N O T E
When someone hurts you enough, you become afraid that everyone else is going to do the same.
“You know you’d be so much prettier if you wore the halter neck tops—it’d compliment those shoulders, give those boys a run for their money,” Logan’s nana says everytime we meet backstages or during her grandson’s show dates. “Or those hipster shorts, pleated skirts?” She’d chuckle always. “Try smiling more often,” my nana would say on every occasion, only now, she hasn’t even tried reaching out to me.
Logan’s nana would ask me about my life, the world wonders and about large portions of greasy, unhealthy food they served in America for which both of us were a sucker. I would fathom my brightest, “full and satisfying.” Thinking about how I get to spend eight months on the road and two at friends around the world and two at home. I had my work, my music, my books and two whole precious days at the end of the week for watching Jamie Oliver cook or Cake Boss decorate cakes or Las Vegas Cakes blow my mind with creativity. After shows, when I’d have sweat dripping off me, Logan’s nana would always stun me with, “Are you happy?”
“I’m happy as I can be,” I would bobble my head, with the makeshift bun wobbling close to cessation. There is always been a little sadness inside my happiness. I’ve never been able to separate the two. I am not always smiling, there are days where I carry my frown like a crown—letting the world know, today my heart is breaking.
At the follow up dinner, Logan and I would listen to nana gushing about her days, about the Alaskan cruise she almost went to, about her sisters in Melbourne and extended family in New Zealand. Under her sunshine I would embrace my ego and learn from the great lessons of her life. She allows me to encompass my darkness as much as light, lets me be, permits me to do things that resonate with my heart and with my heart alone. “Don’t run after being perfect,” she would look up at us from under her glasses, “be something much greater, more terrifyingly bolder.”
The strength in her voice would reverberate within me for days where I would try to convince myself that I can be a reminder of being something much wilder, much more redeeming, much more exhilarating, and much more tantalizing outside the barriers of perfection and that without being beautiful I can still burn hearts with my brilliance and immerse souls in compassion.
But then I had no idea that my life was so flimsily constructed, like a stack of cards, and that Taybah could still march in it on a Friday night and cheerfully help herself to the one card that mattered. Remove the family card and my life collapsed, floated softly to the ground.
I press my lips to my fingers as tears fill my eyes. Not fair. Not fair. Not fair. It had been a year since the finale and I was slowly adjusting to the Noori’s. It was the Easter break almost after my debut albums release. We were in Birmingham. A plan rung in the air to celebrate Sabira’s National Volleyball Tournament big win with a fancy dinner, afterall this meant she’d be going to a nice college soon.
Two weeks ago, I had found a pile of aviation engineering books in a rustic box in the garage, when I was cleaning my car. They were soiled due to the rain the night before and the small crack in the roof. The name and the history within the pages wiped out in an hour’s harsh downpour. Enthralled with my discovery, my history with military roots, I had sought out to find who they belonged to. Then the day before, Zaahid had unearthed a crumbly photograph of uniformed men and women in the garden. It was barter as we exchanged our “treasure’s” like beguiled ten-year olds under the shed.
The next day, in the evening, I had stood proudly in his room, holding an old, dirty and bloody pair of white uniform with an embroidered J. My value in his eyes doubled, tripled even, in that moment. As the house got ready to celebrate the night, the two of us couldn’t contain the excitement of excavating some kind of fortune from under the garden shed. Barely wearing his pants, Zaahid had run down into the hall, shouting, “Look! Look what Maira found under our shed!”
“Mummy, the owners before us left treasures for us in the garden!” He had twirled Taybah by her arms. “You hear me mummy?!” He showed her the uniform and I am not kidding, her face blanched. The macaroon she had been munching on slipped from her fingers.
“Where did you find this?” Taybah had sounded more annoyed than interested. She had been so flustered; she threw her hands around. Pushing off Zaahid, she had come to stand before me. “Are you both nuts, digging my garden like that?”
“That’s not the point mummy!” Wafaa had kept pushing it, rummaging around the box we kept on the cabinet with a framed photograph now. “She’s even found aviation books. Wasn’t that your major? Or did you change after a year or so?”
Taybah had faced her daughter, laughing, the kind where you’re out of words so you politely laugh, “Darling, you know I tried it for a semester before switching to Nutrition, don’t you?” Taybah had kept her tone casual but her eyes were on me.
“Oh yes,” Delnaz had sounded deflated, like Taybah’s just pricked our bubble of making-history-from-our-garden-discoveries. “Abu did you hear? Some J’s white uniform was buried in our garden!” Her voice had regained the excitement.
Yousuf had walked laughing into the hall, adjusting his tie. “Oh really? And did he leave behind some secret Russian Code to decipher and save the world from?”
“Oh, come on! It can be some poor Halloween joke.” Taybah had cut in nervously cackling. The banter would have been never ending. “Now hurry up we have stomachs to fill and a lady to celebrate.” We had watched Sabira waltz in with an elegant dress.
“No buts Zaahid, don’t you remember last year the Halloween party in the garden, I think I saw people dressed in white uniforms zombies.” Taybah had sounded frustrated like being stuck in a maths problem with no plausible way out.
“But buried mum!” Delnaz had kept prodding the situation.
“A child across the street is playing a prank on all of you! How naïve are you all being?” Taybah had been mad by then like someone had woken up on the wrong side of the bed. Our fun expedition ended with her heels thomping on the floor.
“Okay, okay. Everyone, get your things. Disperse.” Yousuf clapped his hands like we were in a Shakespearan era.
“Ready to go?” Zaahid had asked, leaning against the cabinet after ten minutes. Taybah didn’t hold up her purse from the sofa I assumed that meant she wasn’t ready yet.
“Actually, we need to get something from Maira’s desk. Please wait in the car.” Taybah had answered courtly, holding my wrist and walking me upto my bedroom. We heard Zaahid’s faint ‘okay!’ as she opened my door. I felt it then. It was like a smell or a change in the electrical charge of the air. It was something to do with her shoulders, the blank, shiny look in her eyes and the dryness in my throat.
“Tay—phupi,” I had quickly said, turning around and Taybah had closed the door behind me, but then she grabbed me by my shoulders, catching my hair between her fingers and pulled so hard, so astonishingly hard, that pain had radiated through my scalp and my eyes filled with instant, involuntary tears.
“How dare you. How dare you.” She had tightened her grip. “If you ever try to sneak in the house like that ever again, I will fucking kill you.” She let go.
“I’m sorry,” I had said. “I’m so sorry,” but I must not have said it right, because she had stepped forward slowly and took me in her hands the way she did when she was about to tenderly hug me.
“Not good enough,” she had said and snatched the uniform from my hands and slammed me against the wall. The cold deliberateness of it was as shocking and surreal as the first time she caught me snooping around personal diaries for more information on my family. The pain felt intensely personal, like a broken heart. The world swam as though I was drunk. I had slid to the floor. I retched, once, twice. I had heard Taybah’s footsteps walking away and the gentle hum of the car engine starting.
I had curled up on the floor, knees near my chest and hands interlaced over the back of my cruelly throbbing head. I thought of my mother when I would get hurt, the way I sobbed: it hurts, mummy, it hurts so much.
“Honey, sit up,” Taybah had said upon returning, crouching down next to me and pulling me up into a sitting position and had gently laid an icepack wrapped in a tea towel at the back of my head. As the blessed coldness began to seep through, I had turned my face and studied hers through blurry eyes. It was dead white, with purplish crescents under her eyes as though she was being ravaged by some terrible disease. She had sobbed once. A grotesque, despairing sound. I let myself fall forward against her shoulder and we had rocked together on her glossy black walnut attic floors.
I never made it to the dinner. Food poisoning, Taybah had casually thrown the word the next day at lunch. I’d always known Taybah’s reaction to my harmless meddling had been too big, or perhaps too absurd, but I had cried so hard. I didn’t tell anyone. I’d swallowed it whole and pretended it meant nothing, and therefore it had come to mean everything.
A year after that, on a cold, cold December, she was playing cupid, it was at that juncture that I knew Taybah and I would never quite get along, like two variables never fitting into a polynomial equation. We were essentially a potion gone wrong. A week after Zaahid drove me off to the hotel, the house-keeping staff lady—Clara—slid a group therapy sessions pamphlet under the towels. Hoping that shared experiences could be a lifeline, where I could walk out stronger and be better equipped to deal with my emotions.
But support groups don’t help everyone. The only thing the first session I attended from my hotel chair, curled up in blankets, in the darkened room full of filthy tissues and sheets substantiated was I could never trust Taybah, never have a heart-to-heart with her or perhaps anyone also that I was more dead to my extended family that they could be to me. There was more to my parents, I could sense it. Taybah’s lashing out on me proved it. Truly, it didn’t prove it. It didn’t prove anything. But it did ask a question.
Trauma shatters the most basic assumption about oneself and the world—‘life is good,’ ‘I’m safe,’ ‘People are kind,’ ‘I can trust others,’ and replaces them with feelings like—‘The world is dangerous,’ ‘I can’t win,’ ‘I can’t trust people.’ I cannot begin to au fait with every single time that my back has hurt a knife. This nasty and horrid world and Taybah have stained my faith in humanity eternally. And it will only take me another to drink all the damage into love.
To this day I wonder, if I have let the wrong people go, or let the wrong people in. You’re not allowed to go back. It upsets people. If there was a manual on dealing with people bereaved by death of parents, that would be the first rule—never go back and dig up the past—swiftly followed by rule number two—never let your vulnerability be seen. You have to move on. I didn’t follow either rule and now, I’m stuck in this life, where the days catapult before me and it gets harder and harder to retrace my steps, to figure how I ended up in a car with Zaahid driving off to Harry’s for Darcy’s birthday.
If I could to take a leaf out of the impressive repertoire of my Angsty Teen Years, or Rare Lessons Mum Taught Me While Yelling At Me, I would tell you that I used to instigate silent rebellions—neither banal to seem meaningless nor frenetic to seem outré , just right enough to put across my point. For example, when I found all the love letters Raahat received—graded with a maroon pen—stashed under his mattress (because he was a sick romantic like that) and that he knew that I know he knows, just rough manhandling and a splash of tutelage on ‘personal boundaries’ wasn’t enough to keep my hands off one (or five) of his letters. I used to snoop back in and preserve things like testimony for future trials. When mum would warn me off sweets lest I would start to embarrass her in front of her friends, I would commence an ‘All Things Sugar’ diet. So, when Taybah threatened me to keep my nose out of it, how could I?
Before I had shown Zaahid the uniform, I had taken polaroids of the photograph and uniform and later locked the only copies of it in my attic when I moved out of Zaahid’s place. Soft copies are far too dangerous in our bling world and attics are too mucky for someone to pry. I still remember how for months my Time was defined by the length of the shadows created in the attic. I would sit in my dusty attic for so long that it was difficult to distinguish between charcoal blocks and the night. I would stare at the polaroids so as to convince it that I was someone worth talking to.
My attic floorboards still have scratch marks from when I would pierce my nails in them hoping for the pixels to enlarge and reveal something, anything. Even as I would speak softly, my thoughts solidyifying with each breath, I wasn’t sure of what answer I was expecting. Yes, this is a true example of an anecdotal Halloween Party gone wrong. Or: See? This was not an accident. Ha. Ha. An early Christmas present. On one such occasion, I faintly recall seeing a gold embellishment in the corner on the uniform, but that news today is so old that I hardly can separate reality from illusions. What I once treasured is now a memory, a shadow lingering in the depths of my mind. It is a strange thing to lose value for something which you have held so dearly, for so long.
I make a mental note to take a detour tonight to recheck at my place. Having all these deeply personal tragedies ambush me together, in one single day, is ardous. It is in these moments. These brief moments where I’m hit back with a clarity that had evaded me before. It has always been in reach but never quite in my grasp. Everytime it pulls away before I could hold it close to me. Sometimes, I feel I have gone mad, like I have spent my entire life in a half-awake daze, wandering aimlessly in search of such moments where, finally, I have some semblance of understanding. I wish I could make you see, what I see. I don’t think I am making sense. I don’t think anyone will take this seriously.
Following my Silent Rebellion Years, I have developed a hobby. I collect the ghosts of all those who have left me. I persuade them to haunt me. In the hotel, four years ago, Clara would bring me herbal teas before I could even ask, to help me with insomnia. It was exactly twenty-three days since I was left stranded on the hotel grounds. That night, sleep had refused to sit with me, but when it finally arrived, I wasn’t prepared for what it brought along. I dreamt of pitch-black dormitory rooms, of green rooms, of pretty dresses I was never worthy for, of cooking lies to my parents about university life at Newcastle whenever they called.
I saw a mirror. A scream came. Mummy! The voice was mine. I saw myself, paler and skinnier that I was with bloody red eyes and tear tracks down my face. I saw my mother’s reflection. I heard her call, but I couldn’t speak, or move or touch her. If I could just turn around. I saw her fade into the white light of the mirror. Clara had barged open my door, incoherently saying she heard me from two floors below. She helped me take a huge step forward. She did not try to convince me clichédly that it was a bad dream or that everything will be okay. She had softly asked, “Why mummy?”
My hand was under hers and she hadn’t let me snatch it away. With a fortitude I didn’t even know I harboured, I quietly wept my uncried tears, “I did not want to give her another chance to not support me anymore.” My mother could unsheathe from her arsenal a mockingly grave way about things she found either portentous or frivolous. She could shrink your aspirations before your very eyes. “And that has costed me, a barren—lonely—life.”
The ride to Harry’s looks like an eternity away, although it is just a half hour drive from Kensington to Clapham. We sit stoically in the car, gazing straight ahead, half aware of the world outside the claustrophobic comfort of the car, of his hands stroking the wheel, the almost soundless changing of the gears, and the blinking of traffic lights. It reminds me how civily I had accepted Yousuf’s decision to celebrate my twentieth.
In lieu of the events that led me in their house, they were generous enough to grant me three days mourning period before the—as promised—small celebration. Mourning in my house was always supposed to be something dignified and austere, but I cried like a child, noisily, with running snot and choked bawls and I was not ashamed. The numbness of the loss had passed but the pain would hit me out of nowhere, doubling me over, racking my body with sobs.
The day of The Birthday Bash arrived and brought along Stephan. The minute our eyes met; he had given me his private smile. I had run into his arms. “Please take me home.”
With sad heaves, he had pulled me off himself and looked me in the eye, shaking his head in defeat. “I cannot legally help you in the country.” He had pulled out my visa and a manila envelope from his suit pocket. For the first time in my knowing him, he had looked at me disgustedly, like he couldn’t believe that I was capable of doing something so reckless.
To summarize my situation here are some facts: A Tier 4 UK Student Visa allows 7 additional days stay after the full duration of the course for main courses having duration of less than 12 months. I had overstayed my welcome by 9 days. I had an expired visa. It is a criminal offence under section 24 of the Immigration Act 1971 to overstay your visa without reasonable cause. Bureaucracy is not your friend.
What masochistic deviant invented this behemoth that is called bureaucracy? My subconscious shouted when we together figured that my parents were on the airport road for my homecoming because they believed that I would have boarded the 16th July flight (in time for me to have a legal exit permit, and good two days after last semester ended) to reach India by 17th.
“This mess needs to be cleared Maira, before I can sign you up on the record label.” Stephan had pretended to feel self-conscious about his antiquated, passive aggressive tone. “I need you to grab your passport, proof of age and national identity card and come right away with me.”
“But Mr. Collins, her birthday—” Taybah had interjected as I went to grab my documents.
“I’ll try to send her back by then but I cannot have her roam the streets with the fear of being deported any minute now.” Stephan had been livid. There was manic in his big eyes as he swallowed Taybah’s ill-placed intrusion. My chance of running away—probably my last—from the Noori’s was again before me and I was not letting it go.
Over eight hours worth of government official meetings, calls and tons of paper work later, Stephan and his team had handled the situation. It had only costed me half of my winning amount. When the clock struck seven, Stephan arranged for a car to take me back but I had wanted to take back my charge and have room to manoeuvre my future on my own terms and stalled. I had made the driver first roam streets in Chelsea then drive me back to Birmingham, and in time Dovenhouse St. had my heart. Who knew six years later, I would have a secret home in it, a ten-minute drive from Gia’s in Eaton Mews North and twenty minutes away from Harry’s in Clapham both equally unaware of it all the same.
Ringing of the phone breaks the bizarre silence of the car. I strut out of the reminiscences of the past, crossing one boundless distance and into infinite dreams of another. Sometimes I feel appropriately equipped to write a book—How To Fold Memories. “We all have a purpose on this Earth, Maira,” Logan had said to me, handing me to hold the white flowers eloquent bouquet whilst driving to the church.
It was his sister’s wedding. It had been seven, quiet months since Taybah’s incident. Logan had come to personally pick me up from London all the way to Melbourne. On the flight, he noticed the silence in my voice but he never questioned. When we landed and the heaviness of my heart became too loud to be comfortable, he promised me dinner after he wrapped up his sister’s wedding. Apparently, he had decided to be the Pastor.
“Perhaps you were made for this moment, to walk through blazing fire and come forth as gold,” he had sounded thrilled more than convincing. We had sat in the front rows before the ceremony began. He used to always plug in the storm in my eyes with my staggering loss but this time my silence held secrets that could destroy families. Logan had provided me the perfect setting—a wedding ceremony, laughs mixed into the liquor, comfort in the breeze and a warm hand on my shoulders. With him, I felt safe—safe enough to tell him the truth. I had made up my mind to tell him everything on The Dinner.
What I never anticipated was when his sister was repeating her vows, Logan was planning his own. I had known him for a year then through shared industry friends and mutually benefiting collaborations. At The Dinner, the broad chested, dark-haired man wearing a crisp tux, hadn’t known what to do with his limbs. “You clean up well,” I had smiled at him and he smiled back: an involuntary, smitten smile.
“I learn only from the best,” He had lifted his champagne glass up and tilted it towards me. Then taking a small sip, “girlfriend.” The food came and went. We had waited for Heaven in a Plate—overloaded waffles and cheesecakes to come.
“So, Logan tell me something about yourself that I don’t already know.” I had plucked the rose from the vase on the table, slid the candles to the side and held it out to him like a microphone.
“What do you want to know?”
“Well, for example, do you have a girlfriend?” There had been a mild flirtatious sound in my voice. Inwardly I had snickered at his love life that he had to escort me—his best friend—from London to Melbourne to just have a date for the wedding.
“I don’t know,” Logan said. He had looked keenly at me and suddenly seemed more grown up. He had leaned forward and took the flower from me and spoke into it. “DO I have a girlfriend?” I could hear myself breathing raggedy gasps. I’d just wanted to lunge at him and snatch the rose from his fingers. No best friend was allowed to hit on another best friend. This was against the Friend Policy. If Nana knew what Logan was suggesting, she would have a fit.
“See, it depends on what I have to offer, you know?” Logan had clenched his jaw when I was too stunned to answer. He had begun placing the vase and the candles in their previous position. “Until I sell myself, how would I know?” It was excruciating to watch him flailing about, digesting my silence and perhaps my answer.
“Exactly. So, the search is still on?” I had forced a reply, limbing out on humour to support me and to help me walk away from Logan before he and I can never go back.
“Hmm,” He had nodded his head slowly. The magic around us had evaporated. In that moment, I was plagued with the thought that I never even knew my best friend. In a setting where I wanted to share my secret with my friend and equally carry the burdens of the unanswered questions, I was left alone to come to grips with what just ensued.
We had hurriedly left the restaurant soon after, without the dessert. I will forever hold this against Logan. It was Nana who had opened the door of his Melbourne house. Her particular ‘intervening’ look passed from Logan to me to Logan again and within milliseconds (yes, milliseconds!) she knew everything. As Logan sulked in his room, Nana had come to mine with vegemite sandwiches and herbal tea. Under the gentle glow of the night lamp, she had held my hands, “when you continue to chase someone who does not want to be caught,” she had pressed her hands, making me look at her, “you close yourself off to those who do. You bankrupt yourself,” she had met my eye, “from the human being who would have been able to see your worth all along,” she had then left me silently to adsorb her words.
I would have never known that a year later, her words would become my truth. Where I would continuously block myself of a love that was capable to stay, to make me believe that love can heal, be balanced and be full. So, I actively tried hating Zaahid but there was no magic potion that could fix feelings, plus making myself go through it again and again consumed so much energy. My number one To Do List point then shifted to stop considering moving on as a competition and focusing on my well-being, practice positive morning affirmations where I acknowledge that I am allowed to fall apart if I need to because only then will I truly heal and accepting that it is alright to just exist and not force anything because even if I’m not okay now, I know I will eventually be.
It’s okay to not be okay. It’s okay to not be okay. It’s okay to not be okay.
“You do remember the other day when we talked about this thing called a phone, don’t you?” Zaahid tilts his head, snarky and sarcastic like Chandler Bing. His voice clears my head and while I admire my personal up-close view of his one-day- stubble and long eyelashes, I fetch my phone.
I take a moment to get it. “Yeah, sorry—” I say with a touch of petulance because I am embarrassed. I see that particular unknown number’s missed calls and open the messages. Now, for someone say like my security manager, Dave, or for my social media handling experts, this might, might, look like an alarming situation wherein now for months I am plagued by this number but for me unless this leads me to the papers, I am all good. Plus, so what a fan miraculously got ahold of my number?
“Zaahid, I know! See, it is not even displaying me the screen, it’s just ringing.” I speak before he can comment. My phone goes silent then again rings for a second and again goes silent. It’s Harry, I read the lock screen. I call him but Zaahid doesn’t have patience for me anymore.
“Hello?” Zaahid speaks, tight lipped, balancing the phone between his shoulder and his ear as he changes gears. His carefree mood is forgotten. He is annoyed, cantankerous even.
“I’m good, thank you,” He mutters. “What about you?” Zaahid is trying for nonchalance but he cannot keep the acrimony out of his voice. I chose to ignore his tone. Zaahid looks at me skeptically.
He listens for a trice. “Yeah…” He says, fiddling with the gears and almost begins to hand over the phone to me but a harsh turn on the road makes the phone slips, “fuck.” I hold out my hand to retrieve it but it has landed between his legs. Can this day get any worse? My evil goddess grins, her eyes alight with a wicked amusement. You know you want it, she sultry speaks.
“When are you likely to reach here?” Harry questions as soon as I make my presence clear.
“Err…” I look at Zaahid, having undeniable poor sense of direction. “Zaahid where—”
“In ten minutes,” Zaahid states, indifferently, knowing it all. This is exactly why he is like a soft thorn in my life. He knows my brain better than I know mine.
“Great! I’m sure it’s not too late to ask for a favour.” Harry takes in a deep breath.
“Well…” I begin, putting a stray strand behind my ear. There it is again. A slight timbre of a coquettish ring in my voice. Why am I flirting with him? Am I? Because I just imagined Zaahid and Penelope kiss? Because Zaahid never liked Harry? Because my marriage has fallen apart and I need urgent proof that I am still attractive? Because I am angry? Because I am sad? Because why the hell not?
The phone is snatched from me so, so austerely, and put on speaker. “Depends on what it is about,” Zaahid’s words are harsh. His actions knock the breath out of me. He has never done that before. I see it happen again, mentally. His hand meets my phone and hand and he nicks it so bitterly that my bandages almost open.
“Will bringing Darcy to her surprise birthday party, be good enough?”
I haven’t recovered from Zaahid’s stunt. I reach for his emergency whiskey stash in the glove compartment but choose water instead. “Did you do what I think you did?” I’m trying to suppress my laughter, but Zaahid and the ridiculousness of the last few seconds are making it hard.
“If you thought that I could keep a surprise from my daughter and not wish her, then yes,” Harry gives out a low whistle.
“It’s a surprise get together guys! I need it to be perfect.” Harry hints annoyance like we have judged his parental skills, but doesn’t press.
“Get together?” Zaahid interrupts. “Umm…how big is the gathering?” There’s something in his tone that just isn’t right. I play with the rings on my fingers, pretending to not take note.
“You know just close family and friends including the band you had so proudly left mid-tour,” Harry takes in a deep breath, still reeling with what they had to go through, “Southern Contagion boys because of the new collaborations and Cherry Foxes because Natalia insisted.” A beat later he understood. “I tried for her to not to but being best friends for ever with Jane doesn’t leave much scope.”
I look up at Zaahid and at his impassive stare. His eyes are luminous, giving nothing away and his hurt is hidden. I can see him desperately trying to hold on to his fraying temper. “Cool. We’ll see you then.” Zaahid’s voice is crisp.
When we reach Harry’s drive away, security guards open the door for us. Zaahid runs upto my side and holds out his hand for me. Amidst a sea of paparazzi, I don’t have a choice. I don’t meet his eye. He mutters slowly to smile for the cameras but his voice doesn’t penetrate through my body this time. He pulls me against his body as I take his arm, but I am shaking too bad. “Shall we?” He asks, looking back and forth between my eyes frantically as he assesses his actions.
My shoulders shake as we walk through the swarm of media. Hurt-filled tears fill my eyes and Zaahid knows I’m breaking both of our hearts with just one word, because I can feel it in every part of me, “This was wrong.” The realization of what just happened and what could follow hurt worse than the actual action. There’s too much happening. Harry’s call, Zaahid’s misplaced anger, the act, the noise of camera shutters, the blinding bright lights, it’s too much.
“You’re overreacting,” Zaahid gives his cheeky smile at the cameras, forgetting his history of alcohol and anger. He squeezes at my waist and crushes all of my emotions. It is awful. I am terrified of him right now and in these moments, I thank the lord that I found him just to lose him.
I hope you understand that you deserve a love you do not have to fight for.
“But I’ve got high hopes, it takes me back to when we started high hopes, when you let it go, go out and start again.” High hopes by Kodaline.
Please drop me a comment or a vote if you think this deserves it and give me a chance to improve. All the love as always, Mahak xx