Bookworms | ✔

eleven

Nicholas leaned against the palm of his hands, silently admiring the beautiful girl across the table. She looked divine, sitting all by herself with a book in hand, absolutely no care in the world. Her lavender headscarf wrapped around her head, tightly. She fidgeted with the ends. Her dark eyes eagerly absorbed the words that were plastered on the page, her fingers flipping through the pages, one by one. Nicholas found himself getting lost in his observations.

He felt helpless, completely at surrender for her mercy. Every day, he waited the aching hours for her arrival, and each day that she smiled at him, his heart thumped a different beat. His cheeks would redden every time they made eye contact, his hands would shake as nerves ate at him, and his body longed for her attention. The world was invisible around him. She was all that he thought about.

Get a grip, Nick.

Shaking his head, he removed his gaze from her alluring figure. He looked down at his own book, reading each line more than once, for he had forgotten the entire page. His mind wouldn't cooperate, it kept screaming her name. He was eager to hear her voice, but he had to hold himself down. She would never feel the same.

Nicholas was trapped in a hopeless romance, the torture from it was driving him insane. She drove him to insanity. She made him want things he never wanted before. She made him feel something that he couldn't put a name on yet.

Soft footsteps approached him, he already knew who it was. He slowly lifted his bright blue eyes. Dina tilted her head at him, her lips curving upwards into a small smile. Nicholas felt his heart do a double take, pounding against his chest as he froze. Her brown eyes twinkled.

"Don't you ever get lonely in such a big library?" she asked.

He couldn't think, couldn't speak, couldn't breathe.

"Nemo?"

That name, why did it make him feel so shy? "Sorry," he mumbled, clearing his throat. "Lost my train of thought for a second."

She laughed, "I hate when that happens."

If only she knew that she was the cause for his bundle of nerves.

"I saw you at the grocery store the other day," he blurted out before he could even comprehend what he was saying.

Her eyebrows scrunched. "Really? Sorry, I didn't see you," she admitted, sheepishly.

"I hate to be the ignorant type, but why do you wear a headscarf but your little sister doesn't?"

She leaned against the counter, a faint smile playing on her lips. "She's too young," she said, softly. "Islam doesn't force hijab on a girl. It's entirely her choice. My little sister doesn't have to start wearing it now."

"So if it's a choice, then why do you wear it?"

"It was my choice. I believe that all things beautiful stay covered, so society can't objectify me for my body, for who I am. My hijab protects me from that type of judgement. When people look at me, they don't immediately think about my body or what I'd be like in their beds," she explained.

"H-Hijab?"

She nodded. "It's a personal act of modesty from me. It shows that I'm devoted to God. People look at me for my intelligence instead of my figure. They see me as respectable. Regardless, there's still that handful of perverts that try something more," she shrugged. "That's just a societal problem, however, the majority of men won't even give a glance at me because I'm covered. That means that I'm judged for my mind more so than my body. I'm respected not only by the other gender but other people as well."