Me And Y8

6-Impact

"You should see the damage that did to your pretty face"-Book

"And I'm tired of resisting you"-Quote

"If you keep me next to you"-Song

"Welcome to *censored*, Siyana Awad. How's life being married to the most popular football player in history and being a world-class lawyer?" 

"Being a lawyer is amazing but an Awad? I guess it's phenomenal." I joke.

*time skip*

"So, what does Malik Awad call you? Any cute names?" She asks.

"Well, the usual common name is 'habibi'. He calls me 'baby' whenever he's explaining himself, or comforting me; and fucking 'love' when he's being extra flirty, cocky forgetting that we're married and w- that's it." I blush furiously. And when we're fucking, is what I was about to say.

"That's adorable!" She squeals. Handcuffs and blindfolds are adorable, huh?

Let's get ready for school. 

I was dreaming shit like that when I swore that I hated him like yesterday. Stand on business, bitch. Whatever, the fuck. I mentally slap myself and then physically do, twelve times for twelve years. 

I skip through English and fucking Math. Leah's actually pretty nice right now. DT, Arabic, MFL and its lunch. 

"Hey Aria." 

"Hi, Siyana."

And we chat, slowly immersing into a roasting battle that would change my perspective.

"At least my eye colour doesn't camouflage into a thunderstorm." I screech, laughing.

"At least I don't have the most common eye colour, ever."

"At least I'm not adopted."

"At least I'm wanted."

"At least I don't shit talk about Mr. Casena every two seconds."

"At least my life doesn't revolve around fucking Malik. In both ways." She yells, out loud.

"My life does not. At least I can talk to boys like a normal human being."

"Su-"

"At least I don't look like a mole rat who's been skinned and been through WW1 and WW2. At least I don't ship a friend with her worst enemy. At least I'm not Arab. At least I don't play football with boys yet act like someone's in love whenever a girl speaks to a boy."

"At least I'm not Indian. Also, you can't shut the fuck up about Omar, Omar, Zayn and Malik. Especially, your boyfriend." She retaliates.

"Okay." I start hysterically laughing. 

"No hard feelings." She says.

"Mhm. At least I don't have a crush on a creepy pedophile, who's also the head of my year and by chance is called Mr. Casena." Calm and controlled.

"I don't!" She starts laughing. Genuinely.

"Well, you don't shut the fuck up about him!" 

"You don't shut the fuck up about Malik! It's different, he's forty and your boy toy is fucking twelve."

"Doesn't make a difference. We'll have a truce, okay?" We shake hands.

"Kay, fine." She utters. 

"Bye!" I yap.

"Bye and you can't shut up about Malik!" She yells.

"I fucking hate you." I huff.

"Don't leave being made at me!" She yells, going on and about her way. 

Then it hits me. I should fucking stop talking about a brown-haired, stupidly perfect, spawn of the devil.

It's time for history! It's been a week since the banter and he's really hurt me, my feelings.

Does he know that?

No.

Does he care?

No.

After history, I felt nauseous. It was pretty fucking sudden and no, I am not pregnant.

"Why aren't you speaking?" Leah asks.

"I feel nauseous." I respond.

"Are you pregnant?" 

I want to be shipped, it's funny and completes my delusions. "With who?"

"Malik's children. Duh?"

"Annoying-ass." I mutter.

"You made it into Maths Challenge right? Mia made it too." 

"Yeah, duh? Did you?" I ask her.

"Yeah, but since it's Malik's mum sending out the invitations, she didn't send my mum one because she was too lazy." She rambles.

Liar. It's compulsory to be sent an email. Malik told me that.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah!"

"Mhm." I reply, dryly. I don't believe her one fucking single bit.

"Believe me! But I'm not coming anyways." She says.

"Mhm, okay. Why aren't you coming again?"

"Drama and I'm doing BSME dance. Aren't you trying out too? Ms. Loh would select you in a glance."

"Nah, it's way too easy. There's barely any footwork."

"Okay, dancing queen."

I was a dancing queen. Bollywood, jazz, classical, hip-hop, Indian classical, contemporary and salsa. I fucking could dance like my life depended on it. I was pretty good and I love to dance.

"Oh and Malik made it into Maths Challenge." She continues.

"No shit."

"That's what Malik says."

"Okay? And why would I give a fuck? I got 26 marks higher than that dude last year, he can die in a hole for all I care."

"Who can die in a hole?" Mia chirps in our conversation.

"Malik." Leah says, curiosity filling her tone.

"You know he cried for that right?" Leah asks me.

"For getting a 75? But he got 5th in the whole school." I whine.

"He didn't cry for that. The day after we got our certificates, he was fine but after two days, remember you found out?"

"Yeah." Mia says for me. I don't like where this is headed.

"Basically, I think he started crying because of you taunting the fuck outta him. 'Silverboy. 75-Silverboy Awad.' I think that really got into his head."

"Oh. Good." And I start laughing. I'm happy because I've hurt him, sad because I've hurt him, mad at him for believing me stupidly, mad at me for making fun of him so much.

His mum would've been mad at him, I mean I'm her son's academic rival. So why not?

This is when it clicked, that I slightly could've had an effect on him. I affect him. He thinks about what I say, how I judge him and think about him. 

I had, have and will always have an impact on him. He had, has and will always have an impact on me.

We had an impact over each other.