Eighteen-year-old Hayat Amanullah has it all: a loving family, a carefree life, and a future at the Ivy League school of her dreams. But her perfect life shatters when her oldest brother suddenly dies in a car accident. The tight-knit Amanullah fami...
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~ Harebell (flower): Grief ~
When I head out for my morning walk earlier than usual, the sun has just risen and the birds are chirping cheerfully. Puffy clouds float across the sky like sailboats on an ocean. Vibrant green leaves coat the branches of trees, preparing to change colors for the next season.
Everything is changing. Time is marching forward relentlessly, merciless and unforgiving. As if nothing has happened. As if the world hasn't collapsed on the shoulders of a once-happy family.
I fight off the tears threatening to climb up my throat.
Just keep walking. Just keep walking and it'll go away.
All it takes is five minutes, though. And another cherry blossom falling off a tree is what undoes me.
I lean against the tree trunk and begin to sob. Rough sobs that shake throughout my core and unhinge me entirely.
Sometimes the pain is so unbearable it becomes hard to breathe. Sometimes all it takes is a single word or moment or memory for me to fall apart. Sometimes it can be something as little as putting five plates on the dinner table before remembering the fifth one isn't needed anymore. And then everything comes crashing down all at once, and the pain feels as fresh as it did three months ago.
"Hayat?"
Abruptly I halt, and stopping my tears forcefully causes an uncomfortable thickness to settle in my throat. I roughly swipe at my eyes and blot my nose with the corner of my shirt just as someone swings around from behind me.
Ugh. It's Mikaal. Immediately I look away from the concern in his eyes and take a deep, shaky breath. I didn't know he took walks in the morning, too. Next time I'll have to carefully exit the house during my normal time so as not to risk encountering him again.
He looks so different now. I used to see him all the time, when he and Arafat would study together or when he'd come over to hang out with my brothers. Then, when Things Went Downhill, I saw him less and less. We met at the funeral and a couple times afterwards, when his family sent food and continuously visited us to make sure we were doing okay. Even then he was uncharacteristic — extremely subdued and quiet. Rubbing his eyes in the kind of fatigue that sleep doesn't take away and gazing mournfully around the house as if he was searching for his best friend.
But it's been quite a few days since I've seen him now, and he looks so tired. Dark eye bags, messy stubble, shoulders hunched. So rough around the edges, frayed at the seams.
As if he's trying to hold himself together.
"Are you okay?" Mikaal asks as I cry, very clearly witnessing my not okay-ness but still having the courtesy to be polite.
I nod, rubbing my eyes forcefully.
Mikaal searches his pockets and pulls out a tissue, handing it to me. "Thanks," I mumble, voice all blubbery and messy.
