Naina Chohan was a beautiful girl, but not the kind of beauty you'd notice immediately in a crowded room. Hers was an understated allure, the kind you might spot after the party had died down or on a clearer day, when her face wasn't worn down by the lines of stress and strain from too many sleepless nights.

Tonight was no exception. She had pulled her thick black hair into a high bun, and large earrings framed her round face, accentuating her dark, defined eyebrows and full lips. Her sequined gold dress, shimmering with every subtle movement, peeked out from beneath an oversized black puffer coat. She trudged through the snow in clunky winter boots, her large tote bag hung around one arm and her strappy gold sandals from the other—a faint, sparkling reminder of the polished bartender she'd been just hours earlier.

She yawned, watching her breath swirl into mist before dissipating into the freezing air.

The bitter New York wind cut through her as she made her way back to her small apartment in Brooklyn. Her body was already shaking—not from the cold, but from exhaustion, dehydration, and hunger. She had worked a double shift at Amber Room, a luxurious bar in SoHo that catered to Manhattan's elite. The kind of place where money flowed as freely as the expensive liquor, and the patrons reveled in their opulence.

Tonight had been a good night. The tips were generous, but they came at a cost—hours spent balancing on high heels, mixing overpriced drinks, and pretending to be unphased by the strange things the wealthy of Manhattan said and did at late hours of the night.

The bell on the 24-hour convenience store door rang loudly as Naina walked in, patting herself into warmth. It was just past six in the morning. She glanced at her overpriced Apple Watch, something she only wore to fit in with her coworkers.

She needed coffee, a granola bar—any granola bar—and an Advil. But Yousef was nowhere to be seen. She walked up to the counter and leaned over slightly.

There he was, on the floor, finishing his morning prayers. He sat on his bent legs, his movements deliberate and serene, turning his head to either side as he whispered softly in Arabic. She wished she could understand him.

"Naina," Yousef stood up smiling, putting on his shoes and folding the prayer mat. "You're just getting in from work?" he asked, concerned.

Yousef Saqib had a sharp yet approachable face, his kind brown eyes often crinkling at the corners when he smiled. Naina assumed he was in his late twenties, but she wasn't sure. His neatly trimmed hair framed his strong jawline, and a well-groomed beard added a touch of maturity to his otherwise youthful appearance.

At nearly six feet tall, he carried himself with an effortless grace that only added to his easy charm—the kind that could make anyone feel at ease in his presence. Some might even consider him striking, but Naina quickly shook away the thought before it lingered too long. After all, it was Yousef. He was like a girl friend or sibling to her, not that she had either.

She had lived in the apartment above his family's convenience store, one of many across Brooklyn, for the past three years. She rented the space from his family, and despite the rising costs of everything in the city, they'd never raised her rent. She didn't question it.

Today, Yousef wore a small white cap atop his head, something Naina hadn't noticed before.

"What's that hat thing you're wearing?" Naina asked, pointing at it with all the subtlety of a wrecking ball. Bashfulness wasn't part of their dynamic.

Yousef looked up from the counter, his lips curving into a faint smile. "It's called a kufi," he replied, adjusting it slightly. "I wear it for prayer sometimes."

"Oh," she said, momentarily taken aback by the simplicity of his answer.

He raised an eyebrow, and asked again "You're just getting in from work?"

"Yeah," she shrugged, grabbing a small box of Advil and a strawberry granola bar from the shelf. She made her way to the self-serve coffee station, pouring herself a cup.

Yousef watched her with a faint frown, his concern evident. "Naina," he began carefully, "there are so many other things you could do for work—"

"It's too late—or too early—for a lecture, Yousef," she cut him off, as she pushed the items toward the register. "Just ring me up, please."

He hesitated, clearly wanting to say more but choosing not to press the issue. Instead, he sighed, scanning her items with quiet efficiency. "That'll be $11.34," he said, quietly.

She slid her credit card across the counter and took it back without a word. Grabbing the plastic bag, Naina cast a sharp glance his way before heading toward the door.

"Actually, Yousef, you're wrong," Naina said at the door, turning back to him. "There isn't much else I can do in this city. I didn't go to college, I barely finished high school, and I don't have any real skills. I'm not interested in cleaning toilets or working at a convenience store." She exclaimed, throwing her hands in the air.

Realizing she may have offended him, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

Yousef pursed his lips, looking down, but he said nothing.

"I do what I need to, to survive this hell city," she murmured under her breathe before pushing the door open.

"You forgot your coffee," he said, gently, from behind her.

She sighed, turning back to grab it.

"Feel better now?" he asked, his serious facade breaking.

They both broke into laughter. This was their thing—digging at each other, always toeing the line.

"You and your never-ending bakwas lectures," Naina said, rolling her eyes. He had once explained that the word meant nonsense—or, in some cases, straight-up bullshit.

"Naina, it's the anniversary of—"

"Yeah," she cut him off.

He remembered. Of course, he remembered. He was probably her only real friend in this city.

"It's been a year today." Naina's mother had died exactly a year ago, one week before her twenty-fourth birthday.

"You need company today? Safa and I can take you to the cemetery?"

Safa was his twelve-year-old sister, the one who often filled in for those activities that required female companionship. Safa, with her bright energy and unfiltered honesty, was like a younger sister to her too.

Naina smiled faintly at the thought but shook her head. "No, thank you. I think I want to be alone."

Yousef nodded, his concern evident. "Alright, but if you change your mind, just let us know."

She didn't answer.

"Oh, and my mom sent this," Yousef said, pulling out a plastic bag from behind the counter. It was tied at the top, the bulge of tupperware containers visible through the thin plastic. He set it on the counter, and instantly, the warm, aromatic blend of spices and rice filled the air.

"Oh my god," Naina exclaimed, leaning closer. "That smells heavenly."

"Much better than that granola bar," he agreed with a smirk.

The Saqibs were truly the family Naina never had, and she was deeply grateful for them. They had given her a sense of warmth she rarely felt elsewhere. Though she had only met Yousef's father once briefly. Yousef did not speak much of him.

"You already have breakfast?" she asked mischievously, opening the bag.

"Not yet," he admitted.

"Want some?"

He smiled. "Sure."

They opened a few of the containers, grabbing some plastic forks from behind the counter. Leaning against the counter, they began eating straight from the tupperware, the aroma of spices enveloping the small store.

"This chicken biryani would kill in a food truck," Naina said through a mouthful of food.

Yousef chuckled. "You're not the first person to suggest that, but my mom's too busy feeding everyone she knows to bother with strangers."

"And these lentils, are you kidding me? They're so good," Naina said, savoring another bite.

Yousef grew more serious. "Your mom—her name was Paula, right?"

"Yeah," she said, the sinking feeling in her chest growing. "Paula McHenry, originally from Brooklyn," she added with a polite smile, the way her mom used to introduce herself to anyone not from the city.

"And your dad was Kabir Chohan?" he asked gently.

She blinked, momentarily caught off guard. She had told him that last year at the funeral. She was surprised he remembered.

"Yeah," she replied, taking another bite and avoiding eye contact.

"Was he Indian, Pakistani, or Bangladeshi?" Yousef asked, his tone measured.

"No idea," she said, taking a sip of coffee.

"His name sounds Muslim, but I suppose it could also be Hindu or Sikh," he said thoughtfully.

She shrugged, still focused on her food. "I guess it could be anything. I never really thought about it much."

"Don't you want to know?"

Naina set the plastic fork down, staring at him. "You can ask me what kind of brown I am a hundred different ways, Yousef, but my answer will stay the same—I don't know. I just know my father's name. My mother never told me where he was from, what he looked like, or what religion he practiced."

Yousef nodded, his expression pensive as he took another bite of food.

"I'm just a mixed brown girl from Brooklyn, okay?"

She could see him grappling with her words, struggling to reconcile her reality with his own. He had grown up surrounded by his Pakistani family, with aunts, uncles, and cousins who all knew they came from a small town outside of Lahore. That certainty, that rootedness, had always been a part of him, and she could tell he had trouble imagining life without it.

Naina shrugged, grabbing another bite and forcing a lighter tone. "Anyway, tell your mom this biryani is basically magic."

With that, she wiped her mouth with a napkin, gave Yousef a quick nod, and rushed out the door.

"Take care of yourself, Naina," she heard him say behind her.

The cold air hit her as she stepped outside, but she didn't linger, heading straight to her apartment to sleep the rest of the morning away.