Sisters torn apart by the fragility of the heart, how can love possibly hurt so much?
Hana Junaid decided two years ago, distance would make her younger sister Hanaan more independent but Hanaan's love and yearning for Hana during this time has drow...
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My heart is homesick even though I never left home.
It aches. It hurts. The sensation probes around my chest like dry branches on a leafless tree replacing my spine, splintering my heart, choking me at my throat.
My friends laugh but to me the joke isn't funny. My neck is warm even though the AC exhales cool air. The coffee tastes bland and not the same bittersweet warm elixir that usually makes me sigh on the first sip. Even the centre filled chocolate glazed donuts don't tempt me to reach out and gobble down three and perhaps that's a good thing because it'll keep me well on track on my low calorie diet but I'm not exactly a 'glass half full' kind of person either way.
I'm Hana Junaid.
Seventeen. Almost eighteen. Awaiting my higher secondary school pre-med result right now and hoping with all my might that I make it to the top position on the board. I'm 'a glass half empty' kind of person through and through but never before has my heart been so empty.
So devoid. So homesick.
For Hanaan: my little sister who is also brain damaged.
She's not so little. She's fourteen. She's not completely brain damaged. She has cerebral palsy. It's a neurological disorder that hampers her muscle coordination so her movements aren't as precise as intended to be. With Hanaan it's mostly the wrist and hand muscles so she's not wheelchair bound even though she does trip every now and then but she is handicapped in so many other ways.
Handicapped.
I shouldn't use that word. But it's not like she's here. Or that, she still cares.
"You're so pale, Hana, chill out."
I smile back at Zimal. "This girl is too hot to chill out."
Ainee ooohs and Neha laughs while Faria shakes her head, a fond smile on her lips. Zimal looks impressed and I shrug.
Hana can play when she wants but right now, Hana is playing herself. She's being someone she isn't. She's trying to mask the hurt in her heart because it's result day which also means college is over after two years.
And two years ago, on another result day, Hana lost her sister. Hana lost Hanaan.
My phone buzzes and I pick it up assuming Ahmad Mamu or perhaps my Dadi messaged me good luck for my result. Instead, it's Nashwa and I nearly put away the phone, eyes full of disdain when her message catches my attention again. I check WhatsApp to see what she could possibly have to say to me because between Nashwa and me, things don't ever work out well.
It's a photo of several tissue boxes stacked one atop the other. In case you score 99.99999999 instead of a 100.
I roll my eyes and quickly download a picture of a red desi wedding dress and send it to her. In case you score below 60 again and your Haala Mami finally gets you married.
