Chapter 13

The next morning, on my way to school, I did not get off on my stop. Students from my school stood, grabbed backpacks, waved to friends. I stayed put, hands curling into fists on my lap, unable to will myself to stand. I don't want to see Nadia in my first class. I almost laughed at the thought; because when have I ever not wanted to see that gorgeous girl? But I can't bring myself to be humoured by the thought. I don't want to see her fake fake fake smile. I especially don't want it to be directed at me, I don't want to go back to joking as if she isn't hurting, go back to shameless sarcasm and wide grins and pretending that everything is fine.

Is that what we'd been doing all this time, I thought as I brought my cold hands to cover my warm face. All that time, I never thought there was a reason behind her dramatics and sarcasm and fake scorn. Was everything I knew about Nadia not real, then? I wanted to desperately free her, uncover the veil that she'd separated herself from the world with.

But that was her protection, I thought. What right did I have?

And yet, I couldn't just do nothing.

It was when flashing red, white lights caught my eye and I looked up. The bus had been driving for awhile now and I realised we are in some part of downtown. The bus slowed, stopped and I saw police vehicles parked on the side of a bridge. My breath stopped as my eyes drifted to a figure standing by the railings, gazing down at the rumbling water down below. Police officers and first responders are inching their way towards the lone figure.

I don't know why, but I don't know what to do. And I wanted to laugh and cry over this realisation because isn't it so fitting? Isn't it so me? I don't know what to do about Nadia, or my sister's drinking and partying or my mother's overworking herself to exhaustion. I don't know what to do about my dad, lost in a coma. I don't know what to do about life, perhaps like that man on the edge of a bridge, thinking about ending his life.

That scared me, this resemblance to this suicidal man, this similarity.

I glanced over to the passengers on the bus, and saw heads swivelling, eyes widening, mouths opening. The bus driver is eyeing the scene with more annoyance than worry. A few people, either do not care or have not noticed and resume texting, sleeping or plugging their ears with music. One woman, an elderly lady, opened the window and stuck her head out, cupping her mouth with wrinkled hands.

"You don't have to do this!" She shouted. "There are other ways out, I promise you!"

I watched her, enraptured. The man on the bridge doesn't move, either because the words don't reach him or he doesn't want them to. A few passengers on the bus nodded their heads in agreement to the old woman's words, a few sunk into their chairs in second hand embarrassment. I remained frozen, hands still on my face. A police officer placed his hand on the man's shoulder and only then does the man's head snap up and I caught tears shining in his eyes.

I was an onlooker, I realised, with a surge of horror and shame and resentment.

- -

It made me think of my father, who once stood with me on the same bridge. I was young then, maybe about ten or eleven, and I loved the height of bridges, loved the gurgling, faraway water that passed underneath. I felt high, mighty. I told this to my father who laughed, and I wondered now what I would have felt knowing what I knew now. Bridges were high, yes, but that only made the fall even more harder.

"You like feeling high and mighty, Abdu." My father asked, grinning, using my nickname, which only he called me.

"Yeah!" Was my gleeful response.

"Good." My father had nodded in approval. "That's how a man should be. He has a lot of responsibility. Everything is in his hands."

"Why do men get so much responsibility?" I'd pouted.

"That's just how Allah made us."

- -

Allah had made me a pathetic man, then, I thought.

When I finally get off at a random stop and take the bus going back to my school's direction, it was almost lunch time. I'd wasted three hours on the bus, staring aimlessly out the window and thinking. When I arrived at school, the lunch bell has already rung and I walked past the tree where Ian and I usually ate. From the corner of my eye, I saw blond curls. I didn't look at him as I passed, keeping my head down and letting only the crunch of dead leaves fill my ears.

That day, for the first time in a very long while, I ate in the cafeteria. I absolutely hated it. It was loud and crowded and just like in high school movies, people were clustered into their own groups. The rowdy, obnoxious tables housed the sporty/cool/rich kids while the mostly quiet and calm tables saw math homework being hastily done and discussions about Pokemon and the new sci fi movie with that actress with the blonde hair. Their words went over my head, as I lingered for a bit, gave up, and just decided to eat alone. A sudden laugh made me tense, and I looked up confused and endeared.

I saw my sister first, recognising her dyed red hair, which she kept short. She was playfully fuming at Nadia, who had a large grin on her face and my sister's phone in her hand. Somehow, I'd chosen the one place in the cafeteria that gave me a perfect view of them and I wanted to stare up at the ceiling in a thankful expression. Not only did I have a perfect view of Nadia, but I could hear them clearly as well.

"...texting all the time!" Nadia stuck out her tongue. "Give your best friend some attention too!"

"Come on, Nads." My sister sighed. "I always pay attention to you. Let me just tell him I'm busy and then I'll listen to you all day."

"Wait. Him?"

I, too, had sat up at this.

While Nadia launched into a stream of questions, ("Who? Is he cute? Wait a second, is this the person you're literally always texting? Salma! Hoes before bros!") I went numb. Not because my sister liked a guy, but because she was talking to one. How many times had our father warned us against being alone with the opposite gender? And while, technically, I talked to girls too, I didn't text them.

I suddenly felt deflated. That my sister was doing all these things and I would be a hypocrite if I'd tried to stop her. I knew my sister and she would use my interactions with Nadia against me. She was in the same Art class; she saw the way Nadia and I playfully joked and flirted with each other. I silently watched as my sister turned pink, while Nadia continued to pester her. All I could do was watch.

- - -

The last bell of the day was waited for. It was always, always anticipated with bouncing knees and impatient fingers and eyes that flickered constantly to the clock. Students passed the time with half-hearted attempts to distract themselves, teachers usually drifted off in their lessons as if they, too, began to lose steam.

When it rang, we were free. And when it did, boredom and restlessness and anticipation all fell away, disintegrating with the sound of the glorious bell.

But not for some people.

I realised this as I walked slowly to my locker, slowly because I was tired and in no hurry to get home and do nothing. Slowly because that's just how my life was, it was slowly falling apart all around me like a card house crumbling in on itself.

I nearly tripped on her outstretched legs.

Nadia was sitting on the floor, her head covered by a hood. When I recognised that it was her from her slender shoulders, I almost felt pathetic for ogling her so much that I could tell her apart just by noting her shoulders. The black hoodie she wore was new; I've never seen her wear black as she often complained that it was a disaster color. I assumed from this that she was trying to disguise herself so that no one would notice her.

"If you're trying to hide from someone, I would suggest tucking in your legs so they don't end up tripping." I joked.

"What if I want them to trip." She said, voice sounding strangely far away as if she was lost in thought.

"But then your cover is blown."

She didn't reply at this, which I found odd. Even today she was remarkably chatty and enthusiastic in the cafeteria. She never missed the chance to shoot back a witty remark.

"The bell rang." I said, sitting down beside her. "Wouldn't you rather be at home?"

It was then, after I'd positioned myself beside her, gently leaning against the lockers, when I turned and saw the expression on her face. Or lack of, I thought, dreadfully. It was as if the entire day had not even happened, and as soon as the bell rang, her cheerful facade had shattered. I thought back to the time by the bus stop. Her hand in the sky. Tears on her cheeks. Eyes empty.

They turned to look at me. Empty.

"No."

What was it about the last bell of the day? For some it was freedom. For some it was not.

"W-Why not?" I asked, anxiously. The word 'rape' chose that moment to surface in my mind.

"Just because." She turned away, and I felt deprived.

"Maybe you should talk to someone." I, immediately, without thinking, blurted out.

Her head snapped towards me, face pinched in speculation. "Why?"

"That panic attack...."

"What about it?"

"It's not. That's not-"

"-normal?" She snorted, bitterly. "Yeah, I know."

"So, then?" I tried again, and I realised that I was pushing too hard but I couldn't, wouldn't, just go back to being a wall. Or a bystander. Or an onlooker.

I needed to do something. Say something.

"It was just a panic attack." Her voice came out low and sad and unconvincing.

Just. I felt my heart shudder at the word.

My eyes trailed down to her arms, which are hanging limply beside her. She looked frail and breakable to me in that moment: limp arms, and dead eyes and head fallen back against the lockers, hair hidden behind her hood. I wanted to tell her that it was not just a panic attack, that the world was losing a beautiful girl to horrors that we couldn't imagine but we damn would try to pull her out of.

If only she would let us.

"Well." I sighed. "Please think about it."

I got up, dusted my pants. Looked down at her, once again. I didn't expect her to speak so when she does, I blinked, rooted to the spot.

"Why do you even care?" She whispered.

She looked up, eyes so blank that I was afraid there was no room for hope.

I have imagined that if I was questioned about why I cared so much for Nadia Patel, I would burst into a love confession, revealing my thoughts about the spectacular, gorgeous girl with the shiny, long hair and sharp sense of humour. And fake smile. And empty eyes.

I didn't say any of that. Instead, I said the first words that popped into my head.

"Why would I not?"

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Not sure how i feel about this chapter...like i'm not satisfied with it. Im as much of a perfectionist as Abdullah??? Tbh???

Anyway vote and comment if you liked. :)