Brenda wanted a normal school year. Instead her mom died.
Salma needed space from her sister and terrible ex. Or else she'd lose her mind.
Delilah didn't think she'd have any more problems after moving far from her hometown. That was until she becam...
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❝ The answer is dreams. Dreaming on and on. Entering the world of dreams and never coming out. Living in dreams for the rest of time❞
-Haruki Murakami
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🌥ZIYAN🌥
The only focus I had was on the fly, trapped in the corner of the room.
I could sense its anxiety, empathizing with the insects desperate need to escape from the house.
I wanted to leave just as bad.
Salma and I were at my parents second home in Waco, two hours before they were meant to arrive from Jumu'ah Prayer.
I hadn't called them in advance, wanting to give them the surprise of their life when they saw the girl, I had told them about over the phone. My father refused to meet her after I said she was African American.
He hung up.
But not before laughing, clearly unamused at my choice of girls and finding humor in the worse possible places. I wasn't going to go as far as to say my parents were racist.
Okay, so maybe, they were.
They were my parents, at the end of the day. I recalled my grandma, from my father's side, saying that she didn't care what race I fell in love with.
"Chhota," she said, meaning small, "I don't want you to focus on something as small as color. So many people in our family, as you'll see, care too much about that. I care about one thing."
"What, Daddi?"
"Her faith," she said proudly, straightening my shirt as she spoke, "I care about her beliefs, her hopes, her dreams. I want to see the light in her eyes and know for sure that she'll take care of my Ziyan."
"I can take care of myself."
I was so certain that I was an adult at that young of an age.
Something in the pit of my stomach sprang up, awakened like a ghost when I transported myself to that sweet, innocent memory from my childhood.
My grandmother's health was declining, and my drifting thoughts wandered to what she was doing these days. Contemplating on the worse, I would call her every morning.
She didn't always answer, but when she did it made my day or could break it in half all based on her tone of voice.
"You're lucky," Salma sang, "they didn't schedule me on Friday."
She frowned, fumbling with her assortment of rings on her bone-thin fingers. I pondered why she wore so many damn rings and had zero accomplishments to attach to them.
