𝓜𝔂 𝓫𝓪𝓫𝔂, 𝓶𝔂 𝔀𝓲𝓯𝓮

52# Love and loss

THE KHALIL RESIDENCE,
ASOKORO.
JUNE, 2022.

It was time to leave, but Zaynab just couldn't.

Everything in her felt like it weighed a tonne, even if the reflection of her sickly frame betrayed that thought.

The sight of herself almost made Zaynab wish for death upon herself. To hasten what would surely come. She looked like it'd already claimed her already, anyway. Her red, sequined gown, once her most beloved attire, had become her shroud; drowning her under bundles of bright fabric.

The neckline was halfway at her chest, the sleeves had covered her bangled wrists, and even the bangles were hardly staying in place, sliding past her forearms to the crook of her wrist. Angry tears formed, but she wiped them away...angrily, hopelessly.

Her hands trembled as she grappled with the lock of her jewellery box, ignoring the prick of safety pins as she gathered a bunch in her hands. Standing in front of the mirror, she put pin after pin in place. To hold the shoulders in place, to fasten the sleeves to them, to keep the hem from pooling by her feet. Pin after pin disappeared, and prick after prick followed, but Zaynab didn't for once pause.

She was so engrossed in what she was doing, in what felt like release of... everything...that she didn't hear the door swing open. It was only when the blurry image of Yahya holding her hand from behind surfaced, that she truly let herself breathe.

"Let go of me", she warned, the anger unmistakable in her voice, but absent in her heart. She wanted to hold on to the anger, to latch on and never let go of it. Because if she let go, if she let the embers of rage turn to ash, she'd have to deal with a far more fearful demon. She'd have to admit that for all the words of solace she'd said to her family, she hardly felt any of it. She was just as scared of leaving as they were of letting go.

"Let. Go. Of. Me", she pressed, anger entwining with desperacy. The realization that she still had the ability to be scared, even in that moment surprised her; but the fear of judgement was unmistakable.

Zaynab still had the ability to feel like a bride, it seemed; a self-conscious bride who quaked in fear and hope as her groom watched her for the first time. And so, even as her speech became more severe in tone, and her hands struggled in Yahya's grip, her eyes remained on the eyes of Mirror-Yahya, watching, assessing ... hoping, but Yahya was having none of her antics. His eyes were hard as stone, unyielding.

Done playing her game, he tugged her with more force than he had in a very, very long time, spinning her so she now faced him, back to the mirror. The top of Zaynab's head was just at the level of his throat, so the distance between his glare and her face was not at all distant.

"What's wrong with you?", He finally spoke, brows furrowed sternly. Zaynab's words died in her throat, her tongue almost too heavy to lift.

In Yahya's eyes, she'd wanted something other than the pity, and now she'd got it. His anger shouldn't have made her as happy as it did, but she couldn't stop the emotion.

Surprising Yahya, and to an extent, herself, her hands pulled him down by the collar of his shirt, seeking her own desire.

Zaynab's kiss surprised Yahya, but more than that, it made way for guilt to settle somewhere in the mix of anger and pain.  He returned her kiss, feeling its very essence engulf them. It was more than lips against lips, warmth against warmth. It was pain clashing against pain, anguish roiling, anger trashing, love kindling and re-kindling.

Yahya remained where he was against Zaynab, long after their lips had stopped moving. Their lips remained glued, like two lovers entwined, fearing the end. His hands wrapped around her, unable to muster the will to be gentle. He squeezed her against him, feeling the heaviness in his eyes, his heart, his soul.