Cry of the Unbroken ✓

✒ R E A C H

Masroor stared at the screen of his computer, absentmindedly twirling a pen with his fingers. Meeting Ahsan was a surprise, albeit a pleasant one. While the boy looked hale and healthy, it wasn't hard to see something was broken inside. The once bright eyes were dimmed, and the shy smile was a bit fixed – as though it had become a habit. He'd had a hunch that there was more to his being sent away to foster care, and their conversation in the park showed it.

The boy flinched when Masroor tried to pat him on the head.

If that wasn't a red flag, then Masroor didn't know what else it could mean.

If he was the instigator as Tayyba had told him two years ago, then why would he be the one to flinch away?

He was almost sure if this aversion was limited to gender, specifically the male one. Ahsan hadn't even reacted when Kate gave him a half hug outside the store, but whilst walking towards the park, he subconsciously stayed a distance away from the men.

Masroor didn't think the boy even realised it himself.

Nor did he like the implications of said reflexive actions.

But, he knew he couldn't push for anything. If his assumptions turn out to be correct, then the boy is in a fragile state of mind right now. One wrong push will break him like folding a house of cards.

That night, he came in and pulled out all of his learning materials for his major. Focusing on how to deal with victims of certain circumstances – he had no doubt of Ahsan being one. One thing that stuck out the most was to give them time and space. And be there for them.

So that's what he did.

Every morning and afternoon, he would send pleasant and generic messages. From 'Good morning' to 'British weather is too bipolar'. Sometimes he would get a response, or an emoji. But the message is always read.

As days passed, Masroor started to message Ahsan about his daily life, ranting about idiot kids in maktab who still don't learn, to his theory of the university lecturers conspiring to kill them with overwork. Silly, mundane, nothing serious.

He didn't care that it made him come across as foolish at times (Ahsan's view of him as role model teacher has no doubt fallen down the drain) but he needed to the boy to understand.

No matter how long it took him, Masroor will be there when he is ready to open up.

♦

At another corner of the city, Ahsan doodled absentmindedly on the page open in front of him as the maths teacher explained the topic and went through the solutions on the board. By the time worksheets were handed out, he looked down to see the whole page covered with 'Ahsan is the best'. His lips curled down. He ripped out the page, balling it up and tossing it inside his rucksack.

When lunchtime arrived, he slowly walked towards the canteen. Being a student who started in the middle of the year, he'd missed the period when his age-mates broke into cliques, as such, it was normal for him to sit at a corner table alone to eat. While none of his classmates were his friends exactly, they were all friendly.

But it's hard to converse with people who have nothing in common with you. Moments like this made his heart pang, missing the calm murmur of the maktab class and humming of children practicing their recitation.

Thinking of whom, that person is always sending messages. He hadn't gathered the courage to reply back in full sentence yet. He wondered where the courage on that day came from, to be as daring to ask him 'Aren't you disgusted?' to his face so casually.