I stare at Jonah, convinced for a second that it's a joke, but the pronounced creases around his raised eyebrows throw the hope away with one sweep. 'Two hundred?' I repeat. 'That's barely a quid each.'

Johan picks up one of the books I've heaved onto the counter in front of him, From a Land Where Other People Live, and fans through it. 'These have all been written in.' He drops it back onto the heap. 'And even if they weren't, nobody here is going to buy these kinds of books.'

These kinds of books...

I ignore the add on and latch to the first. 'If anythin, that should increase the price cause now you get my thoughts too and I'm bare a comedian.'

He's unamused. Maybe he still holds a grudge from the time I worked here, though it'd make more sense the opposite way considering he's the one who sacked me.

'Nobody pays for the thoughts of some kid scribbled in the margins. Two hundred, take it or leave it.'

So I step out of Kingston Book Nook with empty Ikea bags rustling in my backpack and two hundred notes folded in my pocket. At least I managed to talk Ronny up from 170 to 173 and twenty pence for my bike. Meaning I still need a clean two thousand until I can pay Iya and Baba. The only issue is I have no way of making that money unless I sell my organs.

And I think I've already gone too far.

Only a few metres home-bound, I spin around and rush to Dal's instead. An apology is ready on my tongue as I race up the stairs, but I suffocate it as soon as I'm on the landing. Dal leans on his doorframe, holding a flip phone to his ear, and presses a finger to his lips.

I wouldn't be able to make a sound either way, the sight of him so feeble terrifies me mute.

Like a young oak that once grew so bulbous only to be whisked into a stick figure by wintry tempests, he withers in plain sight at whatever the person on the other end says. 'I ain't gon do that. No.'

Grabbing my shoulder, he ushers me inside, then eases the door shut so gently it doesn't click. The flat is cast greyscale in the diffuse light radiating behind the blinds. No lamps are on and his face is shrouded by darkness as it is by panic.

'Don't bring Libaan into this.' For the first time in my presence, his voice gets away from him, brandishing his anger and fear without consent. Dal screws his eyes shut. 'No. I'll figure it out, innit. I'll meet the index. But I ain't doin that.'

After another tense moment, he snaps the cell shut and shoves it into his back pocket. It's not the phone he uses to contact me.

'What was that about?' I ask.

Dal doesn't answer.

'I sold your books. I'm so sorry.' The words choke from my compressed chest and I sway, ready to drop to my knees and plead for forgiveness. 'I need the money, but I shouldn't've... I wasn't thinkin. I'm so sorry.'

His brow furrows, for a moment, uncertain whether this is a joke. 'You expect me to be cross with you for that? They're books.'

'Yeah, but you gave them to me.'

'So you'd read em, not so you'd buried with em. Wallahi.' With a sigh, not of exasperation with me but with himself for forgetting my sentimentality, he squeezes my arm. He steps past me to get out of the narrow entrance and into the flat. 'Blud, it's calm.'

I stare at the peephole on the door for a moment, then wedge off my shoes to follow him. Dal thrusts a glass of pineapple juice into my hand as I step over a pair of dumbbells to sink onto his sofa.

Dal works out when he's distressed. I think Miles does too, that's why he wears gym clothes: he can take off for a run at any point in the day. I think he runs a lot to get away from his mum. I think I'm a solipsist — I act like people vanish from existence the moment I'm not looking.

I thumb the perspiration on the glass. Any trace I leave mists over in seconds.

'Am I a bad person?'

Dal freezes in the middle of clearing the floor, then slowly returns the dumbbells to the carpet. 'If you're a bad person, the rest of us are doomed.'

My hands shake so violently that my juice threatens to spill. I embed the glass onto the side table. 'But my parents do so much for me and I still... And I rejected Oxford for no proper reason, which I still haven't told them about. I didn't go to Sonia's violin thing after I promised I would. And I kissed Miles and then I disappeared...'

I pause to give Dal the chance to mock me. He doesn't.

'And the worst part is I really fancy him.'

Dal shuffles forward with uneven drags of his feet to sit beside me. Refusing to look at him, I wind into myself.

I want Miles to show me how to use MP3 converters to illegally download music en masse to fuck capitalism and the elitism of art, though mostly because I want Miles to show me. I want to join him for his runs, to bike beside him as he jogs. I want to lean my head on his shoulder and listen to music together. I want him to teach me how to use chopsticks. I want to hold his hand and massage each knuckle until I can sense their crevices in my sleep.

I want to peel oranges for him, to slice apricots and dates into a handcrafted bowl and bring it to him when he's so sunk into a task he's forgotten what time it is, keep the pits for myself, care for them until I have an orchard of my own.

I look down at his grey sleeveless tee I've worn all night. I've slept in it enough times for it to need washing but Miles's cologne of pomelo and agarwood still clings to it and I couldn't bear for it to be replaced by Baba's laundry detergent.

The cotton blend on my skin is the best substitute for his touch available to me. How I envy the sheets that get to wrap around you every night.

Unlike Arabic, Darija is not a language created for romance. It's created for haggling in the depths of a dusty maze-like market that somehow has a mosque crammed in the middle of sandstone walls, where you curse out the merchant's entire family for his prices only to share a glass of mint tea after the sale is done.

But whoever first said the phrase "sknti klbi bla matshawrni" was a lover — you settled into my heart without permission.

Before I know it, tears spot my skirt. 'I think I'm spoilin everythin with everyone.'

Dal pulls my quivering frame to him, tucks me under his chin, and holds me tight. It's exactly the kind of hug I need, one that doesn't make false promises or give any pleasantries, one that says "I can't speak for other people but you've not spoiled anything with me". He's my brother in everything but blood.

I speak before he can. 'Does your mum know the money you send her is from drugs?'

'You reckon she'd take it if she did?' He sucks his teeth but no sooner has it landed when he revokes the statement. 'Maybe she does. But she can't raise two teenagers on disability benefits so she ain't ask no questions.'

'Don't you miss her? I know you're an adult and everythin, but I dunno if I could ever go a week without seein my mum.'

'I do.'

As Dal tightens his hold again, his hug answers my implied question about why he doesn't visit her more often: I doubt I'm what she wanted. So that when I turn the words back on him as a reason for why I can't be with Miles, his dilemma is obvious: he either has to take back his previous honesty or become a hypocrite.

He picks the latter. 'I think you should give him the chance to decide for himself.'

"Why don't you ring your mum then?" The words are already on the tip of my tongue when I swallow them back down.

I bury myself in his chest so that my speech muffles into his t-shirt, half-minded to make it entirely incomprehensible so I don't speak my fear into existence. 'What if he thinks I'm a freak?'

For a long moment, Dal doesn't answer. Then he sighs, knowing he has no better wisdom to bestow and hoping he would; the misery of real life is that sometimes bland clichés are all that's at our disposal.

'That's the risk you take, innit. That's life... That's love.'

Notes

Wallahi: (Wallah) I swear to God

Solipsism: The philosophical theory that the only thing that can be proven as real is your own mind. Often results in a disregard for others or a self-centred worldview

Sknti klbi bla matshawrni: (Darija) You settled into my heart without permission.