"Let's play something Laylee." the gleam in his gray eyes scares me. Reminds me of the other times he 'Played' with me.

"I hear Ruby calling me. I can't play right now Musa." I mumble back, unconsciously pulling my legs together. I am wearing a bright yellow sleeveless summer frock that reaches my knees. 

He likes frocks. 

It is so easier to play when I'm wearing frocks. 

"We'll be really quick, Laylee."  His grip on my bare arms tightens, dragging me someplace secret, and we're suddenly in shadows.

I don't understand what he wants when he rubs against me. It makes me cry, but I don't. 

"If you cry, I will tell your Mama that you let me touch you here..." His hands demonstrate the threat, crawling intrusively into my Barbie underpants. "Will you cry, Laylee? Will you cry for me?" 

"Please don't." I cry anyways. I always do that. Cry harder when he tells me to stop crying. "I don't like it when we play."  I squirm against his hold, but he is stronger. 

His arm wraps around my mouth, as he muffles my sobs. His other hand guides one of my own and he makes me touch him someplace unforgivable. 

I feel dirty. Which makes me cry even harder. Struggle even harder. His grip on my mouth tightens. The gleam in his eyes looks manic. Like he is enjoying my struggling.

"Don't fight me. I will always win. Always." 

I woke up then. Shivering as I often do. My face is wet, and my throat is aching to expel the tears that Musa's fear made me swallow. 

Confused by the remnants of sleep, I frantically start pushing myself away from a threat that isn't real. It takes a few minutes for me to realize that I am not a nine-year-old anymore. 

This is my first flashback in over two years. 

I haven't been this afraid in a while. My hands are shaking as I draw my comforter over me securely. It takes a while for the cold to seep out of my body, but the irrational fear just refuses to leave. It lies at the bottom of my stomach, a huge bowling ball of fear, that makes me tremble. 

When will it stop? 

Will it ever stop? 

I need someone to tell me that my fears are silly. I need someone to tell me that I am the strongest girl they know. I need...

I need him right now. He knows what I need, just by hearing my voice. 

My hands automatically reach for my cellphone, blindly pressing the speed dial for his number. 

He is often awake at this hour. It is almost time for fajr (Morning) prayers. He'll listen to me, and then he'll reassure me in that deep voice of his that my fears are silly, and my dreams are probably caused by indigestion. He will make me laugh and then--

I had already pressed the call button, when reality crashed over me. 

I numbly disconnected the call, before throwing the phone away from me. 

Azaan Malik is no longer someone I can call at 4:30 in the morning. 

He isn't anyone, anymore. 

This time when the tears came, and the anguished cries left my mouth, I wept for an entirely different reason. The cold fear of my nightmares replaced by the hot angry tears of a lover betrayed. 

"You're not in love with me. You're in love with an idea of me. An idea of someone you've come to need. And I won't be that person anymore. I refuse to be that person."  

How could he belittle my feelings for him? How could he accuse me of loving him because of my own selfish needs?Didn't he see that I loved every part of him? Even the parts that I didn't understand? Especially the parts that had nothing to do with my own insecurities...

I don't need a lot of things about him. 

But I still love them...

The compassion in his eyes when he helped out the kids from our volunteering days-I don't need it.

The mischievous grin tugging at his lips, while recounting one of his "Stories"-I don't need it.

The frown of concentration that knits at his brows when he is lost behind his software codes-I don't need it. 

Never stopped me from loving each of those things. 

"I can give you nothing right now."

All I wanted was him. Could he not give me himself? Am I so unworthy? So unlucky, so wretched, that I don't deserve the one person in my life who's done right by me from day one?

It's like the universe is playing a cruel joke on me, by making my fate this twisted.

You Layla Hayat, are destined to be surrounded by people who hurt you. Physically. Emotionally. Some will hurt you in your dreams, like Musa. Some will hurt you by being indifferent, like your father. Some will hurt you by their absence, like your brother. 

Once you've managed to forget these insignificant hurts, I will send the mother of all hurts. I will send you happiness, and trust, in a dimpled package who will make you believe in yourself. As an added bonus, he will love you as deeply as you love him...And then...and then, when you're secure in that bubble of contentment; I will rip it away. And it will hurt like nothing else ever has. It will hurt so much, that the memory of the worst time of your life, will pale in comparison to it. 

Why? I want to ask. 

Why me?

I blindly climbed out of the bed, searching for my glasses, and the air-conditioning remote. My head pounded in protest, but I ignored it. I had fallen asleep in my black farewell dress, too shattered to give two hoots about ruining a dress worth two brand new iPhones. I hadn't even bothered to remove my eye makeup, and it felt cruddy, and gross mixed with all the tears. Apt. 

I dragged the comforter off the bed, when I failed to locate my AC remote. Maria probably hid it again on purpose. She often does it to get me to wake up for Fajr on time. Nothing wakes me up like a cold room. I Hate the cold. 

After clumsily pulling myself up a short flight of stairs to reach the mezzanine floor of Maria's suite, I was shocked to see that she was awake. 

and she was praying. 

Her hair and torso swathed in a simple white chadar, she was settled on the prayer mat angled towards the east-end of her window wall facing the direction of Mecca. She was kneeling in supplication when I startled to a stop. I could hear her softly recite the Arabic verse, before she lifted her index finger in Shahadah. 

I was transfixed by this peaceful sight, momentarily helping me forget my aching heart, and swollen eyes. Maria never voluntarily speaks out loud around us. I don't like to push her to say stuff, because I know that she isn't comfortable with anyone hearing what she sounds like. Unlike other hearing impaired people I know, my sister is really shy about this part of her. She is so good at communicating wordlessly, that she never has cause to say anything. 

Yet here she was. Talking. 

Speaking to Him. Allah. 

She twisted her face to the right first.  "Assalamo Alaikum Wa Rehmatullah" (Peace be upon you)

She did the same to her left.  "Assalamo Alaikum Wa Rehmatullah"

I guess she could sense my stare from the doorway, because she turned to me. Her face expressionless as she opened her arms towards me. 

I stumbled over the comforter in my eagerness to be in my big sister's arms. 

She engulfed me protectively, letting me sob freely. I said a lot of incoherent things during that one hug. Just buried my head against her neck, and ranted tearfully over the injustice of it, knowing full well that she couldn't hear any of it. 

It didn't really matter, you know? that she couldn't hear me. That she could do nothing to ease a distress deep inside me. Just being there was enough. 

That is one lesson I learned, that night. Sometimes, just being there is enough. Sometimes, your mere presence can mean the world for someone. Sometimes, all you have to say is this; 

"I don't know what hurt you, and I can never understand how deeply it hurt you. I can't even do anything to make it hurt a little less. But I'm here for you anyways. I'm here as long as you want me to be here."

That's what my sister was wordlessly telling me with her arms around me, her finger gently stroking at my snarled hair, still twisted into the intricate braid for last night. 

Once the tearful complaints dried up, Maria pushed me away so I could see her hands. 

'Who?' 

Funny how she knows this by now. Human inflicted wounds are so distinctive. Particularly heartbreak. She knows that this was caused by someone. 

'I don't want to say his name. I told him how I loved him, and he didn't believe me. I wish I'd never met him. I wish I could kill all the memories of him. I wish-"

'Did he hurt you? Physically?' Maria's alarmed eyes made me laugh humorlessly once. 

'I wish he had. I wish he had hurt me physically, so I actually had a hope of healing. This is worse, Maria. This is so much worse. I trusted him with my body. I still do. But I shouldn't have trusted him with my heart. Because they're not the same things, I've realized....' 

My hands eventually ached by the time I poured out the sorry tale. 

'How could Allah do this to me? I haven't been the best Muslim. But I'm not a bad person, Maria. I want to tell Him that He isn't fair. I want Him to know that he was beyond cruel to me. Why make me fall in love, when He never intended me to be with the one I love? Why make me need this person? crave him? when in the end, like everyone else, this person would leave too?"

Maria gently cupped my face, wiping away at the angry tears, before kissing my forehead. Her sad smile pulled at my heartstrings. 

'Why don't you ask Him yourself?'

I huffed at that. 'How do you suggest I do that? Does He have a toll free number I could call at this hour? An email thread maybe? Or is He on Twitter?' 

My sister smacked my arm at that. I scowled back, even though I kind of deserved it for the irreverence. 

'I read somewhere, that If you want Him to speak to you, you should read the Quran. And if you wish to speak to Him, you should pray. Simple really. A two-way communication system.' 

I wanted to say that this was too bookish for me. It was too vague. It didn't fit my impatient personality. But I held my tongue.

'Is that why you're praying before Fajr?' I asked her. 

She nodded. 'Tahajjud (voluntary night prayers) can be offered at any time you wake up before Fajr. Did you know that Allah comes down to the closest of the seven skies, during this time?'  The shine of excited pleasure brightened her eyes, 'Did you know that He asks his angels; 'Is there anyone down there who is asking me for something?' and when the angels tell Him about the praying men and women, He orders that their prayers be accepted. It's like an unlimited genie wish-lamp!' 

I found my skepticism cracking under her refreshing innocence.

'Have you ever asked Him for something?'  I asked her. 'Did He grant your wishes?'

'Some of them He did.'  she shrugs.

'What about the rest?'  I demand. If Allah is going around claiming to grant every wish, then I want the whole package. Reneging on some of those wishes would be a case of broken contract, under the Business Law report I had done this semester. Does God break contracts?

'I like to think that He hasn't granted that wish....yet.' My sister smiles hugely at me. 'He never said that He'd grant them immediately. Or unconditionally. Maybe He'll grant it after ten years. Or maybe after I die....Or maybe I have to do something in exchange first, and I don't really know it yet...'

'Or maybe in His eyes you're just a crappy person who doesn't deserve the happiness you're asking Him for...'  I felt my eyes brim up with helpless tears, at my wretchedness. 

'Or maybe you don't know what will make you happy, like He does. Maybe He is saving you from something that will give you a little bit of happiness at present, just so He could give you a whole lot of it later on.'  I was awed by the unwavering faith my sister had. 

We never really talk about it. Our relationship with Allah. It is so private, so flawed that I never even want to talk about it. Until now that is...

'Truth is Lil. He doesn't really owe us anything. Our health. Our families. Our peace of mind. He doesn't owe it to us, yet He still gave it to us, didn't He?' 

I stay frozen as I ponder over the implications of it. I never thought of my life this way. It was always about the things I never had. Things that hurt me. The people who hurt me. 

Somewhere along the way of my privileged, pampered life, I lost Him underneath all the complaints, and rants I had against Him. 

'If you believe it long enough, you'll realize that He is always listening. For me, He is literally THE ONLY ONE who does hear me, you know?' She laughed soundlessly, tapping first against her ear and then her mouth. 

I realized that I did believe it. I didn't really have a choice. 

'Your Lord has Not left you...Nor has He detested you.' She reminded me of her favorite quote from the Holy Quran (Surah Ad'Duha).

When I've been at my worst, He has always found a way to save me. Maybe it's time I accept that I can't fight everything He throws at me. If I can revel in the blessings, and luxuries He gives me everyday, then It is only fair that I allow myself to be consumed by some of the grief he chooses for me...

For the first time in my life, I performed the Wuzu (Ablution) with a trembling eagerness. For the first time ever, I grasped the implications of "Speaking to Him"...

Maria was right. With enough belief, I could almost hear him speak back. And He comforted me, when I lost the person who used to do it before. And He loved me when my love failed. 

'And He found you lost, and guided you.' 

Prostrate on the prayer mat in my room, I cried until the tear reservoir dried up. I spoke about so many things, I never even knew I wanted. I thanked Him for so many things that I always take for granted. It was the longest one-sided conversation I've ever had. After a while I got so tired of holding my hands aloft in Dua'a that I simply curled up on the prayer mat, whispering myself hoarse with things I could never say to a human. 

I have no idea when sleep overcame me. 

I woke up stronger than ever. 

Nothing Azaan or Eminem, or my therapist, or my trainer, or my sister or my best friend has ever said to me before, that would have made me this strong, that would have made me believe in myself so easily.

The weeks that followed my heartbreak changed me. 

My 'Why did you/didn't you Allah?' turned into, 'You did this for me too?'. It wasn't easy by any stretch.

The pain didn't lessen now, just because I had found a way to vent about my anguish in front of Him. But I found that it gave me hope for the future. 

A teeny tiny, fragile little piece of light that I clung to. 

I no longer need a human to fill my emotional needs. I no longer yearn for Azaan Malik to come sweeping in with his dimpled smile, and unwavering encouragement, to make me believe in my strength.

I've said before that making humans your foundations, is a mistake. Making them the object of all your hopes and dreams is akin to handing them a loaded gun, and begging them to pull the trigger while pointing the barrel at your skull. 

It's because humans aren't meant to fill in the God-shaped holes in your soul. Humans are meant to hurt you, intentionally or unintentionally. It is wrong to hand them the crown to the Kingdom of your life, and ask them to rule justly over it...because they won't. They will lie, cheat, push you away...

There're a million ways they could hurt you, if you give them enough power. 

So the hope I have now is for my future. I hope that I will never give anyone that much power over me. I will be my own savior. I will become the one who can help others' needs, but I refuse to need someone myself. Not in that way again. Not when I have my Allah. Not when I have someone who won't fail me, someone I blindly trust with my body, heart and soul, even though we haven't formally met yet... 

Eventually, as the days turned into months. The hurt of Azaan's rejection became a distant throb, elicited occasionally by random things that reminded me of the boy I had once loved. 

Maybe something silly Chum Chum did, would make me want to text him like I normally would have, so we could laugh over it. Other times, I would relapse into moody silences, without realizing that I missed his cheeky stories, and his arrogant self-loving jokes. I would unconsciously buy extra snacks, anticipating his usual thieving hands to swipe at my food. I couldn't even look at someone holding a camera, without being painfully reminded of him

To avoid the hurt, I had deleted and blocked him from all possible social networks. It took a while before I mustered up enough courage to delete the thousands of photos I had of us together. I felt a small part of me die, when the message "5167 items deleted from Phone memory" flashed across the screen. 

So easy to remove him from my virtual life. 

So difficult to do it in real life. 

He is everywhere, without even being there. 

It became hard to meet up with the old crowd of friends, because someone would eventually mention his name, and talk about something he had done on Facebook, or Skype, and for the briefest of moments I would transported back to that empty hallway, where he told me that my love wasn't real enough for him.

I eventually had to tell Pareeshae about it, when I stopped meeting up with our old friend-group. It hurt too much. I had worked pretty diligently at purging Azaan Malik from my life, and I didn't want all that effort to go to waste. Maybe one day, I will look him in the eye, and it will not move me to tears. Maybe one day I will hear about him, or glance at his photograph, and I won't think about the time I almost begged him to love me. 

One day he will cease to matter to me, but that day isn't near enough yet. 

A few months before I was about to graduate from IBSA, I received a phone-call that proved to be yet another turning point in my life. 

"Can you and Azaan come over to help us find homes for five domestic abuse victims? You once asked me to call you if I ever needed help for students' families. Well, I need that help now." Ms Delores' voice seemed strained. 

I was hurtled back to the day I learned about Amina's mother. My jaw clenched with resolve. Not again. Not on my watch.

"I will do everything you need to help them. Can you tell me their current living situations?..." I asked calmly, even though I felt anything but calm. 

I couldn't explain the feelings coursing through me. A mix of happiness and fear, and determination. 

'Please help me. I need you. I need you now more than ever.' I pleaded during one of our late-night, one-sided chats. 'I just promised an indefinite amount food, lodgings and safety to five broken, abused girls and women, without telling my Mama or Daddy about it. I don't own anything that can buy me a house in one day. If I've ever done anything worthwhile in my life, I want to cash in on it. If you really do grant every wish during Tahajjud then I want to cash in on it. Basically, I want to cash in all the things you don't owe me, because I'm shameless like that. Allah... Please help me, help them.' 

I was lying though. It wasn't just about helping them. It was also about finding myself. I had this feeling in my gut, telling me that I was almost there. Almost on the brink of self-discovery. If only I had some help....

And just like that first time, I fell asleep on the prayer mat, and I woke up stronger...

and about 4 million rupees richer. 

"My lilly pad, I wanted to ask you something important." Daddy's deep baritone voice boomed over the phone call that woke me up. I became wary at that. 

"What sort of question?" I asked timidly. 

"What color do you want your Audi to be? Silver? or black?" He chuckled after a dramatic pause. 

I was stunned into dumbness for a while. "My what?"

"Your graduation present sweetheart. What color do you want it to be?" 

I couldn't believe my good luck. I couldn't believe the ease with which my wish was granted.

'Then which of the favors of your Lord will you deny?' (Al-Rehman, 55:13)

When I started laughing and crying with happiness, my father mistook it as enthusiasm for a freaking car I couldn't care less about. My next question made him shut up though.

"Can I have the Audi in cash instead?..." 

And the rest they say, is history.

...well...the future in this case.

Author's Note:

Interestingly, this chapter made me tear up more than the last one. 

Never ever stop believing in the power of prayers. They can move mountains. They can defeat Goliaths. They can turn fire into flowers. 

So I want to make a request right here, that you offer a small prayer for peace all over the world. Brussels, Turkey, Lahore, Paris....no land is safe anymore. I pray that Allah eases the sufferings for everyone. Ameen.

I was so distracted and disturbed by a few personal things, when this Lahore Bomb Blast happened yesterday. I couldn't concentrate on my work. I had to write down this chapter, just to forget it for a little while, because you guys, my awesome friends and readers, make me forget that the world is a crappy place. 

Stay safe. Stay happy. Be kind to someone. 

Don't forget to let me know what you thought about this chapter!! (VOTE AND COMMENT!) We're very very close to the future. 

PS: Love you, my little angry, hair-waxing band of readers. (You know who you are!) :* You're irreplaceable. Each and every one of you crazies. <3 Stay slightly deranged. Always. 

-E.