A year or two? later I'm back. Feels like a real slump but it wasn't easy: managing the hectic college routine and personal life and a big ginormous writer's block that really just comes from being a perfectionist. Anyhow, here's a story that has been stuck in my mind for years like more than five perhaps. Just a spark of inspiration regarding two sisters that stick out for one another and since then their names too have followed me around everywhere as part of my own conscience: Hana & Hanaan.

Finally in this Covid-19 quarantine with college out and me realising I have nothing else in life, I needed to get my writing back together and give these sisters their long over due story too. I put aside my perfectionist and idealist, grabbed my laptop and opened MS word and began actually planning (I am a pantser through n through) and writing alongside. This is my attempt at completing a novel because in the past seven years I have started and made it halfway through numerous projects but never got round to completing any because my perfectionist mind lost hope in them some where in the middle of the process. 

This is to being a flawed perfectionist, going the extra mile yet still and putting forward a story that reflects a BIG part of me in each and every character especially Hana.

S Y N O P S I S

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 drowned not just herself but also Hana in a series of Instagram messages with a boy who listens and converses with her so well. What shows on the screen is not what's behind it and the chaos that follows with photoshopped pictures tests Hana's patience and endurance.

Added to the mess is the dynamic Nashwa, fighting her own love battles. Hanaan's cerebral palsy, rendering her coordination haphazard. Young boys daring to be more than themselves in big lawyer conspiracies. Hearts shall certainly flutter wild.

So when the strings of the heart are tangled with so much sophistication, Hana's integrity hangs on a hook and Hanaan is deep in a coma after her online friend turns to a vile foe, will love survive or will fragile compassionate hearts be shattered furthermore?

They say the sensitive do not make it far in this cruel cruel world.

This is a story that aims to change precisely that.

#LoveYourself

#FeelThePain

E P I G R A P H

By the morning brightness. And [by] the night when it covers with darkness. Your Lord has not taken leave of you, [O Muhammad], nor has He detested [you]. And the Hereafter is better for you than the first [life]. And your Lord is going to give you, and you will be satisfied. Did He not find you an orphan and give [you] refuge? And He found you lost and guided [you]. And He found you poor and made [you] self-sufficient. So as for the orphan, do not oppress [him]. And as for the petitioner, do not repel [him]. But as for the favour of your Lord, report [it].

Surah Ad-Duhaa

D I S C L A I M E R

➵If you're hoping for a cheesy romantic story, this is NOT your cup of tea, sorry. This story does have a touch of sweet romance. You'll ship characters with all your might. You'll fall for the male leads REAL hard. Hopefully, you'll care for my female leads even more because romantic love isn't the only type of love that deserves to be embedded in stories.

➵I have come back to proper writing after a long time so my flow, grammar and words may be off which also includes the fact English is not my first language. Please politely point out any errors if you do find them.

➵LONG CHAPTERS AHEAD. Seriously, I have no idea how or why but I have written long chapters although I do not plan for them to be many. Read at your availed time once you are done with your namaaz and priorities.

➵Thoughts, actions and beliefs of characters are their own and of course partly mine. Do not pre-judge and do be considerate about the stage and phase the character is in that particular scene to be thinking or acting a particular way.

A  R E Q U E S T

I would immensely appreciate if you commented like crazy, let me know each and every thought that comes in your mind while you read, every question and concern so I may be able to see whether I portrayed my ideas correctly or not, whether I expressed my character's expressions clearly or not and whether my readers are on the same page as my story aims for them to be. It is how I will know where to work at, what to improve, how to improve and for that I need you!

M O S T   I M P O R T A N T L Y

I like writing tragic so a little tragic this story may be.

You'll shed heartfelt tears, joyful tears, angry tears and lots of many other tears.

You'll also laugh out loud, that is guaranteed.

Hopefully, it'll all be worth it <3

T E R M I N O L O G Y

Although I'm sure most of you would already know but if you don't:

Mamu: Your mother's brother

Mami: Your Mamu's wife

Dadi: Your father's mother

Dada: Your father's father

Also, Ahmad is pronounced as UH-MUD not EH-MED

Feel free to ask any other terminology used in Urdu by commenting on it.

C O P Y R I G H T

Copyright © mnhlwrites

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the writer.

I'll see you on the Day of Judgement if you do steal any portion.

I henceforth recite بسم الله‎‎ and in the name of Allah shall we begin with this story. 

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.

Her response comes instantaneous. A picture of a garbage bag. Not that I would invite you but here's your bridesmaid dress anyhow.

I put my phone away. Nashwa has the best comebacks. I suppose it requires a certain level of unkindness and cruelty within oneself to achieve that level and though right now, I'm more salty than she could ever be, with Nashwa it's not all fun and games, not between her and me.

We used to be Hana and Hanaan many years back. Two sisters who couldn't be torn apart. Who anchored each other. Pulled pranks on our parents and our Dadi together. Who sneaked around the kitchen in the dead of the night to make an Oreo mug cake and hissed at the microwave for making so much noise. And when Baba would pounce on us and catch us red-handed we'd share the cake with him only if he promised to wash the mug afterwards.

We were Hana and Hanaan until we weren't. And who else was to blame if not Nashwa?

Did she really have to tear me away from Hanaan to the point I no longer existed for her so she could have a place of her own? Did Nashwa have to go all the way to make Hanaan hate me just so she could be loved as well?

And how could Hanaan be so gullible? So easily fall into the trap? So easily shut me out just like that?

The homesickness turns to rage turns to fury. I grab a donut from the box on the table and sink my teeth into the sweet glaze, biting down on the soft dough letting the creamy custard filling delve into my heart and devour away the sorrows within me.

Food has comforted me in stress. Faithfully, always. And though the taste always goes straight to the heart, the calories do find their way into my body accumulating as fat and only now, after a two year weight loss struggle have I reached the borderline BMI between normal and overweight while all my friends are slim and slender, the epitome of beauty.

But these donuts. They'd go to waste if no one eats more than a half and we ordered so many. It's a sin to waste food, right?

Ainee plops down on the seat beside mine on the sofa. She extends a hand. "Let me do your nails. Some colour on you would look good."

I give her my left hand. "Pastels, as always."

She rolls her eyes and pulls out small glass bottles from her pouch.

"Ainee." I pull my hand away.

She snatches my hand back into hers. "Do you, or do you not trust me, Hana?"

I bite my lip watching her place the colours onto the coffee table in front of us. Deep pink, sky blue, navy blue, grey and yellow. All dull shades of those. It's not only just the colours she has chosen but also the fact she has selected five different ones. I don't roll that way. Funky clown kinda way. She starts working on my hand and I stare at her smooth strokes.

It's been a long time since Hanaan and I did something intimate like this. But then again, Hanaan doesn't like nail paints because they don't get off easy and it's only when you've finished your namaz, you spot that small speck of nail paint left on the corner of your nail that you missed out when taking them off. This makes your namaz invalid and that too you realise after you're done with it.

"Tooooooo much hassle," she'd say.

I never minded the hassle though. If I want something, I make a struggle for it.

But why is Hanaan still in my head? Even after two years when she walked out of my heart, stomping all over it?

I take another bite of the donut. Sweet sweet donut.

We're gathered at Neha's house. The five of us await our pre-med results together and it's early morning, I left the house at eight and it's only nine thirty, there's still half an hour till the result comes online.

Zimal is so chill because she has a father with many connections who could easily forge an outstanding result even if she didn't attempt the paper. My father is a lawyer too but he's immensely faithful in his work.

Neha scores average and she's content with it. Faria is super intelligent, she has nothing to worry about even though she still mopes over that sole two mark question she got wrong and then there's Ainee and me who work off our minds until they puff out steam so we can get the highest grades.

Ainee peeks up at me. "You're anxious about the result."

I bite my lower lip. "Just a tiny bit."

She arches a brow. "So you're not currently drowning in the sea of overthinking and considering yourself to be in a midlife existential crisis?"

I shake my head. "You can't be psychic."

She laughs. "Nope, there's only one psychic we know of and that's Nashwa."

I roll my eyes, a twinge of envy in my heart. Nashwa is our classmate. She's more than that to me and Hanaan but I don't take it into consideration. Nashwa carries an air of pride around herself and one of the many talents she claims to possess, she says she is psychic.

As if.

Ainee continues working on my nails. She has the best nail paint collection and even Faria is holding onto a bottle of soft sunset orange shade, doing her nails with music blaring from her headphones, I can listen to it from across the coffee table. Then there's Zimal and Neha sitting together, bent over their phones, showing each other pictures of classmates and other girls, sneering and sliding snarky remarks.

I grimace within myself. Do they do that with my pictures too?

Ainee hisses. "Don't move, you idiot."

"Sorry!"

She graces me with a deathly glare before fixing the smudge on the side of my finger with the remover and getting back to work on my right hand, now devoid of my donut.

Zimal and Neha throw their heads back and laugh and I feel even more conscious of myself, all the many flaws my pictures could expose of me. Thankfully, I'm not big on social media. Not even Instagram, not even Facebook. Just the occasional Snapchat for selfies I don't even post anywhere and WhatsApp for keeping in touch.

Two years ago when my sister shut me out, I shut the world out too. I focused on my studies only. I focused on my body. I focused on me. So much that now, I don't even recognize me. What a tragedy!

Ainee's brows knit together. "What are you hoping for?"

I withhold from shrugging in case the movement provokes her murderous side again. "Reaching for the moon. As always."

"You might even reach it someday, really." She wiggles her brows. "If not with your grades then perhaps a handsome lad promising to love you to the moon and back."

I blink at her flatly. "Your romance is very ... cheesy."

She laughs. "The lack of romance in you is going to score you an overly cheesy dude yourself."

"God forbid!" I look at her in horror. "I hate when people get all touchy feely. My personal space does not allow it physically or even verbally. Emotionally as well, actually. I am not interested in love."

Ainee shoots me a dirty look. "You and your space. No wonder you're reaching for the moon and the stars and other alien things."

I gesture towards my hand in hers. "I'm sharing my space with you, aren't I?"

"Pity you have only ten finger nails and I'm done with nine."

Silence stretches between us and the tension returns. I bite on my lower lip before finally blurting out. "I really want to make it, Ainee. Get myself a top position on the board. I worked so hard for it. It was studying. Exercising. Studying. Twenty four seven. If I don't make it—"

She sighs. "Don't push yourself to the end of the cliff, Hana. The world does not end here."

Hopelessness floods my heart. But it does. The world does end there for me. For these two years, all I have focused on are grades and a zero size body. I can't just lose it now.

Ainee shakes her head again. "Expect the best from Allah for He is as you think Him to be. And if He withholds it still then consider that decision to be even better for you."

I look away. If only it were that easy to convince the heart. But I want the position. I want it because it will prove to Hanaan I have moved on, I am focusing on myself. Maybe, just maybe, if I do get it, I will reconcile with her. I will take her back in my arms.

But no.

She was the one who hurt me. Not the other way round. She needs to apologize first. For being so cruel to me. I will not back away as I always do. What's to say she won't hurt me again?

Ainee clicks her tongue and my emotions must be an open book for her to be so easily reading them all. She reaches for the box of donuts, hands me a pink glazed one with rolled wafers on the top and grabs a chocolate donut with colourful bunties for herself. I don't put mine back despite the calories in it already tugging at my heart with guilt. I keep it in my hands and then slowly, I even take a bite out of it.

She gestures at my nails. "Not so bad, huh?"

"Mhmm."

She arches her brow further to the back of her head. I know she wants me to praise her indefinitely but I only shrug, toying with her, a coy smile on my face. She huffs out in annoyance and turns away.

She's like that. Tall and extremely bony, all collarbones and sharp cheekbones and defined jawline with a fringe on her forehead, a warm red flush on her cheeks and a sparkle in her eyes. She's even more beautiful on the inside hence I don't envy her. Rather, I treasure this friend of mine.

I grace her with a fond smile, marvelling at my nails. Somehow, the colour combination actually looks decent and even elegant. "You have an exquisite sense of colour palettes."

Now she blushes, fanning her face. "Shut up. It's just nails."

And that's the thing about Ainee. She enjoys seeking attention but as soon as she gets it, she hates it.

Ainee turns her head to me. "Why do you want to be a doctor, Hana?"

I know the answer by heart. "I want to heal people."

"Isn't the word 'cure' more suitable?"

"Same thing?"

She shakes her head. "Healing is more like with a person broken on the inside. The matters of the heart, the conflicts within a soul, those are healed and for that you certainly don't need a stethoscope. A doctor only cures."

I shrug dejectedly. "To cure people it is then."

Even when she looks at me expectantly, I don't answer. Because I'm me. Hana Junaid. Full of insecurities. Resentments. Fragile and sensitive. But no courage to talk it out, share my feelings when I'm so conflicted inside I can't figure them out on my own.

I want to heal my sister, sure. But how can I when she made it clear to me two years ago I'm only just hurtful?

So be it.

Ainee opens her mouth to give me a motivational talk on opening up and talking it out, trusting a friend and letting those close to me heal me but my phone buzzes again just in time. It's a message from Ahmad Mamu.

Come quick. Hanaan is hurt. We're all at the hospital.

I'm not even surprised. Hanaan is hurt? What's new about that?

She's hurt every other month landing herself in the hospital. A twisted ankle, tripping over nothing. A deep gash on her hand for trying to slice off the rotten part of a banana by herself when no one's around to help and she's just too impatient to wait another minute. A broken finger when she gets her hand in the door trying to open it.

Courtesy of her cerebral palsy of course.

I know she doesn't do it intentionally but who doesn't like the spotlight? But why do I have to go quick? It's routine now. What good will I even do by getting there? The doctors will bandage whatever sprain she's gotten or treat her bruise and on a severe day, they'll plaster her fracture too.

What good will my presence do? On my result day too!

Especially when I'm about to hit the success of my life. A top position in pre-medical exams.

"Guys!" Ainee announces getting up. "Hana has to leave. Her sister's hurt."

I grit my teeth. Of course she read the message sitting beside me, wow. I can't sit out Hanaan this one time. The others mutter their condolences and Neha waves me goodbye. I grab my tote bag and Ainee follows after me, seeing me to the door. My driver waits outside.

I stop on the foyer. The heaviness in my chest drags my eyes down so I can't quite look Ainee in the eyes. "Text me my result, will you?"

She smiles ruefully. "Don't be so down, Hana. Be positive?"

I laugh bitterly. "Kinda hard to do that when my blood says O negative."

Her jaw drops open. "You are a rare species!"

If only.

I get in the car, heart heavy and the driver asks, "Beti, will you go home first?"

I nod unable to speak. It spikes me somewhere in my chest that even he knows how I need a switch of clothes. The short top and skinny jeans I wear with my friends, I don't wear in front of my family or elsewhere because they thrive on a strict policy of modest-wear only.

Dadi doesn't approve of my choice of wardrobe with friends and though she has never said it in words, she expresses it by gifting me expensive kurtis and kamiz of latest Eastern fashions, delicate embroideries and stylish cuts. I wear them sometimes to college events because I can't at community service; they're too fancy for that. But I like blending in with my friends when we're alone at home.

I can imagine Nashwa eying me up and down in this outfit if I headed straight to the hospital. Judging me as always. Bitter again I am on the inside.

Within the next fifteen minutes of the drive, I receive Ainee's WhatsApp message. With a wildly twisting stomach and a heavily thudding heart, I open the screenshot ignoring all the other messages she has sent before it.

Please, Allah, please. I need this top position, I really, really do, please.

And then my heartbeat comes to a screeching halt when I see it, a plain score. No position. A1 grade anyhow but—

I didn't make it.

Of course I didn't make it. How could I?

And why should I? Why should I make it to the hospital then? Everyone's already there. I was preoccupied with my friends and this hospital trip happens every other day so why should I go? It's not even like Hanaan would want me to be there for her.

I decide I won't.

The car stops at our house. Numbly I reach the gate. Our housemaid, Baano, stands there and I hear her telling me no one's home to open the door for her. Of course no one's there. Everyone's with Hanaan.

The driver uses his key to unlock the main gate and we enter in. I have a key for the door to the house and I fumble with it, eyes not seeing, ears not hearing the maid praying for Hanaan and we enter in.

The thing with my house is there's the main gate which connects to the road outside. You enter it and step onto a pathway with a garage for our cars on the left and an evergreen garden on the right. Then there's the door of the house that I just unlocked and you enter it.

To your right is the guest room with the lavish couches and curtains where a gathering of guests sit when they visit but right in front of us is the elegant staircase that leads to the floor above ground. At its foot is a cream carpet complementing the white furniture nearby and the rose pink adornments that my Dadi has laid about in this portion of the house.

The housemaid and I both stop in our tracks. Our gaze falls onto the steps of the staircase in front of us, spots of something black staining its white marble. My gaze follows the track it leads down and a wave of nausea hits me across my chest when my eyes see the cream carpet at its foot.

No, it couldn't be—

"Ya Allah Khair!" Baano gushes behind me.

My knees wobble beneath me and in an instant, I turn to my side and throw over the two donuts I ate along with the coffee and also, last night's dinner's remaining contents within me. It's a terrible mix of colours, my vomit, but the cream carpet— it is halfway crimson. With my little sister's blood on it.

I grab my mother's black chadar from the hook beside the door and hurry out, not minding to change my clothes.

Who cares about judgement? My sister is hurt!

The driver doesn't question me, just takes a look at my face and off he speeds to the hospital which isn't very far thankfully. I run into the Emergency, hardly seeing where I'm heading, the back chadar cloaking me from the eyes of the strangers that run on me.

My feet come to a halt in a passage where I see a redheaded girl sitting on a bench with her head tilted behind her against the wall. My Mama and my Dadi sit by her, both holding food in their hands, offering it to her. My father paces nearby and at a distance, my Mamu leans against a wall.

My heartbeat halts for the third time and it's not even half the day yet. As the redhead's eyes meet mine across the hall, a distant memory echoes in my head of two years back somewhere around this time again when we started at the same college, Nashwa and I.

Hanaan and I had the argument of our life. I had screamed at her:

"...stop acting like you're a tragedy one moment and then you're not! Stop letting Nashwa be the voice of your thoughts—"

"Oh and what?" Nashwa butted in. "Let your sensitive thoughts be her voice? Your fragility that cries at anything and everything, makes stupid decisions like failing—"

"You're just angry I made you feel good about yourself and it turned out to be false too. Stop coming in between us Nashwa! You're not Hanaan's sister, I am!"

Nashwa flicked back her hair. "Why is she happier with me then?"

"Because you keep poisoning her against me!"

She smiled viciously. "I don't have to, Hana. Not when you make her go cold like that all by yourself."

And Hanaan was indeed cold at that moment. So cold, crying on the floor, gasping for breath at what she had discovered then, the frost never melted away. Not even to this day.

My last proper conversation with Nashwa. Nashwa who sits between my Mama and my Dadi right now. Of course she got here first. She donated blood for Hanaan before I could.

I never make it, do I?

hi there Fam! Hana's character is heavy to absorb but that's because she's a character with much depth and one that is absolutely grey. trust me when i say her character development is the most epic of all. hope you'll stay for the long run and read ahead. don't forget to show your support by commenting and voting. yours truly, 𝓂𝒶𝓃𝒶𝒽𝒾𝓁. 

I wonder what I look like in her eyes. Cold and heartless? Perhaps.

When Hana Junaid built a wall around herself two years ago, she did it to shield herself from this very sort of pain. The pain of seeing others in pain. I vomited when I saw Hanaan's blood on the carpet. I am still shaking although it's now past one in the afternoon and the air against my cheeks is biting cold although it's Karachi and early August too.

If I am still standing on my feet regardless of the instability, this wall I built is functioning purposefully. If I am not clutching my chest, gasping for breath, the wall is helping me. If I am not screaming in the corridors of the hospital asking for doctors who don't even know Hanaan's in there somewhere, the wall is good for me.

Hanaan's injuries were one concern for my family, my added panic and terror each time was a burden I took away from them.

But does Nashwa see that deep through to me? Of course not. She's staring at my skinny jeans as we ride silently back home.

"Hana."

I stare out at the road. "What?"

"I need sugar. I can't see clearly."

I hold back my burst of anger. If she couldn't handle the blood loss, why rush in to give it? Why not just let me? The one who was supposed to.

I tell the driver to stop at a juice corner. These two years I kept that wall up, Hanaan and Nashwa spent all their time together. And now, now Nashwa's blood is streaming through my sister's veins as well.

Where am I supposed to be?

When we reach home I warn Nashwa the carpet may still be there but thankfully the housemaid has removed it and the staircase is clean as well. The elders told me to take Nashwa home so she could rest. I didn't drop her at her own place because her younger brothers would not let that rest be possible. They're not actually her real brothers, they're her cousins. I don't even think they're human. They're monkeys actually. Nashwa lives with her Yamin Mamu and Haala Mami ever since her mother died and that was when Nashwa was three.

When I was three, Hanaan was born. When I was four, Hanaan had her first fracture. When I was five the doctors diagnosed Hanaan positive for cerebral palsy. Thankfully it's just a minor case of CP otherwise she could have trouble with vision, hearing even speech. In simpler words, she's very clumsy. She trips over thin air. She misses her mouth when eating. She can't write straight.

I gesture towards my room. The one Hanaan and I share but Nashwa refuses to lie down.

She gestures towards the staircase instead. "What was Hanaan doing upstairs?"

"I wasn't home."

"Yes, but why would she go upstairs?"

Exhaustion speaks for me. "Nashwa, it's her house she can go wherever she wants. What's the big deal?"

Nashwa arches a brow at me. "Are you for real? Answer me this, where is your room?"

"I just pointed to it. Right there."

She rolls her eyes. "On the ground floor, right? Where's your parents' room? Down here too. Your Dadi lives in a room upstairs all alone because there aren't enough rooms down here. Even so, she spends the entire day downstairs."

"So?"

Nashwa sighs in frustration, pulling away the chadar cloaking her head. Her messy auburn red curls frame her face. The rest is pulled behind in a messy bun. "Hana dearest. You wanted a room upstairs, didn't you? The big one. Why couldn't you and Hanaan move into it?"

I put a hand on my waist. "I didn't realise we were having an inquisition."

"Interrogation is more my style but then again you do love your question papers."

"Get to the point, Nashwa."

"As if I'm not obvious already. How do you score so high on all your exams with a brain this slow?" She looks me up and down and I clench my jaw. "You didn't take the room up there because Hanaan can't climb up and down the stairs without injuring herself, Hana! Her CP, remember? Aka cerebral palsy. Do I need to spell it for you as well?"

She's right. I wanted a bigger room and there's one upstairs but since Hanaan couldn't move in upstairs with me, I had to settle for the one on the ground floor only. Mama and Baba have their bedroom close to ours too for anytime Hanaan might need them.

My Dadi, though in her late sixties, is still an active woman and by Allah's grace, she's in her best form. She doesn't mind her room upstairs and has even set up an entire indoor garden in the empty lounge near her room. That only leaves my father's study upstairs.

But why would Hanaan go in there?

Nashwa's eyes reflect the same thought. It bites me that she's as familiar with this house as I am, as if it's her own. She has spent most of her childhood here with us but still— this is my home. Why is she everywhere I am?

I exhale deeply, my empty stomach rendering me exhausted. The day has been bad enough, can it just not stop?

Taking one step at a time, I drag my body and mind along and Nashwa is right behind me on the staircase. Her presence wears me out but I must keep up with it. The two years I kept myself away from her, I hope this isn't a time I must compensate for that. I really do not wish to be stuck with her these next few days.

Have mercy, ya Allah!

We reach the top and Dadi's indoor garden welcomes us. It's an unfurnished lounge with windows that cover an entire wall allowing sunlight to bask in. The smell of earth, fresh succulents and fragrant motia flowers fills up all the broken crevices within me but today it is not a good combination with this emptiness in me.

The loss of my breakfast and a dream I couldn't see turn into reality.

In one corner near the window are two large sofa seats and a coffee table in between. Many times I have found solace in one of those seats when I couldn't focus on my books in my own room which was mostly when Nashwa came over and Hanaan would watch movies with her or play board games or they'd just talk endlessly about anything and everything. Dadi would often join me on the other seat, not disturbing me with small talk about my wall against Hanaan and Nashwa.

She'd just sit there with her own yarns and unfinished crochet projects or otherwise an embroidery frame with a cloth fixed in it. Her presence there filled me up the same way the fragrance of her garden does; reaching into all the broken fissures in my ribcage and healing me from within.

My Dadi isn't a doctor but she has always been my healer.

"Aaaachooo!"

Nashwa sneezes, her mop of instant spaghetti red hair pulling back and then down towards the ground. I hold in the urge to spit some nasty words at her. Of course my happy place makes her sneeze— she's allergic to pollen, she had to be.

The two of us, we're just not compatible.

At one end of the lounge is my Dadi's bedroom and its door is closed. On the other end is my father's study and it's always locked. He never works in there just keeps important files of past cases he has dealt with in court.

I am about to turn away and head back down but then I notice, Baba's study is not locked; the key is in the hole. It never is. I don't have to announce this, of course Nashwa knows. I quickly step forward before she can and head inside.

We find ourselves in a room full of shelves upon shelves. There isn't even a study table there for him to sit and work at or inspect any of these boxes and files. Baba has always been a hoarder, never gives his past things away. And that's not just related to all the sticky notes my mother would put on his books reminding him to eat on time when they were married and in university, it's also all his old out-of-ink ball pens, all his old broken phones, all the wallets he ever used and all these case files too.

Hanaan often asks jokingly, "Did you by chance keep our soiled diapers too?"

I don't know what we're supposed to be looking for or maybe I just don't have anything left in me to pull me through the rest of the day. The shelves look down upon me in dark pity. Nashwa on the other hand is sprawled on the floor against her stomach and for a second I think she has fainted from the blood donation but then she squeezes herself further beneath the shelf and then pulls out a lit up smart tablet from underneath.

When she stands up, her cheeks are flushed and her eyes alight. "Hanaan's!"

I inhale deeply. No, I'm not jealous at all that she's getting somewhere and I'm not.

I take the tablet from her. Its screen is cracked and the graphics are not clear but it is working still. Nashwa bends over to look once more beneath the shelf and quickly, not knowing where the thought or the strength comes from, I pull out the memory card from the tablet and pocket it into my jeans.

This is my sister's tablet.

Nashwa need not have her nose involved everywhere.

She stands up, dusting her clothes. "Nothing else down there but she definitely came up here for something. With her tablet."

"We don't even get Wi-Fi signals in this room. What could she want?"

"Some privacy?"

"From who?" I laugh. "I wasn't there this morning, remember? She had our room to herself."

Nashwa shrugs. "Maybe some file? Is she trying to solve a case for your father?"

"My father's cases are not for children. He doesn't stay up nights at his office and exhaust his brain hours over hours on these files if they were as simple as that and I don't need to mention his IQ level to prove his intelligence. So, yeah, think before you speak."

Nashwa draws in a breath. "Chill, sister—"

"I am not your sister."

She's staring at me wide eyed now, not surprised or mortified, but the way someone does when they know you've really lost it and they were expecting it all along.

She's been making too much sense and it disturbs me. Why can't this just be a normal injury? I don't want to think there is more to it. I don't want something more to worry over. But is anything really in my hands to control?

A stab of pain prickles on my lower lip and I reach for it only to realise I have drawn blood. My lip biting habit is the worst.

Hanaan would often chide at me for this. "Take care of yourself, Hana! Who else will?"

No one else takes care of me, indeed.

Nashwa leans against a shelf and crosses her arms over her chest. "Looks like the result day celebration didn't go according to plan. What happened? Your barbies didn't think getting a top position on the board was something as big as buying the latest Michael Kors hand bag?"

I stare dumbfounded at her. "They buy what they like; it's not a race."

"Whatever you say."

"And they do care about their results, don't be so judgemental. It's not like you would turn away a Michael Kors handbag if I gifted you one."

"Well, we'll only find that out when you do actually gift me one but here's the thing, I don't accept charity. You can stop being so irritated by me. We were doing just fine tolerating one another and considering the other unworthy of our temper."

I deadpan this time. So she is full of poison. I had my reasons to envy her for taking my place with Hanaan. What's her excuse?

Nashwa looks around at the shelves. "She did come here for something, we just don't know what or why. That tablet could help us. We should get its screen fixed and then look through it maybe."

I don't like her use of we. "I'm not breaching Hanaan's privacy—"

"And there you make the same mistake again! You think you're invading her privacy or impairing her independence? You're just pushing her into solitary confinement, Hana. She's so lonely she doesn't know what to do with herself anymore."

My voice is barely a whisper. "Good for you. You have her all to yourself."

Nashwa nods. "The only reason I stick by her is because you're not there."

"I'm not there anymore because you wouldn't let me be."

She clearly doesn't hear the pain in my voice. "How very fragile you must be. To budge away so easily."

I want to throw kerosene on my candle flame, erupt into fatal flames and scorch this girl before me to embers and ashes and then some more until nothing remains. But I can't even do that with my words.

Why can't she just leave us alone? Let us be. Hana and Hanaan.

Nashwa continues, now pacing back and forth. "I know there's something off because Hanaan's been unfamiliar ever since I returned back three weeks ago from the summer tour with my family. She doesn't talk to me the same. She doesn't share her tablet the same way even though there's still no pass code on it and she would rather spend her time alone than with me. She no longer insists on me coming over to your place and I'm not so desperate to come uninvited."

I notice Nashwa leaning more heavily against the shelf now so I walk out of the study and sit in one of the tall sofa seats in my happy place. I don't like her sitting in the one opposite me but I can't have her fainting in my father's study either.

Who do I even care?

"You know, at first I thought maybe you two had bonded over again. I decided it was best to stay away. I didn't want you holding my collar on the day of qiyamat and let's not even mention your Ahmad Mamu who notices everything before anyone else does."

She scoffs, rolling her eyes.

"He has repeatedly complained to my Haala Mami about how I was pushing you and Hanaan away and it was best to keep me at my own home." She's talking fast now, looking out the large window that looks down into our outdoor garden. "And that wasn't even when I unleashed the Anna Sofia secret." Her hot gaze is on me. "He's been complaining so ever since we were what, twelve years old?"

All my intolerance evaporates when Nashwa mentions Ahmad Mamu. It always does and I'm unable to meet her eye.

It's always like this, she pretends not to care and I have to persuade myself it's not my fault he's so deeply attached to me but the guilt in me towards Nashwa always lives in a dark corner in my heart.

Even when I do try to pull her along with me when Ahmad Mamu picks me up for a late night ice cream session, either he cancels or she makes an excuse. How am I supposed to bring them both together when neither is willing to? And how am I supposed to maintain my bonds with them without feeling blameworthy?

"Anyways." She flicks back a strand of her hair. "What result did you get?"

I look out the window when I say, "Ninety two percent."

"Shut up!"

I'm alarmed at her reaction. Since when did we start being so frank?

"You got a ninety two percent and you're sour faced like you failed. Fine, your big day was spoiled by this unexpected injury but ninety two percent?"

Nashwa fans her face with her hand, glaring hot daggers at me.

"Your Ahmad Mamu will throw you a grand party in his elite social circle and your Dadi will dispatch fudge brownie giveaways into all your relatives though I personally prefer gulab jamun for all occasions. Do tell her to send in a separate box of gulab jamun for me. With the brownies of course. But girl, what more could you want?!"

A small smile escapes my lips. It's not so bad to hear her talking like this but then again, how long till our spitfires show up again?

"I didn't get a top position though."

"Expectations always kill." She rolls her eyes. "Look at me. I knew I sucked at biology but did well in chemistry and physics, thank the Lord above. I ended with a good eighty one percent."

I look her up and down. She's happy with that?

But then again, Nashwa is a glass half full person in the department of grades.

"I was scared," she continues animatedly. "That I'd go below seventy and would have to shift to commerce instead but Allah helped me! And of course, you're still wearing that garbage bag dress to my wedding, whenever I find a man worthy of my standards that is."

"You'll have to score really good on the MCAT."

She snorts. "You think I'll go for MBBS after all that mental torture? No please! Aise buray din khuda kisi pay na daalay. I'm planning on doing biochemistry instead. I'll become a forensic and join an intelligence service and work in the crime unit. I'm good at crime scenes, don't you think?"

When she says it, I cross my black chadar across my chest. Does she know I have the memory card with me? Not wanting to provoke any further conversation that may ruin our moods, I stand up and she does so too.

We go downstairs where our housemaid, Baano, has laid out lunch for both of us. We eat in silence mostly, she eats twice as much as I do and I have to slowly chew to not make her notice I have eaten less, only twelve tablespoons of rice with daal on them. I tell her she should rest and she does on Hanaan's mattress. I spend the rest of the afternoon going through my MCAT textbooks, not really comprehending anything at all.

By four in the evening, Nashwa's Haala Mami comes over and I make chai for her while Nashwa freshens up from her nap. When they're gone, I don't waste a second to head out to the nearest tech store in our society and drop the tablet there for screen repair. I come home and lock my father's study, removing the key and keeping it back in his closet where everyone knows he keeps it.

By nine, trying to not think why no one's come home yet, I am about to put on my jogger pants and loose kurta and head out to the community park for my daily walk when the doorbell rings and Dadi enters the house.

Why is she alone?

"Dadi?"

"Hana!"

She pulls me into her arms and I stiffen within them. It's not every day my Dadi takes someone in an embrace. She and I both share our personal space issues. But this embrace, it is not comforting at all.

When we part, she takes my hand in hers and pulls me down onto a couch with her.

"Hanaan's not okay. They've operated on her as best as they could, shukar Allah ka. They've stitched up her forehead but she's still unconscious. Your mother will stay with her for the night and your father will join her too once he's done with his case preparation for tomorrow. You have to pray for her, Hana. She's your sister. Allah will not render your prayer."

Will Allah really not? Despite the fact that I have not been a very good sister these past two years?

My hand is numb in hers. I can't really feel her hand's heat on mine.

What if this is it? What if this is the end of our story? Of Hana and Hanaan?

Never ever before did Hanaan injure herself so bad before; always just a bruise, a sprain and once or twice a fracture after which she'd sleep for long under the heavy dose of painkillers but never has she gone unconscious like this before.

Is this how we end? On strings that were yet to be untangled. Apologies yet to be exchanged. Hugs and laughter so long overdue. And what if this messed her brain more? What if her cerebral palsy develops more? What if she completely becomes disabled or even worse?

My chest rises and falls rapidly. "Dadi...?"

She kisses my forehead. "Pray, Hana, pray."

Two years. Who the hell separates themselves from their sister, an extension of themselves for two fricking years? How could I let this happen? How could I ignore her, how could I be so selfish for my own happiness over hers and what sort of happiness was I even seeking trying to make myself perfect and acceptable in the eyes of others? Running after the perfect grades, the perfect body, the perfect social circle—

Give her back to me.

I'll forgive her. I'll forgive, Hanaan. I want no apology. I just want my sister back.

Please Allah.

A strangled cry escapes my mouth and Baano appears on cue with a jug of cold sherbet and two glasses. She pours each of us a glass and without thinking of its sugar content, I gulp it down. Dadi tells Baano to take a glass from it herself; the humidity has been wearing us all down. We sit for a little bit longer until Baano has laid down dinner and Dadi pulls me along with her. We eat very little but in silence and I am about to get up with our plates when Dadi pulls me down again.

"Has anyone properly congratulated you yet?"

I look up. "For what?"

She smiles with crinkled eyes. "For all your efforts of course."

Dadi gets up and opens the fridge and pulls out a plate with a huge cake on it. I hadn't noticed it before; she must have only brought it now. When she sets it down on the table, something in my chest rustles like the wings of a bird taking flight.

If I hadn't already cried over Hanaan today, I am most definitely crying now.

It isn't just any cake Dadi is putting before me; it's a huge marvellous cake. White buttercream frosting adorned with large soft pink and white flowers, golden glitter trailing between them and on the top tier, a white graduation cap with a golden tassel hanging from it.

Dadi exceeds all expectations, always, and as Baano comes over with a knife, I laugh because it too is tied with a pink and golden ribbon. I wipe away the tears from my eyes and try to smile for my Dadi's sake.

All this and with Hanaan not here. The smile slips.

I cut the cake while Dadi and Baano clap and hoot. Baano sings some Punjabi songs and I'm laughing and crying at the same time. We eat cake together, all three of us and then Dadi pulls out a box with a rose pink ribbon over it.

"Dadi!"

"That was just the cake, Hana. This is my little gift to you. Go ahead, open it."

I undo the bow and unlid the box. Inside is rose pink, gold and white confetti. I laugh again. Ever since Hanaan introduced Pinterest to Dadi, Dadi has been so aesthetic with all her crochet projects, all her embroideries, her gift packing and presentations. It's also where her love of rose pink, white and golden emerged from.

I gasp when I pull out the white cloth from inside. It's a lab coat and I know I'll skip many heartbeats when I turn it around and sure enough I do. On the back, in large letters, in soft pink hand done embroidery is my name: Hana.

There's something that hits differently with handmade, customised, personalised gifts. The effort, the time, the meaning to them is so invaluable, so priceless— there can never be a reciprocal. And with my name on it, it adds a touch more of intimacy that stirs something deep inside my chest.

That's not it. I pull out the second lab coat from the box and on its back is the same name again but in golden thread this time and Arabic font: هناء Soft colours, noticeable from close but not too bold to draw unwanted attention.

I don't know how to look up from the fabric in my hands, tears stream down my face, my hands quiver, my heart is overwhelmed with love. Baano mutters something in Punjabi all over again and hiccups before running away, wiping her own tears at which Dadi and I both laugh. She pulls me into her and I hold her tight. My beloved Dadi!

"You make us all proud, Hana." She holds my hands in hers. "And this gift isn't a heavy burden on you with the weight of expectations, I do not care if you study halfway through medical school and then drop out or do complete your studies but choose to remain at home and get married, or Allah blesses you endlessly and you manage both a career and a family together, your Dadi will always support you in every decision you take."

I wipe away my tears.

"All I want from you is to be kind, be soft. Be vulnerable if you must to not hurt someone else. Be soft in your words, in your actions, in your everyday life. Feel and heal the hurt of those around you."

I nod at her words furiously, looking only in my lap.

"Be strong and yet be soft anyhow when life hits you hard because all the good you do here may not be returned to you here only and whenever that is the case, consider yourself fortunate, Hana. Because Allah will return it to you many times fold in the akhirat. Let that be your motivation to always be compassionate even if your bruised and fragmented heart may not allow you to be."

Be good to Hanaan.

That is all I hear in her words. For once this interpretation does not fire me up with rage. It doesn't tell me to be more selfish, to live my life on my own terms rather than putting it all down for Hanaan. In my Dadi's words I hear her appreciation for all I do for Hanaan but I also hear her sadness for the walls I have built.

In her words I also hear the redemption I need to put that wall down.

And maybe, just maybe, I'll put this wall down for Nashwa too.

if you don't speak Urdu, I can guarantee you're confused. but let me clear things up. Nashwa lives with her Yamin Uncle and Haala Mami. Yamin Uncle is her mother's brother and Haala Mami is Yamin Uncle's wife. Ahmad Mamu is Hana's Mamu, not Nashwa's. the terms Mamu and Mami are explained in the terminology section on the 'Introduction' part. go back to it whenever you're confused. 

hope you enjoyed meeting Nashwa and Dadi. let me know your thoughts. 𝓂𝒶𝓃𝒶𝒽𝒾𝓁.

I wake up the next day, seven in the morning.

I slept in my own room last night. Dadi slept in her own. The house was empty and it was unsettling but we kept the distance even after the emotional memories we shared together because that's how me and my Dadi are. She values her personal space and somehow, that trait transferred to me.

I don't hug my parents. I don't put my arms casually around my friends either. I only do physical contact with Hanaan and that too just to help her brush her hair or sometimes help her with her spoon and food or putting on her clothes. Yet still, no matter how clumsy Hanaan likes her own two feet better than anyone else's.

When my Dada passed away, times became tough for Dadi. She became lonely and I found myself in the same mental state with my father involved in dangerous court cases and my mother more intensely involved in Hanaan's caretaking as she matured into adolescence. Dadi and I bonded silently in this time and were together alone in our loneliness.

So when I step out of my room, teeth brushed and hair in a rough bun, eyes still sleepy, it's no surprise to see Dadi stepping down the staircase too. Sure we slept in different rooms but there's no telling if we really slept at all.

I smile at her and we exchange our morning salaams.

"Oh thank God, you're awake."

I don't hold back my teasing smile. "What would you do without me?"

"Wake up Baano of course."

Baano, our housemaid, is a day night maid. She stays overnight at our place but goes home over the weekends. With Baano, there come a lot of tantrums too. She'll work how much and as much you like but she will not get up and start work before nine in the morning.

So at a time like this— seven —she isn't there to make us breakfast and with Dadi, here's the funny thing. Dadi does not cook. She simply does not know how to or even tries to. For Ismat Jehangir, cooking is just not her thing.

She follows me into the kitchen and pulls out a box from the freezer. "Strawberries today, I feel we might need their spiritual energy."

I take the frozen strawberries from her and slice them before putting them into the blender. I add milk, ice cubes and artificial sweetener before turning it on.

My Dadi, in her late sixties is physically healthy with no bone aches or calcium deficiencies because she and I treat ourselves the right ways, always have. She's a little on the chubby side and I credit her for my inherited weight as well, but she's been supportive, in fact the only one who agreed to work along with me two years ago when I built the wall and decided I needed to focus on myself more, my weight as well.

Mama tried being supportive too. She introduced beans and salads to me but it was difficult for her to keep up with me because of Hanaan's caretaking and homeschooling and Baba's hectic court routines and Ahmad Mamu's added occasional dirty law cases that landed him wrongly in jail some nights.

"Hana," Dadi whispered to me one day, two years back, as I sat with her in our spot in her indoor garden.

"Yes?"

"Do you think your Dadi is—" she wouldn't look me in the eye "—getting a little more um ...?"

"Older?" I asked, uncertain.

She looked offended. "Hana!"

"I was actually going to say you don't look older. You look more radiant in fact, and your cheeks are still so puffy—"

"So I am getting fat?"

"What, no!"

"Of course you think I am getting fat when you yourself are losing weight. It's not fair that you make those Russian salads for yourself without the mayonnaise and cream but yoghurt instead still making it taste the same."

"Dadi!" I sat up, smiling. "If you want to join in with me—"

"Shsh!" She looked over at the staircase and then back at me, whispering once more. "Just, don't let anyone know. Junaid will only make fun and your daredevil Mamu will suspect I am up to a second marriage."

I held back my smile and toyed with my book. "You can tell me if you are, you know, interested in someone. There's no shame in that. Is he older than you or do you fancy a younger lad?"

"Hana!"

Dadi's expressions were absolutely epic. Her tiny eyes expanded huge, mortification painted red all over her face as she clutched her heart, shocked at my words.

"If I dared marry again your Dada would haunt me as a ghost my entire life." She narrowed her eyes at me then. "Besides, it's my age to see my granddaughters getting married. I cannot wait to look around for young boys in my line of sight."

"Dadi, no please!"

"You know, I do know a young man studying to be a doctor as well. He's my second cousin's grandson, very handsome and down to earth too but I heard he has a few food allergies so his mother's looking for a cook and you do love to bake—"

"Dadi—"

"His name's Zayaan I heard and I think I should put in a word in case his mother wants to marry him early like I married your father early. Young love blooms the best..."

And she went on that day about this Zayaan so I wouldn't mention her new food lifestyle (I don't call it a diet) even to her again. I never did get to know or meet this Zayaan though, thank God. But Dadi kept mentioning him for all times to come.

When the contents of the blender look smooth enough, I pull out two large glasses and pour the thick milkshake in each. We sit together while we drink it and once we're done, I put the blender and the glasses on the sink so Baano can wash them later.

"I'm going to exercise for a while. I don't think I'll be able to hit the gym today with everything going on. I'll make breakfast afterwards?"

Dadi nods. "I'll tend my gardens till then. Fetch me if you need help."

"I don't plan on burning down the kitchen, sorry."

She shoots me a nasty look before heading out and I let myself laugh until it just echoes back off the walls right at me. Couldn't I do this with Hanaan? Did I have to keep my distance and be just fine with obligatory short talks?

I catch the photographs on our fridge: little Hanaan and me in our tutu frocks with arms around each other's shoulders, showing off our teeth, many of Hanaan's missing and we're just so happy. So free. Of life and the burdens of time. But can I really blame my wrongdoings on time?

To suppress these regrets, I make sure my music blares loudly in my Bluetooth earphones as I exercise in my room for the next one hour, cardio nonstop. I'm used to wrecking my body at the gym so at home I have to work harder. I jump the rope, do jumping jacks, crunches and lunges, push ups and tricep dips and all the other exercises the app on my phone tells me until I'm sweating and red and hearing my heartbeat in my head.

Before showering, I put three eggs to boil on the stove and then wash up. I return twenty minutes later when I'm sure the eggs are completely boiled on the inside. I mash them, add salt and pepper and a teaspoon of butter and mayonnaise for some moisture. The toaster rings and I pull out the bran bread and layer the egg over each slice. We already had our dairy and fruit so I just put one cup of tea for Dadi on the stove. I don't drink chai and coffee doesn't suit me well in hot weather.

Dadi is already in the doorway when I think of inviting her. "I could smell the love."

I smile. It's easier to do so today. Maybe because I'm not rushing off and away from the rest of my family. Hanaan's not here and I don't have to worry about making her jealous with my mediocre MasterChef skills. Maybe also because I promised myself yesterday I would think of letting down the wall for Nashwa.

Just thinking of it makes me feel light. Hopefully Nashwa won't make me hold onto her feet and then apologize to her.

By ten we're both ready to visit the hospital and when we reach there my mother's stricken face welcomes us. She mutters a prayer of gratitude before taking me in her arms and I see my Ahmad Mamu pacing close by again. Baba's probably at court.

It's funny how Baba has no time and Mamu has too much to spare when they're both lawyers. Perhaps it's because my father works on behalf of the government in their cases and Mamu's more of a private lawyer type with a different category of cases he pursues.

They don't discuss much in front of us and frankly, I have never shown much interest in their cases myself. Hanaan was my prime concern along with my studies until I added top grades and zero size figure to the list that I hardly ever got time to look at myself in the mirror on weekdays.

"Amma ..."

Dadi doesn't embrace my mother. Personal space. She does hold her hand, her face painted with compassion.

My Nana and Nani died early when my mother was nineteen and Ahmad Mamu was seventeen. My Dadi heard of my mother through a relative. She was studying nutrition up until she had to give up on her studies because the relatives couldn't support the expenses. My Dadi, quickly getting an investigation done, married my father to her.

She says if she hadn't found a suitable suitor for my father who was heading abroad to study law, she would not have sent him foreign at all without a woman to keep him human. Not that my father was a troublesome lad, just that he was very irresponsible when it came to eating, bathing and sleeping on time. My mother cared for him. My father washed away her sorrows in return.

Mama continued studying culinary arts and nutrition too. This was an added bonus for my Dadi because she couldn't cook and absolutely adored the foreign dishes my mother could make.

Mama turns to me. "They need more blood. I would call Nashwa but—"

Ahmad Mamu steps towards us, his tone stern. "Hana is here. Why involve Nashwa unnecessarily?"

"It would be the same sample as yesterday—"

"They need O negative blood. No other criteria involved, Humaira."

Mama shoots him a look of exasperation but he's taller than her and more dominant especially in the suit he wears all the time. Black tuxedo with blood red ties.

It's another joke about me. I know how O negative blood can only accept from O negative and of course, all three of us, Hanaan, Nashwa and I had to have the same blood group, the rarest. If only the three of us together had the same bond too.

"Hana, you had a proper breakfast?" Ahmad Mamu asks me.

I nod.

"And did you sleep well?"

I nod unhearing. Didn't Dadi say the doctors had stopped the internal bleeding last night? What is this now?

He reaches for my shoulder and looks me in the eye. "If you are scared or worried or stressed, you don't have to do this. I know how you get lightheaded after a simple blood test but this is a large amount of blood. Are you up for it?"

All that comes to my tongue is, "Did you ask Nashwa all this too yesterday?"

A flame erupts in his eyes and I'm ready for him to push me away. Instead, his hold only firms upon my shoulders.

"This is your sister. I know you're disturbed up here." He taps my head and all I can think is do I deserve this if he can't do the same for Nashwa?

I pull away from his grasp and ask him where I'm supposed to go. He backs away and looks at me with disappointment. What did I do now? Fail at understanding his feelings? What feelings though? I love our bond but I detest it every time Nashwa comes to mind and she always does. Why can't he be the same for Nashwa?

Oh, Hana. I was supposed to put down my wall for Nashwa but will I be putting one up against my Ahmad Mamu in doing so? I realise I'm already lightheaded.

He escorts me to a room and a nurse helps me onto the bed. We fill a form and she takes a small sample for lab testing before beginning the real process. She tightly wraps a band around my arm and I stop her before she can stick the needle in me. I ask my Mamu to hand me my textbook from my tote bag which I brought along.

"MCAT?" He reads from the cover. "Can you ever not study, nerd?"

"I need the distraction."

He laughs along with the nurse. "And how do you expect to become a surgeon if you're scared of blood?"

"I'm nauseated by my blood." I flip open the textbook and give a nod to the nurse. "Who said I'm scared of spilling someone else's blood?"

Ahmad Mamu shakes his head, stuffing his hands through his pockets. He takes a seat by my bed and usually he pulls out his phone and is busy over it but for now he doesn't. He must already see the questions in my eyes.

Is Hanaan okay? Did she hurt herself bad? Will she recover perfectly? A brain surgery? That has its risks does it not? Will this intensify her CP?

I feel the prick of the needle and look more expectantly at Ahmad Mamu.

"She's a fighter, Hana. She'll make it through stronger than before."

Is that how bad it is?

"The surgeon said it's not that part of her brain she hurt. There shouldn't be any development with CP, it remains as it is mostly but yes, the injury could have effects of its own." He loosens his tie and laughs. How can he always be so chill? "That's what I understood from their bio-talk, never made sense to me."

He sits back and looks at me. "How are you doing though?"

I shrug. What if Hanaan loses all her memories? I don't think I'd ever forgive myself for the wall then.

"Hana."

"Yes."

"You're worrying me now. You've been this strong girl all through college and now all the way here. Don't let your armour fall."

"Is that what you call your own walls?"

He doesn't need the reference. "Why is she always the subject of our conversation these days?"

"Nashwa?"

My eyes accidentally fall on my right arm where black-red liquid courses through a narrow tube and I don't mind watching it collecting in the bag. My vision blurs for a while, all the objects morphing into a mess of colour before coming back into high definition. It happens again a few more times and I look away.

Not that easy to conquer this one fear.

I see Ahmad Mamu looking at me. He won't talk by himself and he won't say that which he does not want to. He'll evade the question till I'm frustrated and mad at him and full of resentment for myself but will he understand the pain he's putting me through because of the pain he's putting Nashwa through?

Ya Allah, Hana!

Why can't I just turn off this part of my brain?

This is exactly the reason why I built that wall two years back, when Nashwa got tired of my 'over thinking' and 'over caring' which she simply labelled as sensitive as did so many other people. The thing is, because I care so much, I also love so much. And if I stop thinking so much, this distance is what shall happen. I know I'm about to hear it from my Mamu anytime now but Dadi told me last night that I'd rather be vulnerable than hurt someone.

"Why can't you be with Nashwa like you are with me?"

He speaks slowly and calmly as he always does. "Because you are Hana, and she is Nashwa."

"Shouldn't that make you closer to her than me?"

"It is my decision, Hana. You need not question it or press on it."

"It's not okay when you and I play badminton at the club for hours or go jogging together when you don't spend even a second with her. It makes me guilty! It makes me feel as though I'm coming in between you two. It makes me think she has all the right to hate me and hurt me. Don't you disapprove of her coming between me and Hanaan?" He doesn't even look away at that. "Isn't this the same?"

A mocking smile traces his lips. "You can't be this generous with compassion and empathy, Hana. The world doesn't let such soft people thrive long into old age."

"Well I think we'd all rather die young than live without love. I can see how Zarminah Mami's death has made you an emotionless zombie."

The same flame from before blazes in his eyes but he doesn't shift, or sag, or let his body show any sort of reaction. Is this what law does to you?

Baba isn't like that, or is he? How long till I last saw him and Mama play around? Teasing one another over a film star one of them had a crush on? How long ago did I see them sitting side by side and just talking?

Where does life take us all? Is this what will happen once I get into medical university? I'll have no time for Hanaan even if I want to spend time with her? Did I just waste away the only time of my life that I did have? Spending it with friends I didn't much relate to and focusing on myself with no balance at all?

"Hana, you're pale."

"And you've been very dead these days."

He smiles at my annoyance. "I have been busy, yes. Couldn't take you out for our usual cold coffee night drives. There's this idiot boy at my office whose brother I'm mentoring. Keeps messing things up around me."

It's my time to smile. As much as I enjoy my Mamu's company and the friendship we have, it's funny to hear someone can rile him like that.

He shoots me a dirty look. "Don't be so amused, Hana. The idiot kept spamming my printer with his ugly selfies so now the printer is both out of ink and jammed to the point even the tech centre doesn't know how to fix it."

My smile widens even more as he ruffles his hair in exasperation. Again, his eyes narrow at my entertainment before he crosses his arms and sits back in his seat.

"He borrowed my favourite Parker pen and returned it all chewed and slick with saliva."

All my laughter vanishes. "What?! I gifted you that pen."

Mamu nods. "Precisely why you shouldn't be thinking so fondly of him."

What an idiot, indeed!

My vision begins tilting again and I inhale and exhale deeply. Mamu calls for a nurse and I shut my eyes, tilting my head back. Blood always has this effect on me.

I feel someone's hand on my shoulder. Mama. Someone puts a straw to my lips and I drink cold apple juice. Ahmad Mamu tells the nurse to pull out the needle but I refuse. I tell the nurse I am perfectly fine, shouldn't have looked at the blood bag. She stays for a while. Dadi, Mama and Mamu are there too.

We don't talk, just silently pray and in the next fifteen minutes, it's done. Dadi offers a sandwich, I eat it. I sit still for a while letting my energy recover. Ahmad Mamu is out of the room, talking on his phone, one hand still stuffed inside his pocket.

Guilt washes over me. I shouldn't have used Zarminah Mami against him. He did have a very soft spot for her.

Mama sits by me. "Do you want to stay till the surgery's done?"

"I think I'll rest."

Ahmad Mamu appears in the doorway. "I'll drop you home."

I get up and rearrange my black chadar around me. "I think I'll go over to Nashwa's for some time."

His offer to drop me expires of course. "Is your driver outside?"

I nod and pick up my tote bag, pushing my book back in it. Dadi offers to come along but I tell her I'll be fine. She unwraps a chocolate bar and breaks it into half, giving it to me. Seventy percent dark chocolate. We both started as part of our diet treat and as much as we cringed on its bitterness on the first day, we're addicted now.

"Call me once you reach there, okay?" Mama looks tired, deep eye bags underneath her eyes.

"I'll be fine," I tell her. "Eat something please and rest for a while. Dadi's here now."

She smiles tiredly and I know she won't rest. I try not to feel offended about the fact that she hasn't mentioned my result yet, I am also her daughter, aren't I? But I can't do this now, this selfishness. Hanaan's in a really bad place, Mama has always blamed herself for her CP because it's caused by complications during pregnancy or birth. I wonder how she carries that burden on herself when it's really not her fault.

I leave the hospital and pick up the tablet from the tech store. I am about to tell my driver to head over to Nashwa's apartment when my phone rings: Neha Calling.

"Hey listen. We're planning a little surprise for Faria. Today at four, my place. Come over by two and we'll all decorate together, okay?"

"For Faria?" My heart is thudding.

"Yeah, you didn't hear?" Neha asks. "She got the second position on the board!"

Oh. Is this what Ainee texted me before sending me my result? She should have called. My heart squeezes so very painfully and I urge myself not to break down on the call.

"Hello, Hana! You there?"

I have to clear away all the objections in my throat to Allah to be able to answer. "Yes, well, Neha. I don't think I'll be able to make it today."

"Really? Why?"

"Because of my sister. You remember how I hurried out yesterday? She's still at the hospital and it's kind of serious."

"Oh."

Thorns rip my tongue as I force out the words, "You guys go ahead. Don't put down Faria's big day. Give her my congratulations and don't forget to send me all the pictures on Whatsapp."

So I can further burn my heart to charcoal over all the troubles in my god forsaken life.

"Sure, why not? Really, Hana, if you can make it though, do try. It won't be any special for Faria with not the whole group there—"

"I really wish I could, Neha. But I'm still at the hospital. I'll call you later?" I lie.

She says okay and I hang up before my heart completely shatters into the tiniest fragments that travel all across my veins and pinch me on every square inch of my skin. But I hold myself together for the rest of the journey back home because who else will hold me if not myself?

What in the world is suddenly so wrong with my destiny?

beware of the next chapter, the real story starts from there. now that we've got the back stories and the mood and the setting all set, i'm ready to blow your mind with the actual plot. are you ready though? 𝓂𝒶𝓃𝒶𝒽𝒾𝓁.