After a few minutes of doodling, Bayan and Nouray reached the quiet, unspoken agreement that they should probably stop playing around and start to take the lecture seriously. Bayan turned to her notes, writing in her neat, restrained hand, while Nouray filled the margins of her notebook with little sketches and half-listened expressions of the doctor. Somehow, that became their rhythm. One lecture ended, then another. By the time the day finally drew to a close, Bayan felt emptied out by the effort of staying focused.
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Time had passed too quickly and too slowly all at once. At first, she had tried to forget what was waiting for her by burying herself in Nouray's jokes, the lecture hall's noise, even the boys wandering in late with their stupid confidence. For a little while, it had almost worked. She had even felt free, light in a way that startled her. But now, with the day thinning into evening and the noise finally dying down, the feeling had gone with it. In its place was the tight, familiar weight in her chest.
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Walking toward the gate beside Nouray, Bayan kept her pace steady even as dread gathered in her stomach. Home was waiting. So was Uncle. She had a sudden, unreasonable urge to hold onto Nouray's arm and ask her not to leave yet, but she swallowed it down and kept walking. Step by step. Smile when she was supposed to smile. Nod when she was supposed to nod. Laugh when it was expected.
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It struck her, bitterly, that she had spent the whole day criticizing other people for performing, for playing roles and pretending to be things they were not, when she was doing the exact same thing. She could feel the pressure of it building behind her ribs.
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Bismillah. Breathe. Rabena maaya.
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*Rabena maaya - may god be with me
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The ride home was quiet. For once, her mind seemed to go still, as if it had finally exhausted itself. Bayan rested her head against the car window and stared out without really seeing anything. Buildings passed in pale flashes, ornate balconies and old stone facades sliding by in a blur. She felt distant from her own body, as if she were underwater, moving through the world while something heavy pressed in from all sides.
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She was so tired.
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By the time she got home, she was moving on instinct. Door open. Room. Niqab tucked away. She stood in the center of her room for a moment, not quite sure what to do with herself, until the sound of the front door unlocking downstairs snapped her back into motion. She reached for her books at once and sat at her desk, opening them with the mechanical haste of someone trying very hard to look occupied.
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She didn't even mean to lie, it was just muscle memory.When you live in a house full of deception, it's hard to break out of the mold.
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Then came the familiar sound of footsteps. Heavy. Certain. She flinches out of her skin, glancing at him. His face doesn't look real. Oh. He's feeling angry today. She thinks, dazed.
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She feels herself getting dragged out of the chair. Something about getting dressed in Proper clothes.
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...
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"Yes, uncle Hassan," she felt her mouth move, and it was in that moment where her brain finally decided to check back in. There was a Chinese porcelain set, with tea poured in 4 cups. She counted. One for uncle, one for father, one for her, and... who else? She peered up. Her cousin, Hamed. He looked nervous, his cheeks red. Why were they red. Oh yeah she needs to look away.
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She tried to steady herself and take in the scene without seeming too lost. She was wearing a long grey open abaya over wide-leg pants. Not something she would have chosen, but her scattered brain deserved at least a small point for not choosing her jeans. Uncle Hassan was speaking to her father about business and how things were becoming difficult. Bayan lowered her eyes and listened in silence, already guessing where the conversation might be headed. Her father always hated it when Uncle spoke like that. It always sounded, to him, like someone reaching into his pocket.
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Then her thoughts flicked back to Hamed. He was wearing a button-up shirt, which made her uneasy in a way she couldn't quite explain and absolutely did not want to think about too hard. She was too aware of him sitting there, too aware of the room, too aware of herself. Her fingers tightened around the edge of the seat.
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Suddenly she felt very self-conscious. She doesn't Hamed to look at her. She wished, painfully so, that she had her niqab on. She did not want to be seen. She wanted to be heard.
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..
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The front door closed behind them a little later, cutting off her father's fake laugh. In the silence that followed, Bayan could almost picture the expression on his face: the tiredness, the strain, the hollow look he wore sometimes when he thought no one was watching. A part of her felt sorry for him in the way one might feel sorry for someone trapped in a room with no windows. Sometimes she wondered if he had built his own prison and was now too proud (or too afraid) to admit there was a door.
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But, from experience, she knows that no one is forced to do anything; it was their fear that made it feel that way.
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Her father's voice pulled her back. "I'm sure you understand by now why he came."
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No, she did not understand. She never did. But she had learned, over time, that saying so changed nothing.
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"Yes, Father."
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She understands one thing. They're both cowards.
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For the first time since ages, he looked her in the eye, then glances away, "Don't worry, I will see to it. And if I agree, then it will be executed."
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Bayan's pretty sure her father's the only one who uses the word 'executed' when he talks about his daughter's marriage.50Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡSBiqmSOfNA
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