Happy belated birthday, Laila! Thank you for your help with Battered, With Love and writing my fairytale. I hope your year is wonderful, along with the rest of your life :) Ameen!

"Everyone is like a kaleidoscope. Look at them one way--they look normal, like they're having a grand old time. Look at them from another and you'll see something else--someone who's suffering, trying to get through life." -- Ash

            As the tomato soup simmers, I lean back against the counter opposite of the stove and stare at the steel pot and the red velvety surface of the soup. Problems are like simmering soup on the stove, aren’t they? It’s like you can fool yourself, pretend like it’s not there and forget about it for a while but then it boils and you’re forced to confront it again.

            Story of my life. I walk over to the window by the dinner table and push back the blinds to trace my pointer finger in the shape of a heart on the cold sheet of glass. No problem of mine is fully resolved. Not The Creep, not Hamza, not where I want to go to college, not Juwariyah, not my fake “friends.” God, I’m in over my head, I think as a rest my forehead against the icy sanctuary.

            The soup boils, a pocket of liquid bursting the bubble, splattering some drops of soup on the floor. I cautiously turn the stove off and move the soup to a cool spot, immediately wiping up the floor after. The house is silent as I pour the soup into a bowl and take it upstairs to Harun’s room. My phone rings in my pocket, but I ignore it.

            When I open Harun’s door, I see he’s lying on his bed, with his laptop. He looks up when he sees my bright blue sweatpants, the flash of color catching his peripheral vision. “Thank you,” he signs as I set down the tray. His eyes are watery, the side effect of being sick, his nose is red, and he’s breathing through his mouth. Not a pretty picture on anyone, but he looks a lot better than I do when I’m ill.

            “Take a seat,” he offers and I sit down on his desk chair, watching him as he eats. He shut the lid of his laptop really quickly when I walked in, which makes me wonder if something’s up. Dad mentioned last night that he felt that Harun was acting different and distant, but I haven’t seen anything that made me question his behavior before…until now.

            I shake off the feeling for now. “I told the teachers you’d probably be back next week.” It’s Tuesday night, and I don’t see Harun getting well enough to go back to the school this week.

            He nods. “Do you have my assignments?”

            “I’ll give them to you in a minute. You’re lucky you got sick during a light week or you would have been in trouble.” He sighs and pushes the food away, lying down with his hands tucked behind his head. As we’re silent, I glance around his room. It’s painted a sleek glossy black on one wall with three white walls. In grey paint on the black wall, hundreds of numbers and stocks cover the wall, courtesy of Juwariyah and Jamal’s artistic abilities. It was a birthday present, this whole room makeover thing. The accessories in his room—his bedspread, the frames, the lamp—are all red. His room is pretty awesome, made to represent his dream, which is to work on Wall Street, in something to do with finance.

            I’m observing a picture of Juwariyah, Jamal, and Harun framed in cherry red painted wood. It was taken outside our house, and the sky is a crisp blue, the bright green of the palm trees competing with it with their intensity of color. The scenery crowns all three glowing faces. In the picture Harun is in mid-jump and giving Juwariyah a noggie; her thick black hair is splayed as she tries to get away. Jamal has his arm around Harun, and they’re all grinning. The picture has a cardstock border around it. At the bottom of the heavy, expensive-looking paper is Juwariyah and Jamal’s handwriting intermingled. The message is simple yet touching: ‘What you lack in hearing you make up for in heart. Allah will help you go far in life. Never give up on your dreams—Juwariyah and Jamal.’ Harun never voiced this, but I could see it in his eyes that he needed someone to tell him that because even he is human and knows what people say about him, knows that people doubt he will ever amount to anything in life.

            It’s one of the struggles of being deaf—the ignorance. Whether we want to admit it or not, whether we want to act like it or not, the support of the people around us is what helps make us or break us. And Harun is one of those people who will always have speculation following him like the paparazzi.

            I’m lost in these thoughts until I see Harun wave his hands close to my face. “You zoned out on me,” he explains.

            “Sorry,” my hands move quickly and my face rapidly shifts as I convey every facial expression to match my words, “I got lost in thought for a minute. I’ll go get you your homework.”

            “Eiliyah,” Harun signs just as I get up. I wait for him to continue, but his expression is troubled and his dark brown eyes cool and simmer as he scrutinizes my face. I brush my hair back consciously. His hands have stopped in midair, like a YouTube video that’s loading. They seem to resume motion, yet something, some thought, stops him every time until finally, he speaks. “You don’t want to go to the same college, do you?” His eyes captivate and hold mine as he waits for me to respond.

            “I want to go wherever it’s best for you.” I respond carefully yet honestly after a few seconds.

            Something in my answer makes his eyes flash and his hands once again sign rapidly to convey the thoughts streaming through his head. “Best for me? Eiliyah, you’re not my babysitter. You should do whatever you want to do because it’s your life.”

            “But I wouldn’t be happy if it was at your expense.” I argue back.

            He lets out a grunt of exasperation and continues to sign rapidly. “I would be happy if you’re happy. Deaf people have won Miss America, deaf people have gotten Academy Awards, and done about every job there is out there and you’re worrying about me living alone? Eiliyah, be real with me. You know we can do this alone. We’re being forced to do it together.”

            “Mom and Dad wouldn’t like it.”

            “But Mom and Dad aren’t always right. They know more than us, but they’re only human.” His words prove that the truth can be silent, yet still spoken.

            The next day, Wednesday, leaves me with some butterflies as the day goes on. Christian finds me in the hallway when I’m walking with Drew. “You’re going over to Hamza’s house today, right?”

            I immediately feel Drew look at me questioningly. He knows Hamza and I aren’t exactly chill. “Yeah, to tutor Hidayah in chemistry. At four.” I include the detail in an effort to explain to Drew without really explaining it. Considering Christian planted the idea in Hidayah’s head, it’s almost redundant to repeat the part about her but I want to see his reaction, because the girl sure as hell is hiding something. Of all the people she could have asked to tutor her in chemistry—heck, she could have asked Christian—she chose me, someone she hasn’t talked to in years.

            Christian nods passively, but I see how his hand pauses as he toys with the strap of his backpack. “I was originally going to go there with Hamza right after school but if you’re going at four, can I get a ride?”

            I nod. “Yeah, no problem. Just come by my house at like 3:45ish.” He smiles, nods, and walks away.

            “Tutoring his little sister? Sounds suspicious.” Drew remarks with raised eyebrows.

            I roll my eyes and push his backpack playfully. “It is, but I’ll figure it out. Come on, Casanova, those girls are staring at you. Go make their life and breathe in the same vicinity as they do.” He rolls his eyes back but pops his aviators and struts away with one hand in the pocket of his khakis. While he loves dating, I abstain from it. We’re two opposites, at two different polarities with our views, but something about the difference draws us closer together.

            “Eiliyah!” Rhys’s familiar voice is like a warm blanket on a winter day. You can trudge on without it, but having it there just makes everything a little better. His cheeks are flush as he catches up to me. His chocolate brown hair is tousled due to his running and the random fall wind blowing everywhere.

            “Hey, Rhys. Were you calling my name for long?”

            “Sorta. What’s up?”

            I hike my backpack further up on my shoulder and move to the side so that we’re not smack dab in the middle of the hallway, annoying and blocking and pissing off people trying to get by.

            “How’s Harun doing?” He asks first.

            I smile at the thought of my brother. “He’s good, thank God. He should be back on Monday. He lucked out because it’s a light week or else he would have been overwhelmed with the work.”
            “Seriously, I was thinking the same thing sitting in English when Mrs. Winthrop said we had no work until next week. Just reading Their Eyes Were Watching God.” His comment reminds me to bring that with me to Hidayah’s house in case I get a few minutes to read. With college applications underway, every minute counts. For a split second I think about canceling on her, but I don’t have the heart to. A commitment is a commitment.

            “Yeah, I have to catch up.” I finally say. He nods and I nod and soon a casual nod has turned into an awkward nod and the awkward nod is dangerously close to turning into a so-how’s-the-weather n—

            “Can you give this to Harun?” Rhys says quickly, thrusting a manila folder at me. Some of the papers slide out, revealing a red seal or stamp of some sort. My brother’s best friend quickly rearranges the papers in the folder and holds it out until I take it.

            “Will he know what it is?” I ask curiously. What possibly could Rhys be giving him? I’ve been in charge of getting his homework to him.

            “He’ll know.” Rhys replies. “I gotta go. Take care, Eiliyah.” I bid him goodbye and then walk to my car, lost in my thoughts as I set my backpack in the floor space by the passenger seat and the folder carefully on top of the seat. I check my phone before I back out of my parking space. A message thread with a bunch of texts from the Creep since I got the rose remain unanswered by me. They’re all the same. “Did you get my rose? Will you give me a chance?” They all make my stomach turn because this isn’t just someone playing a prank on me. It’s more than that, and the rose proved it. I lock my phone and toss it aside without a second glance and begin driving.

            When I get home, I head upstairs to drop the folder off. Harun looks at me in surprise as I set it down on the bed. “Rhys wanted me to give it to you.” I explain.

            Harun nods in understanding and then asks, “Did you ask him what it was?”

            “No, I just asked him if you would know what it was.”

            “So predictable. Of course you wouldn’t ask. Thanks for not being nosy, though.” Harun flashes me one last grateful smile as I smile back and walk out to relax, undress, and get my things together to go to Hidayah’s.

            After I eat and bring some food up to Harun, I head to my room across the hall from his and stare at my closet. It’s been a long day and I’m about to go to my friend/enemy’s house. I want to wear something right for the occasion without overthinking or overdoing this. As I try to choose between the blue blouse (too dressy?) and the peplum top (too formal?), I flop back onto my bed. Sometimes, I really wish there was some manual about how to be a girl. It would save me a lot of trouble.

            Funny how I didn’t need my GPS to get to Hidayah and Hamza’s house. As soon as I got in my car, my body just went through the motions that my brain couldn’t articulate formal directions for. It’s like I closed my eyes and thought about it for a while and I just…knew. I just knew how to get to his house, even though I’ve only been there once or twice over the years.

            As I park my car by the house, I muse and wonder if that’s what life is kind of about. Once you make a decision to go to an unfamiliar place, it’s not so unfamiliar anymore. It’s like your mind and your heart lead you there effortlessly.

            When I cut the engine, my heart kind of sinks because I know it’s about to get real. Thank God Christian is next to me, or I doubt Hamza would have let me in the house. I’m praying that it’s Hidayah who answers the door, but in fact, it’s neither. It’s Hussain, their little brother. I think he’s a freshman this year. I smile fondly at his face when he opens the door; he probably doesn’t remember me but I’ve known him since he was in fifth grade, even though I rarely saw him or got to talk to him.

            “Hey, Christian. Hey, Eiliyah.” He says as he walks back to the kitchen with a Coke in his hand. Christian follows him, so I just follow Christian because I don’t know where Hidayah is and I sure as hell am not going to go exploring the Musa-Ali house on my own.

            “You remember my name?” I blurt out without my brain’s approval. Immediately after I say it, I mentally facepalm myself and compose what I’m going to tell my grandkids when I tell them about this story one day. Maybe something along the lines of “And thus, my dear grandkids, I proved my insane amount of dorkiness to a fourteen-year-old. A fourteen-year-old who, might I remind you, is the brother of a boy who seems to hate me.”

            Christian gives me an amused look but Hussain waits until we’re fully in the kitchen to turn around, lean against a counter, and shoot me an amused smirk before sipping his Coke and responding, “Hamza and Christian talk about you sometimes.” My surprised look swivels to Christian, who’s standing next to me. The second he processes Hussain’s words, his face drops in shock and then…then, his eyes flicker with some emotion, like some words are stuck in his head that he won’t get out.

            “Oh,” is all I can muster up given the circumstances. “Is Hidayah around?”

            “Yeah, she’s up in her room.” Hussain nods upwards, so I’m assuming her room is upstairs.

            “Which one is it?”
            “If you go up the stairs, go straight and it’s the first door to your right.”

            “Thanks, Hussain. Bye.” I head upstairs as I text my mom that I’m at Hidayah’s house. With every heavy pound that my steps seem to be making on the stairs, my heart is responding with an equal pound. I think I do a little hop on one foot as I beg God not to have me run in with Hamza. I spot a bathroom to the side and walking over quickly, I shut the door behind me in relief as I fix my appearance. I brush my black jeans off, straighten my white top and red blazer, and run a quick hand through my black hair. I head out again with more confidence and a straighter posture, a damn good way of faking something I’m not feeling right now.

            I knock in the door lightly. “Come in!” I hear a feminine voice call. It’s muffled, but I’m sure it’s Hidayah. It sounds young. When I swing the door open, I’m not ready to process what I see. I stand there, unmoving, my legs frozen and my tongue thick from the shock. “Uh…” Think, Eiliyah, think! Get yourself out of there!

            “What the hell…are you doing in my room?” Hamza exclaims roughly, his eyes flickering with annoyance.

            Being at a loss of words is honestly one of the most painful moments of life. I’m used to having it together. Used to being on top of things. But something about standing at Hamza’s door, in his room, in his house, while he is shirtless in front of me renders me incapable of formulating any combination of the twenty-six letters in the English alphabet.

            “Are you fucking deaf?” He snaps.

            This makes me snap back. I suppress a hiss as he so lightly tosses around the word ‘deaf.’ He seems to realize what he’s done when his face begins to shift to an apologetic look, but he stops it and continues to hold his stoic expression.

            “No, I’m not. Hussain told me this was Hidayah’s room.”

            “Well, it’s clearly—”

            “What is going on in here?” Hidayah’s voice distracts both of us, and I turn to see the fifteen-year-old girl standing there staring at us confusedly.

            “I thought I was opening your door.” I explain shortly.

            “Oh.” She pauses. “I heard you knock but I thought you were knocking on my door.”

            “Will both of you get the fuck out of my room? I’m half dressed and I don’t appreciate being barged in on.” Hamza’s peevish voice breaks the semi-nice reality taking place right now. I shoot him the nicest smile I can and then walk out of his room, with as much dignity as I can muster given the situation.

            As embarrassing at it is to admit this, the one, single, completely girly thought that runs through my head as I walk to Hidayah’s room is: when did Hamza get abs?

            After an hour and a half of chemistry, I’m exhausted from explaining—for the fifth time—what quantum numbers are and how they relate to electron arrangement in an atom. I’m surprised at how focused Hidayah is. Not once does she touch her phone or her laptop, nor do her eyes wander around the room as I explain it to her. I actually comment about this offhand by saying, “You’re really committed to getting this, aren’t you?”

            She smiles and laughs a little, that kind of rueful laugh that people do with an expression that says wow-if-only-you-knew. The kind of rueful laugh that’s supposed to hide the pain, supposed to suppress the story teetering on the edge of their lips. “I guess you could say that. I kind of have to be.” She says it so casually as she reaches for the mini-stapler at her desk.

            “Why would you say that?” I ask carefully as I write ‘Hund’s Rule’ at the top of a fresh sheet of paper. I casually look up at her and then do a cursory glance of the room in an effort to draw more conclusions about her. Her room is purple and silver mixed with gold. The walls are a deep purple and dozens of drawings, quotes, and handwritten pieces of paper lined with either gold or silver glitter are tacked to the wall with her desk against it. It’s…girly, yet it’s cute. I don’t know how, but it captures Hidayah’s essence somehow. In some ways it looks youthful and young and in others, it looks mature and grown-up.

            With a final sweeping glance, I turn my attention back to her. “Why would you say that?” I ask again, because I know she’s about to tell me. She’s just waiting for that final push.

            “My mom and my dad. They’re really big on education. We all have to pull As every semester or…you know. We get punished.” She sighs as she says this. Pulling all As? Especially in IB? That’s…extremely challenging.

            “Any reason why they’re so strict on education?”

            She rolls over on her bed and sighs into her pillow. “Something about carrying on the family business. I mean, Hamza’s going to inherit it and whatnot but—”

            “Hamza’s in line to inherit the family business?” I blurt out the question before I really think. Hamza’s in line for the Musa-Alis’ business? That’s…wow. They own the largest landscaping company in central Florida and quite honestly, it seems like it takes a lot to run because of the size of it and the revenue it brings in.

            “Yeah.”

            “I never…imagined your brother as the type to run a business, honestly.” I really need to learn how to end a conversation in an awkward place if it’s best for me. Seriously. But she’s sparked my curiosity, and I feel like I need to know this because it’ll help me understand Hamza. One more piece to complete the puzzle.

            “He doesn’t want it. It’s kind of clichéd, honestly. My parents are all into him inheriting it but he clearly doesn’t want it but they don’t listen. They want him to stick around here, go do his undergrad at a Florida University while learning the ropes, and then do his MBA in some high end place and come back to take over.”

            I can’t think of anything to say that doesn’t sound nosy or pushy and quite honestly, I’m aware that anything I say now could be related back to Hamza at any time. Rule number one of not starting drama: always keep your opinions to yourself. Always. It helps you avoid backbiting and gossiping and it prevents misunderstandings and drama and confrontations.

            Hidayah twirls some of her dark black hair around her finger as she stares off with her green eyes out the window, at the rays of sun just settling in for the night, ready to slink off and bring light to another part of the world. “I don’t think it’s Hamza’s thing. The whole business suit, going to meetings, pleasing investors and business partners. He can’t stand stuff like that.”

            She glances back at me and I clear my throat as I realize she’s expecting some kind of response. I manage to mutter a meager “Yeah” as I look down at the paper in front of me.

            “Anyway, you want something to eat? I forgot to offer you something before. I feel rude.”

            Her honesty is surprising. Realness is something I don’t find in Hamza often, and I guess I just didn’t expect much of it from his siblings either. “No, it’s fine. But yeah, I’d like something.” She smiles and we both leave her room and head downstairs to the kitchen. She motions for me to take a seat at the breakfast table as she heads to the fridge and brandishes a dish of lemon bars.

            “Are you allergic to anything in here?” Again, her consideration is…almost touching. After her come-at-me-bro attitude in the bathroom when I saw her clasping hands with that guy and the fact that (let’s be real here) she’s related to Hamza, I never expected her to be as…nice as she’s being. Immediately this causes me to raise my guard up.

            That’s what happens when you spend most of your life being treated like a charity case. That’s what happens when the speculation causes you to lose a lot of your friends or find out that the only reason someone’s friends with you is because their parent said that it wasn’t right to leave poor little Eiliyah out. Your guard goes up. You can’t see kindness as a simple black and white thing because you’ve been cursed to see it as a million shades of grey for so long.

            “I’m not. I love lemon bars. They remind me of Nancy Drew. Her housekeeper…Hannah? Hannah was always making them.” I smile at the small snippet of my childhood remerges as I take a bite of lemony goodness. I resist the urge to moan in appreciation at the taste.

            “You read Nancy Drew too as a kid?” Hidayah’s face lights up. “I loved Nancy Drew!”

            “I wanted to be just like her.” I smile as I stare out the window in front of me, at the lush backyard as I reminisce on my childhood—the pieces of it that I managed to salvage despite Harun losing his hearing at age five and everything that happened as a result. “She was so elegant, yet so badass.”

            “Seriously!” Hidayah has a smile on her face as she agrees. “She was so pretty yet smart. That’s the best combination.”

            I laugh. “I know. I always wanted to be both.”

            Her expression becomes analytical. “You don’t think you are?”

            Okay, I’ve hardly ever been asked that question, so it surprises me when she asks it so freely. “You know how it is.” I manage to get out in a deliberately airy tone. My insecurities are private, and the only person who knows about a few of them is Sayeeda. Aspiring to be a strong, independent woman comes with a price—you can’t fully reveal yourself to people.

            “I guess.” She says quietly.

            I check my watch then, remembering that I need to pray. “Hidayah, do you have a prayer mat and a headscarf I could borrow? I really need to pray before we start reviewing again.”

            Even though my request seems to surprise her, she nods and leads me to the prayer room. After I’m done praying, I fold everything neatly and head up to her room. Christian and Hamza have disappeared somewhere and Hussain is in his room with the door closed so I feel a little more comfortable navigating the house by myself.

            When I come into Hidayah’s room and pick up the notebook again, she breaks the silence by saying “You know, Hamza was really into mystery solving when he was younger. He’d read my Nancy Drew books and then get the Hardy Boys books too.”

            “Really?” Me and Hamza were both into that kind of stuff? Wow. Who knew? It’s like I know him so well because I’ve spent years observing him yet there’s still so much to know. That’s the amazing thing about getting to know a person; there’s never really a stop to how much you can know. Maybe that’s why falling in love is so beautiful. You want to know so much about this person that you’re in love with but it never stops, so love never stops. You never get bored of each other.

            “Yeah.” She nods. “Actually, hold on.” She leaves the room and I wait for her to come back, Curiosity jumping up and down like an impatient child beside me. When she comes back, she has a black leather bound book with her. “I never showed you this, okay?

            I have a really bad feeling about this. “Do you remember Haniyah Musa-Ali?”

            Never heard of her. “No…how old is she?”

            “Twenty-seven. She’s my cousin.”

            Yeah, okay, no. “I don’t know her at all. Did she live around here?”

            “Yeah, she went to the same high school that we go to. She was the second graduating IB class. She went off to college and she got a job in law enforcement. She and Hamza are super close.”

            “Oh, wow.” Hamza’s close to someone?

            “We don’t see her often. Anyway, when she graduated, she gave all of us presents.” I smile at her thoughtfulness. “Hamza got The Code Book.”

            “…The Code Book?” I repeat.

            She nods and shows it to me. “Yup. Take a look.” The cover is simple, yet neat and beautiful. It’s black leather with gold lettering that spells out ‘The Code Book.’ “It won’t open.” Hidayah announces. It won’t o—oh, I see. There’s a lock on it.

            “Do you know what’s in it?”

            “Hamza knows. It’s just every single code she’s ever devised. She knows a lot of them. It’s pretty awesome. She was always really good at math and patterns and algorithms.” She holds her hand out for the book and I gladly give it back. If Hamza saw us…let’s just say Hamza isn’t exactly the best-tempered person out there.

            “I should put it back.”

            “You think?” I respond. This makes her crack up.

            “I like you, Eiliyah. I don’t know why my brother hates you so much. You’re a decent person.” She parts with those words, and my suspicions about Hamza’s feelings towards me are confirmed.

            My older brothers are leaving again in a few days and their approaching departure is like reading a great book and praying really hard that it won’t end too soon. Even though they’re ten years older, I have a soft spot for both of them in my heart. I wish I had more time to spend with them, but I guess it just wasn’t God’s plan. Who knows?

            Juwariyah and Jamal and their twin boys are over for dinner as well, and it’s nice to have a quiet (or not so quiet, because Isa and Musa are so loud) dinner with the whole family. Together. As one. That’s rare these days with school and college and jobs taking over. As we have traditional Hyderabadi biryani, rice with meat in it, the topics in discussion cover a wide range. Currently, Zubair and Zaid are talking about their craziest experiences during their residency. “One guy came in with the nastiest red marks all over his face. When we asked him what happened, he said his little niece thought she was one of those werewolves from Twilight and was ‘testing her skills’ on him.” This cracks all of us up.

            The conversation shifts to, yet again, colleges. The pit in my stomach grows as my heart beat accelerates. When I was a kid, we went to a field trip to a gym that had a ball pit. When I got in, the kid next to me kept throwing balls my way. I panicked and tried to climb out, kicking multicolored balls left and right. I kept slipping, and the balls kept piling up, and I began blushing as I got even more scared. I felt like I was being buried alive and I had no power over it.

            That’s how I feel right now. Harun is right. We’re being forced into this situation. Our family just assumes we’re going to go to college together, leaving no possibility for two diverging paths. “I just hope they get into the same colleges.” My mom is saying.

            “They will, inshallah, Mom.” Juwariyah reassures. Inshallah means God willing in Arabic.

            “I think the bigger is issue is Harun and Eiliyah picking a college that they both wish to attend.” Dad points out.

            I clear my throat loudly, causing them all to look at me. I drop my eyes to my plate so that I can build up the courage. The words are stuck in my throat. Say them! I scream to myself mentally. “What if…” I trail off and then refocus. You can do this. Take the plunge. One second of agony for an infinity of possibilities.

            “What if…” Zaid repeats after me, promoting me to go on.

            “What if Harun and I choose different colleges?” The ignited tension spikes and buzzes furiously in the room.

            “Why would you do that?” Mom asks curiously. She subconsciously signs this as well, something we’ve been doing during the entire conversation, a fixed part of every conversation for Harun’s sake.

            The fact that she’s confused as if the thought never crossed her mind just shows that my family doesn’t really understand the need we both have to be independent.

            “Because we have different interests.” Harun signs.

            “But you can study two different things at the same college.” Juwariyah says in reply.

            “But what if we just want to be…independent?” I explain.

            Jamal trains his eyes on me and as I feel the flicker of a pleading look pass my face, I know he gets it. Jamal always gets it. He’s awesome like that.

            “But Eiliyah, Harun, you two help each other. Eiliyah, you’re a girl so we’d rather not have you go off somewhere alone without any family around and Harun, you could have Eiliyah help you get around being deaf and make your college experience easier. You know that.” That’s my dad.

            “I understand but—” Harun says.

            “Can we please not discuss this?” Mom asks. “Discussion over.”

            You can say a discussion is over all you want but unresolved issues and unsatisfied hearts can never really be silenced. Restlessness buzzes in the air and unresolved hearts teeter on the cusp of making their feelings known.