The Hooded Hijabi

Decieving Myself

I could have never guessed that the guy who once made me cringe would become one of my closest friends in a matter of a few weeks only. Turns out, the guy staring at me in classes and asking for my notes the other day is actually a pretty fun person. 

It started off with a simple gesture of giving me his bottle of lychee juice. Rachel and I were getting our lunch from the university cafeteria when a guy from my class bumped into Rachel who then almost tripped. In an attempt to save her from falling I rushed a step forward to grab her arm. My grip on my lunch tray weakened for a second hence, my bottle of juice fell off and landed on the floor with a crash.

The glass bottle broke into pieces, spilling the juice over the floor and my sneakers. "Damn it!", I had cried out. Meanwhile, Rachel regained her balance and thanked me. The boy had hurried past us so we never received an apology. I did receive something that day, though. A bottle of juice on my table was put by a guy who passed by our table while we were eating and commenting on the rudeness of our classmate.

I looked up and saw the heavybiker sitting a few tables away from us. He took off the plastic wrapping on his tuna sandwich and bit into it. He cringed slightly but continued chewing. I don't know why I was staring at him but he probably felt the gaze and so he looked up. Unable to figure out whether to look away quickly or continue staring, I somehow managed a pathetic smile. "Thank you", I mouthed. He raised his bottle of water and smiled back.

I found out his name the next day in IPHR class. "Is this seat taken?", I heard someone say as I was doodling a Lamborghini logo on the back of my notebook.

"Yes", I mumbled without looking up, too busy to color the bull with a pencil.

"Alright", he replied. I looked up and saw him turning his back towards me. He was about to walk away when I said,"Oh".

He turned to face me and raised his brows inquisitively.  "Umm, thank you for the...uh, juice", I said, playing with the pencil in my hand.

He glanced at the pencil and then my notebook. Looking at me, he replied,"Sure. Nice work there." He looked at the logo again.

I dismissed his compliment with a wave of my hand. "Oh, and I'm saving this seat for Rachel." Awkwardly, I added,"Just so you know."

He nodded and then went to the back of the class. I wouldn't have let him sit with me even if Rachel wasn't coming but somehow I didn't want to appear rude to him. Why? I don't know. But I'm glad I didn't because after that day we became friends. And later that day, he told me his name was Mustafa.

Some guys from my class found it odd that I had gotten close to him. Usman, my classmate who once asked me out and was turned down, even started a rumour that Mustafa and I were dating. Mustafa wasn't bothered; in fact, he seemed to be enjoying it. I, on the other hand, gave Usman a piece of my mind.

I cannot think of Mustafa as anything more than a friend.  I don't know, even if I do like him there are things I need to deal with before I can even begin to think about my love life. More importantly, a part of me avoids romantic relationships because of my father. I feel like doing anything against my religion would somehow let my father down since he was a proud, practicing Muslim.

The sad thing is that only one reason should suffice in such a situation; Him. I should keep my distance from Mustafa because He instructed me but somehow I'm just picking and choosing the parts of the deen that I'm most comfortable with.

When Allah(SWT) clearly instructed men and women who are non-mehram to one another not to befriend each other, then why is that I cannot follow this Command?

"Listen, let's clear the air, okay? I'm going to stop pretending that you are unaware of my feelings. I'm tired, Amina, I'm just...tired. I know it's been only a few weeks since we got close but I feel like....", Mustafa trails off as he just stares hopelessly at the floor.

"See? This is why I stayed away from you in the beginning. You were the one who kept coming after me when I always tried to avoid you. Didn't I make myself clear enough? Mustafa," I say pleadingly, "I've grown so close to you. Maybe even more than I've been to Rachel or anyone. I mean, yes, I don't share with you but somehow I feel you know me the best amongst my friends. I don't want to sound selfish and make you think like I'm using you so please, if you're going to go on about why we should go out then maybe we should just take a break."

Mustafa looks up at me as if I had stabbed him in the chest or strangled him with a rope. He looks devastated and a part of me just wants to pretend that I do actually like him in a romantic manner but I know myself better than that; I can lie to myself really well but I just can't get myself wrapped up in a mess like this.

He deserves someone way better than me. He deserves someone whose past isn't as abnormal as mine. I have nothing to give him, yet he's always there to offer anything I need or might need. Yes, I'm a horrible friend. Ugh, enough self-loathing, Amina!

"Good Lord!! I'm starving. Buy me ramen. You owe me one", exclaims Mustafa as he gets up from the bench he was slouching on a second ago. "I hate you for making me fall in love with ramen. Someday I'm going to get sick and you'll be the one to blame."

I'm sure he sees the subtle surprise on my face but he pretends not to see it just like he ignores my ranting about us taking a break. So I do what I do best; lie to myself that closing my eyes to avoid seeing problems isn't such a bad idea.

As we get to the parking lot, a crowd of students are gathered around something obstructed from my view. As we approach them, a girl looks at me, suddenly big-eyed and surprised.

"Who did this?", I hear a cold yet familiar voice say from behind me. The voice belongs to Mustafa but he sounds so different that I'm kind of taken aback. But the look on his face is even more astonishing; he seems a few years older somehow and his eyes are....ice cold.

My eyes trace to where he's gazing and I feel something stuck in my throat. Pain. As if the pain in my heart has somehow travelled up in my throat.

I rush to my Camaro and lay my hands on the dent in its front. I feel the metal surface for a while and trace my hands to the window glass that's shattered. I feel warmth slowly travel down my wrist to my finger until I see blood oozing out and lingering along my finger. It isn't a deep cut but somehow it stings a lot. Who would do such a thing? Whywould anyone do this?

<End of Chapter 5>