Closer To You

𝟔. 𝐇𝐚𝐦𝐳𝐚 𝐢𝐬 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤

A long time ago, there lived a young girl. She was the youngest of her family at the time but was often cast in the shadows by her smart, overachieving sisters. She had no one to talk to and often spent her time talking to herself or playing with her imaginary friends (don't worry—she knew they weren't real, but they filled the loneliness in her heart, so she kept them around). 

She was a giddy and happy child, always seeing goodness in everything.

She would often babble for hours about what she did at school, who she played with, whether her teacher praised her, and who she liked and disliked. Whether they seemed to pay attention or not didn't matter. She always saw the beauty in life, and no one or nothing could burst her bubble of innocence.

Until one fateful day, when she stopped sharing about her day, her parents became confused as to why the once hyperactive child no longer said a word after she went to school. No matter how many questions they asked, she would no longer answer. They regretted not paying much attention before because the silence now was deafening. They didn't realise it before, but this little girl's voice was comforting and happy and provided light in their lives. One, they made the mistake of not appreciating it before.

The reason for this little girl's silence still remains unknown. She grew up, but the demons of the past still haunt her. The now teenage girl still finds herself feeling alone on days, weeping quietly to herself for the loss of her innocence. No one knew. It was still a mystery. 

A secret.

No one knew except one little boy.

Who was now a teenage boy.

***

I can't breathe.

He is here. He is really here in front of me.

We haven't broken eye contact, but every second I spend looking at the flickering specks of gold in his warm eyes, I feel myself breaking a little more inside.

He observes me from a distance, his eyes not leaving mine, refusing to roam below my face. We haven't seen each other in years, and in that time, I've started wearing the hijab and modest clothing, which must come across as different to him. Yet, his eyes don't wander.

How is he here? He can't be here.

He has spoken my name, which no longer feels like my name. It feels like he's taken it from me, along with everything else I thought I owned. 

If I try to avert my eyes, it is as if my body doesn't take instructions from me. 

If I open my mouth to speak, my throat will constrict in refusal. 

Why does attempting to talk to this person make me feel like I am going to break down into tears?

I know why.

I know why, and the reason causes tears to well up in my eyes, obscuring my vision of him for the first time since I laid my eyes on him. 

Why does it take my own tears to protect me from his gaze?

Refusing to get caught up in that again, I turn sideways, using the back of my hand to wipe my wet eyes dry. I hear shuffling in front of me, but I remain silent.