Brave Heart | ✔️

18

~

I trailed Zunair for many days afterward, trying to contact him in every way possible.

He continued to ignore me. As if I didn't exist. As if those eleven months meant nothing to him.

I tried to distract myself. Really, I did. I even tried to spend time with my mom, but I hated every minute of it. She chided me for everything, complained about my hair, my attitude, occasionally dropped a compliment but even that she said so strangely and backhandedly that it always seemed like an insult. It left me baffled as to whether I should thank her or turn away in anger.

Naturally, I was glad when the day was over and I retreated to the comfort of my room. No matter how horrible the day had been spent, I at least had my mother to thank for giving me someone other than Zunair to be angry at. Someone other than Zunair to settle all my fury on.

My room used to be a comfort. But then it just became a nightmare. I was left alone with my thoughts, and it was then that I never wished for a sibling more. I wanted to hear about somebody else's problems, wanted to share mine with them so that I at least would have someone to cry with.

I realized I did not have an amazing relationship with most of my friends. I used them for company, smiled and laughed with them over food but never told them any of my secrets.

Well, maybe except for Imama.

I called her that night, blubbering and crying. I was a mess. I didn't know how to explain anything to her and asked her if she could meet me. My mom would freak out if I left the house at that time, so I told Imama to come over and climb through my window.

Imama came. She held me. She allowed me to cry loudly on her shoulder. I was never very close to her. We had the kind of friendship that made us have lunches outside at Chipotle or Starbucks and laugh over spilled ketchup and rave about book characters. But she had been there once when my mom's scoldings had resulted in my having a panic attack in the hallway of the mosque. She had held me, told me to breathe, and comforted me. We shared a secret moment, and for that reason I felt that I could share a secret with her.

And then afterwards, afterwards, she had always watched me so very carefully. Especially when I was with Zunair. Although it never made me uncomfortable because I didn't sense wrong intentions from her, it always made me wonder what was going on in her head when she saw us.

That night, I told her everything. About Zunair, about me, about both of us. She had already known most of it, told me she had gauged from the start that we were way more than friends to each other. I was shocked by this. If she—despite not being super close to me—knew about how solid our commitment seemed, then how many other people knew so thoroughly about us, including uncles and aunties? How much time before this would reach my mom again and she would breathe down my neck about a marriage that wasn't happening again? How would I face people if they ever asked me about him?

And worst of all, if our "commitment" had seemed so apparent to everyone else, why was Zunair the only one who didn't want to admit to it?

Finally, when the worst had passed, when I sat sniffing as Imama procured tissues from her jacket pocket for me, she sighed. "Sarah, I'm gonna say something, and you're not gonna like it. But I have to say it."

I was wary. This sounded like the kind of thing my mom did—telling me she wanted to say something for my benefit while simultaneously warming the point of her knifed tongue over a fireplace to stab me with her words.

But this was Imama. So I reluctantly nodded for her to continue.

"Sweetheart," she began, and nobody had ever called me that except Zunair when he murmured sweet nothings in my ear, so I just stared at her in shock for a few seconds. "Jaan, I am so sorry for what you have been through. You do not deserve this at all. You have a pure, kind heart and it isn't fair to your heart for people to step all over it like that." Her words comforted me. It felt like having a sister, like having someone to tell all my secrets to. I didn't understand why she had been scared to tell me this.

But then she took a deep breath. "I have observed you for a long time. Not intentionally, it's just something that comes automatically when you're a psychology student, I guess." Through the blurry vision of my tears, I saw her smile. "Hear me out.

"I have come to realize this about you: you are a very, very sweet person, Sarah. Very selfless." I managed to smile at her for that, but my smile quickly vanished when I heard her next words. "Sometimes too selfless. Too sweet. You, my dear, are like a bottomless well of water. You give so much of yourself to others that people become used to taking from you." She stared at me expectantly, as if gauging my reaction then, as if trying to sear her eyes into the back of my head to figure out how I was feeling.

"There is a universal seesaw, Sarah," she continued in a soft, careful voice. "On one side sits strength, and on the other sits softness. You, my dear, are neither in the middle nor leaning slightly towards one. You are entirely on one end of the seesaw. You are entirely soft."

I stared at her in awe then—as she had warned—not liking any of the words coming out of her mouth. "Entirely soft?" I parroted stupidly. "What does that even mean?"

"I told you it wouldn't be easy for you to hear"—she began.

But I didn't want to witness any more of her scary accusations. I shook my head. "No." I said. "Look, Imama, thank you for coming, but I think you should leave now." I pointed to my window. She gave me wide, apologetic eyes, but she didn't apologize. Nor did she back down. And for a split moment, I admired how she was able to — like Zunair — speak her mind without feeling sorry about it.

She simply said, "You'll remember what I said, Sarah. And if you ever need me, I'm a phone call away."

I pointed to my window again, not saying anything. I was angry at her for not apologizing, as if she truly believed the things she was saying were correct. As if I was wrong and she was right.

She climbed out of the window silently, giving me one last pitiful look before she disappeared into her car.

I hated her then. I hated myself for calling her, hated her for saying those words to me, hated her for having the audacity to bury me deeper into the quicksand I was already flailing and struggling in.

But I realized later that while I hated her words, I was not able to deny them.

Perhaps deep down in my heart, I knew that every single word coming out of her mouth was the bitter, harsh truth.

~

let's all give imama a well-deserved round of applause.

translations:

jaan: word of endearment; literally means "life" but figuratively means "darling" or "love."