around myself, rapid tears pooling in my eyes at the concern in his voice. I shake my head by way of response, afraid that if I try to speak, I'll burst into tears.

He takes a step and suddenly I sense the warmth of his body right behind mine. He's not touching me, but he's close enough that if I so much as take a breath, I'll feel him.

"Hayat," he murmurs. "I'm worried about you. You've been distant all week and quiet all evening and now...please tell me what's wrong."

The softness of his voice breaks something in me. I slowly turn, raising my teary-eyed gaze to his.

His face falls. He raises a tentative hand and cups my cheek, rubbing his thumb against it. "Please talk to me."

As if of its own accord, my hand goes up and wraps around his. We gaze deeply into one another's eyes, and I feel as if we've been suspended in time.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, impulsively tucking a strand of hair behind his ear.

Something shifts in Rameez's tender eyes. Resolve? Before I know what's happening, he's bending his face towards mine. 

Oh, no. I think I've given the wrong signals. Oh God, oh God. How do I stop this?

My heart beats rapidly against my chest. Just as Rameez's lips are an inch away from mine, the door swings open behind him.

We break apart immediately, but my relief is short-lived once I see who has stumbled upon us.

"Ihsaan?" I gasp.

My brother is standing in the doorway, eyes wide with shock and something else...disappointment? Panic and guilt flare within me as I step further away from Rameez.

Moments ago I felt as if I was suspended in time. As if I was living in a moment worthy of memorializing in a snow globe. Now I feel as if someone has shattered the snow globe, and I'm darting bewildered eyes at the smithereens of glass around me.

Ihsaan throws Rameez a pained look, then says in a voice of dead calm, "Let's go, Hayat."

I dare a glance at Rameez, whose shoulders are hunched and his eyes are apologetic. "Ihsaan," he starts. "We weren't—"

"Please," Ihsaan cuts him off. "Let me talk to my sister."

"Ihsaan!" I shout as he turns and rushes inside the restaurant. I throw Rameez a wounded look, which he mirrors with an "I'm so sorry, Hayat." Then I rush after my brother.

I run straight into him when he halts right in front of the bathrooms. He grabs my arm and hauls me to the side so we're hidden from view of our parents, who are seated at a booth and looking at the menus.

There are so many things I want to say. Apologies, explanations, questions. But what comes out of my mouth is an absurd "I thought you guys were going to the Korean place?"

Ihsaan's nostrils flare as he folds his arms. "It was closed. And lucky for you, we ended up right where you were having your secret little escapade." He pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger and closes his eyes, inhaling a sharp breath. "You wanna tell me what's going on?"

My heart is still pulsating furiously against my chest at what I had been about to do and what my brother witnessed. But the tone of his voice jars me out of my shock as anger flares within me. "Escapade?" I hiss. Ihsaan's eyes open, and he pins with an austere gaze. "That's it? You're just gonna assume you know what's going on? You're not even gonna give me a chance to explain?"

"I am giving you a chance to explain," he snaps. "Otherwise I would have dragged your a** to our parents and told them all about your little hangout with your friends."

I flinch at his use of profanity, then laugh bitterly. "Wow. I thought we were finally getting somewhere, Ihsaan. I thought trust was finally building between us. I guess I was wrong." I'm about to stomp away from him when he grabs my arm and holds me in place.

His gaze softens. "I'm sorry. You're right. But what am I supposed to think when you lie about where you're going and I find you with a guy an inch away from you?"

Some of my anger ebbs away at the confusion in his voice. His reaction is the way probably any brother would react. I extract my arm from his grasp and sigh. "I'm...I was trying to..." I slump against the wall, raising my gaze to the miniature chandelier above us. "I don't know, honestly," I whisper. "I don't know, Ihsaan."

My brother is quiet as he waits for me to gain my bearings. Moments later, the truth spills out of me, as if a spool is unwinding. "I was trying to figure out what to do about our situation."

"Situation?"

Blinking back tears, I shove off the wall and take a deep breath. "This is not the time and place. I promise I will tell you, but not now. Mama and Papa are waiting."

The intense cut of his shoulders signals Ihsaan is not ready to end this conversation. But to his credit, he nods tightly and follows me to our parents' table.

"Sorry, guys. Work call," Ihsaan says cheerfully as we approach the table.

"It's okay—oh, Shehzaadi!" Papa's face breaks out into a million-dollar smile when he sees me. "I thought you were with your friends?"

I plaster on a bright smile, clearing my throat so as not to sound like I've been crying. "I was! Right here, actually. But I wanted to spend time with you guys, too. So here I am!"

Mama rubs my shoulder as I slide in next to her. "We're glad you're here, beta. We just ordered appetizers, so everyone decide what you want for the main course."

As my family happily converses, my heart drips with sorrow. I wish I could partake in this moment, wish I—like Ihsaan—could laugh and pretend everything is okay. But as Rameez discreetly pays at the counter and heads outside, I make the mistake of locking gazes with him.

His eyes are two wide pools of grief and apology.

. . .

Assalaamu 'Alaikum,

Definitely the most difficult chapter to write so far, hence why it's late.

Side note: You may have noticed I no longer provide translations. The truth is, it's not because I've forgotten, but in my last semester of college, I learned a bit about the interesting culture regarding translations in English literature.

Having been born and raised in America, I've grown up reading novels in which any language other than English has been italicized. This is something I never questioned and implemented as a knee jerk reaction in my writing as well.

In one of my classes this past spring, though, we met a Vietnamese American author who spoke about refusing to italicize Vietnamese in his English novels. He said some of his publishers and editors urged him to, but he was adamant on keeping all languages in his work in the same format.

This is because he didn't want to other the language or make it seem foreign or alien. He argued that when we read English novels with a couple of Spanish or French or other "common" languages thrown in, we're expected to look up definitions and familiarize ourselves with the language. So why aren't we expected to do the same for Asian (or other foreign) languages?

This is why I will no longer be italicizing other languages or providing translations. We need to stop treating non-English languages as foreign and in need of explanations or elaborations.

I'm Pakistani American, and definitely proud to be a part of both cultures, and I want my writing to reflect that.

Thanks for reading!