| Sahar Adele Abdul-Jabar |

Three months later

"Trick or treat!" Francis and I chimed as Imran opened the door.

My laughter faded instantly when I saw him. There he was —  the Nigerian boy who had somehow stolen my heart. Officially, he was my "boyfriend"—though, honestly, the word felt very lacking. Boyfriend? It sounded too casual and to be honest, too haraam to describe what he is to me. He wasn't just some guy who happened to be around. Imran was my confidant, my weirdo, the person I could be awkward with and still feel entirely at ease.

My perfect weirdo who reminds me of Islam every chance he gets, even when he was unwilling to — with his weird little fun facts

"And what are you supposed to be?" Francis' voice snapped me back to reality. He was scrutinizing Imran’s outfit from head to toe. "And. . . what are you wearing?"

Imran shrugged off Francis' judgment with a smirk. "Wa alaikum salaam to you too," he said, completely ignoring the question. His gaze shifted to me, and he started fidgeting with his fingers — a sure sign he was nervous, though he’d never admit it.

"Hi," I said, my voice was soft as I stared at the ground, desperately trying to hide the heat creeping into my cheeks.

Francis groaned dramatically. "Guys, can we just enjoy this Halloween without you two eye-flirting? We get it, you’re in love. Can we go inside now before I puke?"

"We barely said two sentences, Francis," I retorted, rolling my eyes and lightly punching his arm.

"Uh-huh. Girl, you were mentally undressing my dawg just now," he teased, clicking his tongue.

Imran immediately slapped a hand over his mouth, eyes wide with embarrassment.

"No, I wasn’t!" I protested, feeling my cheeks burn even more. But the worst part? Now I couldn’t stop thinking about it. My mind started to betray me, and I fought the urge to shake off the thoughts. "A'oodhu billahi min ash-shaytaan ir-rajeem," I whispered a prayer under my breath, willing the thoughts to go away.

"Okay, okay, let's stop this conversation now. Please come in," Imran muttered, still fidgeting, his ears tinged red.

To break the awkwardness (and shake off those haraam thoughts), I strode past him into the house. The cold was biting, and even with my mittens and hijab, I was freezing. "So. . . what are you supposed to be? I'm Ms. Marvel, Francis is Dr. Strange, but you?" I shot a curious glance at his strange traditional outfit.

Behind me, the boys exchanged glances, chuckling about something. But Imran stayed quiet, smiling in that way that made me feel both comfortable and completely off-guard. I raised an eyebrow, signaling him to answer.

"Oh, uh. . ." He rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish. "I'm dressed as an Egungun."

"A what?" I asked, crossing my arms.

Francis snickered and put a hand on Imran's shoulder. "The hell is that? Egg-on-gun?"

Imran couldn’t help but laugh, his dimples deepening as he tried to explain. "No, no, it’s Egungun. It’s a Nigerian masquerade, part of our culture. Trust me, it’s nothing like those fancy masquerade balls you see in movies. They're terrifying — like, give-you-nightmares scary. When I was a kid, I couldn’t even look at one without freaking out."

"You sure you’re not still scared?" I teased, nudging him.

He raised an eyebrow. "Nah, now I dress like one. But I’m still missing the mask. All I’ve got on is this agbada. Need a proper face-covering to complete the look." He explained, showing off his weird big African shirt.

"So, like. . . a Nigerian Michael Myers?" Francis said, trying to sound serious.

Imran chuckled. "Yeah, let’s go with that. Though I'd say it's a bit more. . . supernatural than a guy with a kitchen knife."

With that, he gestured us inside, still grinning as we made our way to the living room.

The three of us shuffled into the warm sitting room, greeted by the familiar scent of spices and the soft hum of the heater. Imran’s mom sat on the couch, her hand resting on her slight baby bump — I can't wait to see the little baby, nine months is so long. She looked tired but happy, her radiant smile lighting up the room. Beside her was Jamal, chuckling softly at something on his phone. Zayd was sprawled on the floor, clearly immersed in his phone as well, barely glancing up as we entered.

"Salam, ma," I greeted her with a grin.

"Salam, dear. How’s everything, Happy Halloween, did I say it right?" She asked, rubbing her belly absentmindedly and turning to Jamal, he nodded with a smile.

"Good, alhamdulillah," I replied, while Francis gave a half-wave and grumbled something about how "spooky season" was in full effect.

Jamal chuckled at his remark. "You kids have fun. We’ll stay out of your way."

Zayd, still glued to his game, mumbled a "hi" and waved, not bothering to look up.

Imran gave his mom a quick tap on the shoulder before leading us toward his room, where we planned to settle in for our horror movie marathon. As soon as the door shut behind us, the excitement  began. Francis and I sprawled on the bed, while Imran fumbled with his MacBook, switching it on and picking the first film from a folder he had named as Halloween Movies.

I immediately regretted my decision to agree to watching Jeepers Creepers. Horror movies were not my thing, but I wasn’t going to back out. Not when Imran was excited about it. I wanted to spend time with him, even if it meant jumping at every creak and shadow. But I also plan to keep things halal. That's why we never hung out alone — Francis is always there, so it felt okay. Safe.

"Let the nightmare begin," Francis said with a grin as the opening credits rolled.

I swallowed, nerves building up inside me. The room was dimly lit, and I tugged my hijab tighter around my face like it might protect me from the horror on screen. The first half of the movie wasn’t too bad — I focused on the banter between Francis and Imran, who kept making fun of the creepy scarecrow monster. But the tension in my chest was building, and I knew the jump scares were coming.

Francis stood up suddenly. "Yo, I gotta hit the bathroom. Don't start the next movie without me," He said, stretching and walking out, leaving Imran and me alone.

Alone.

My pulse quickened. I tried to focus on the movie, but I was too aware of the space between us shrinking, the eerie silence of the room only broken by the sounds of the movie.

Then it happened.

A jump scare. The screen flashed, and the creature lunged forward, and without thinking, I shuddered, instinctively leaning toward Imran, my shoulder brushing his. My heart was racing, not just from fear, but from the closeness. I nearly reached out to hold him, but I caught myself just in time. Instead, I quickly straightened up, shifting away from him as casually as I could, hoping he didn’t notice how flustered I was.

My mind was racing, repeating the same thought over and over: This is harder than I thought. Trying to keep things halal when all I wanted to do was be close to him. I wasn’t sure I’d survive the rest of the movie.

Imran noticed the movement and glanced over at me with a teasing smile. "You okay? You don’t have to watch if you’re scared," he said with his usual soft voice.

I forced a smile, determined to act unaffected. "I’m not scared," I lied, clutching the blanket a little tighter around me. "Just. . . cold."

"Uh-huh." He didn’t press, but the playful glint in his eyes made it clear he didn’t believe me.

We sat in silence for a few minutes, the movie playing on, but I couldn’t concentrate. I could feel the tension growing, and I knew this was going to be difficult. I wanted to spend time with Imran, to enjoy his company, but I also wanted to keep things pure, to respect the islamic boundaries we need to follow.

As another creepy scene played, I scooted a little further away, just in case. It wasn’t easy, but I was going to try.

It's going to be a very long. . . cold. . . romantic and a halal Halloween night. That's something I'm certain about.