UNENDING

16- Get Out

-ASIYA-

I sit across from Mubarak in this small, dimly lit room. The walls are painted a soft blue, meant to be calming, I suppose, but it feels more like they're closing in on me. He looks at me with those kind eyes of his and gently says, "Asiya, if it's not too hard, can you start from the beginning?" My heart pounds in my chest, fear gripping me like a vice. I know I'll never find peace if I don't speak now, yet the thought of unravelling my past terrifies me. Taking a shaky breath, I nod and begin.

"From the moment I became fully conscious of my surroundings, I could tell my family wasn't like the ones in the cartoons I watched. Jamila was always the centre of attention. At first, I didn't understand why, but as I got older, I realized it was because she was sickly. She was in and out of the hospital constantly, and my parents had to put all their energy and resources into her care. They struggled financially, so everything they had went to keeping her healthy and happy."

As I speak, I feel a knot tightening in my stomach. I understand their choices logically, but it still hurts. "I knew it was necessary, but it didn't make it any easier when I saw Jamila getting everything she wanted. If she so much as hinted at a desire, it was fulfilled. But for me, I had to beg for the smallest things, and often, I had to let go of them altogether. I remember doing everything I could to get my parents' attention. I got good grades, never acted out, and did my best to be the perfect daughter. But nothing seemed to work. No matter how hard I tried, I was always in the background, a shadow to Jamila's light."

I pause, my hands trembling in my lap. The memories are like sharp shards of glass, cutting deep. "It wasn't her fault. I knew that. Jamila couldn't help being sick, and my parents couldn't help worrying about her. But the loneliness, the feeling of being invisible—it was crushing. I thought if I could just be better and do more, maybe they'd see me too. Maybe they'd love me as much."

As I near the part where everything changes for the worse, I can feel the words sticking in my throat. I want to tell Mubarak, I really do, but the pain is too much. It's like there's a wall inside me, blocking the words from coming out. My voice trembles, and I can't hold back the tears anymore. They sting my eyes, blurring my vision, and I struggle to speak.

Seeing my distress, Mubarak reaches out and places a comforting hand on mine. "We can pause here for today, Asiya," he says softly. His voice is soothing, a balm to my raw emotions. I nod, feeling a wave of relief wash over me. I don't have to relive that tragic day out loud, not yet.

"Do you feel any lighter now that you've let some of it out?" He asks.

 I shrug, unable to articulate my feelings. A part of me feels lighter, having shared some of my burden, but a heaviness also lingers. I'm not sure what I feel, really. It's a confusing mix of emotions, tangled and messy.

Mubarak doesn't press me. He just sits there, offering silent support. And at that moment, I was grateful for his patience and understanding. Maybe one day, I'll be able to tell him everything. Maybe one day, I'll find the peace I'm searching for. But for now, this is enough. I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself. 

My phone buzzes in my lap, and I flinch a little at the sudden sensation. I read Al-Qasim's text asking me if I was on my way to his parents' house and bit my inner cheek. "I have to go now," I say to Mubarak, picking up my bag. "Thank you for today."

"My pleasure," He says, following me out the door. He escorts me to my car and reminds me to take care of myself before I drive off. 

I grip the steering wheel tightly, my knuckles turning white as I drive towards my in-laws' house, a place that fills me with dread. Al-Qasim, finally convinced that I am recovering, has given me a semblance of freedom weeks after I returned from the hospital. I've been putting on a brave face, pretending to be better, just so he would stop hovering over me. The act seems to have worked, but it's exhausting.