Irisa

The next few days prove to be some of the most stressfully stress-free days I've had in a long time. And though that scares me, sends my mind spiralling into a hundred different scenarios about how everything can blow up in my face at any given instant, the idea itself of having a friend, of having someone to rely on is addictively enchanting.

I feel enchanted. As if I'm in a little bubble. And there's Aiza there, with her warm eyes and loud words that are always ready to fill my silent gaps. And there's John, handing out smiles like they cost him nothing, handing out hugs like they're his due to the world. And then there's Henry as well, or Ry, I'm not sure yet. And he's skittish and quiet and loud and bold and intimidating and difficult to understand.

But that's okay, because when Aiza asks me for my schedule to see if we have any slots that line up, we discover that we share our socio class; and that John and I have PE together; and when John notes that him, Henry and I are free at the same time on Tuesdays from 11 to 12, he suggests that we should all hang out, and then we do by going to sit under the large oak tree outside in the garden because I suggest it, and we also share the sandwich which Henry brings, equally divided between the three of us. And then on Thursday at lunch, with a thumbs-up from John and a nod from Henry, Aiza asks me to join them on their weekly meet-up for supper at her place on Friday. And so, even though Henry, or Ry, may be quiet and loud and difficult to decipher, he still accepts me in his group.

And that's a start.

An enchanting start that makes my head spin with the amount of possibilities it holds in its tightly wrapped fingers, like grains of sand. Too many to count. Too many to predict. Too many to wrap my head around.

On Friday morning, exactly three minutes before the final bell, Aiza enters the class and walks over to my desk at the back of the room. Her peach coloured canvas bag, with its assortment of pins and badges, contrasts starkly with the dull grey of her clothes. But when she catches my eye and shoots me the warmest grin, nothing feels dull anymore. She dumps her bag on the floor and sits on the chair beside mine with a heavy sigh.

Then she starts talking.

"It's not that I don't love socio, because I do, obviously, but why would anyone keep such an exciting class at 8:30? Like, why? It's like they don't want us to be awake enough to debate and open our minds and discuss matters which can change the world, you know?"

For a few seconds I just look at her and blink slowly. And then I nod, because I think that is what she expects me to do, and also because this early in the morning, with little sleep from the night before, I don't have the mental capacity to engage in any discussion, world-changing or otherwise.

She nods back at me, content, then turns her head to the front of the class and focuses her attention on Ms. Nathan who has just entered the room with a coat slung over one shoulder, her boots thumping on the floor.

And thanks to Lawaiza, and her pencil which she constantly taps on the table in a rhythmic beat, for the first time I don't sleep my way through socio. I still zone out for the starting and ending ten minutes of the class, my eyes straying to the now familiar crack in the ceiling's plaster that looks like a swing with a child on it, but for most of the middle part, the important part where we discuss the contemporary ethical issues of the glass-ceiling with Aiza's voice one of the loudest in the whole room, I'm awake.

But it's only when the class has ended, and we're standing outside in the hallway and Aiza asks me what I thought about Jake's answer to her point, and I find myself answering without having to pick through a hazy memory, that I realise that I've been actually awake. That I have been present, and not just drifting past like a shadow without a destination in mind.

After Aiza has told me that she'll see me at lunch, has waved me goodbye and her figure has disappeared among the blur of students rushing to class, I still stand there, rooted to the spot with the realisation of my mental presence.

How do I define myself, my brain asks of me, if the simplest of my accomplishments are based on other people?

My hands roll into tight fists, nails biting into the surface of my palms, digging in the flesh and making a home there for themselves.

Then Dr. Zia's voice fights its way to the front of my mind, and I close my eyes and force myself to breathe.

Not every good thing must die, I tell myself, repeating her words like they're my own. Because my accomplishments are my own, can only be my own, even if they stem from other people.

A few minutes later, when I open my eyes again, my lashes slightly wet, the hallway has emptied save for a handful of students running to their classes. I take in a deep breath to steal my nerves, hike my bag up my shoulder and start walking to my class.

And when a small smile stretches across my burning face, I don't try to fight it.

_____

The moment I step out of the school building, the wind slaps my face. The metal doors close behind me with an urgent bang. I sling over my rucksack to the front and dig inside it with one hand to find my jacket, while holding back the short wisps of my hair from flying into my eyes with the other hand.

"Irisa!" someone says from right behind me.

Startled, I spin around and, in the process, lose my grip on the jacket.

John laughs and shakes his head, bending down to pick it up. He brushes his fingers over the embroidery on the right-hand side lapel and smiles. "Pretty," he says. For a moment he studies the different colours, then looks at me. "It's so well made. Where did you get this from?"

"My parents had it custom made for my 16th birthday," I say, eyes fixed on the yellow dahlia under his fingers.

"Oh, cool!" he hands me the jacket with a grin. "So, you like dahlias then?"

I nod, my lips lifting in the smallest of smiles.

"I'll make sure to remember that," he tells me, his eyes and smile ever so bright in the sunlight. "Let's go. Ry and Aiza must be in the parking lot."

I put on my jacket, stuffing my hands through the sleeves and leaving the front open. Instantly the familiar warmth wraps around me like a fabric-based cocoon, and I try to burrow in on myself, wearing the jacket like a protective shield. Like an armour against the intrusive thoughts inside my head, of spending the day with these new people, of going to Lawaiza's house, of everything that may go wrong in the next few hours and the very few things that may go right.

Fiddling with the hem of my sleeves, I rub my nose and take in a deep breath, filling my lungs with the cold, fresh air. When my gaze strays down, I notice how John is walking slowly, his steps purposefully short for his long legs, and I realise that he is trying to keep pace with me.

"It's my favourite jacket," I suddenly say in a quiet voice.

For a moment we both stop walking. Shocked, I blink my eyes and wonder why the hell I said that to him. Then John turns his head to look down at me and smiles softly, as if he understands, though he probably doesn't. But that is who he is, I've come to realise. Empathetic even when he doesn't know exactly why the empathy may be required.

"I like you better just because your favourite piece of clothing has flowers on it."

I stare at him for a beat and then a quick snort bursts out of me, taking us both by surprise. Then we're both laughing, and the wind carries the sound of our laughter.

When we reach the parking lot and I see Lawaiza and Henry leaning against an old rust coloured Civic, the bubble of dread in my chest has loosened quite a bit.

Aiza greets me with a tight hug and Henry nods at me in acknowledgement. When John looks at him with his eyes glittering with a not-so-silent plea, Henry shakes his head and rolls his eyes, his thin lips tugging up into a wry smile. He throws the car keys to John who catches them out of the air in a happy swoop and all but runs over to the driver's side.

Lawaiza claps her hands once, her bangles jingling ceremoniously, then grins fiercely. "Ready?" she asks. Everyone nods their agreement, and then she looks at me and asks again in a softer voice. "You ready?"

I smile. "Yeah."

We all pile into the car, with me and Aiza sitting at the back and the guys taking up the front. When the car starts, Henry instantly connects his phone with the stereo. "Drive slowly," he says to John in a stern voice as the car rumbles out of the school and onto the road.

Without turning around, Henry holds out his phone toward the backseat and hands it to Aiza.

"Please don't make my ears bleed," John says with a groan.

Lawaiza scoffs at him. "I'd hit you if you weren't driving," she says. As she taps on the phone screen, I notice how her nose pin reflects the screen's light. For a moment I consider asking her when she got her nose pierced, whether it hurt, but then I think better of it and clear my throat before looking away.

A deep-seated beat reverberates in the car before it merges with a softer tune. Then after a single drop of silence the words to Demons start flowing out of the speakers.

I look at Aiza and find her giving me a  knowing smirk. I smile in return and close my eyes, laying my head against the glass window, one hand wrapped around the other's wrist as I listen to the song's beat and my pulse dance along to each other.

It isn't until the car races over a bump in the road, sending my head knocking against the car window, that I come back to the real world with a wet smack.

My eyes fly open to the scene of the roadside trees whizzing by in a blur, enough to make my head dizzy when I try to count the trunks. A shiver runs down my spine. My eyes grow wide, sending my mind back to the night of the accident.

I hear Henry telling John to mind the speed, and then in a flurry of memories, I remember how that night mum had been telling dad to slow down as well, how the trees and the buildings were blurring together in a mesh of colour, topped with snow. I remember her voice and her worry, and his laughter. I remember the smells. The memory is so vivid, playing in my head on a loop, that I feel my chest constricting, my breath coming in short puffs and then barely coming at all. There's the scent of copper in the air, and burning fuel and tyres, and a weight settles against my throat, like a phantom seatbelt digging into my collar bone as I hang upside down from a car long since destroyed, broken and burnt.

From a place far, far away, I hear someone calling out to me, shaking me, but I feel too numb to respond, too lost inside the nightmare of my memories to comprehend anything else. Distantly I register the car door beside me being ripped open. I feel hands on my face, on my arms, burning cold against my hot skin. But I'm still too deep inside my head to truly understand anything else.

Then someone takes a hold of my face, nails digging into my skin forcefully enough that it hurts, that it drags me out of the nightmare just the slightest bit and my eyes focus in on a pair of deep brown ones.

"Look at me," Aiza says. "Just look at me. You're okay. You're here. In the car. With us. Me, and John, and Henry." She shakes my head and pulls me closer to her face. "You're here. You're okay. Just breathe. Look at me and breathe. You're okay."

Slowly the night drifts away and my vision clears enough to see that, indeed, it is day time and I'm in a different car with different people, in a different place. There is no crushed metal, no blood, and no broken glass. Though I can still hear the screams ringing in my ears, and smell the burnt tarmac lingering in the air.

I close my eyes and take in a shaky breath. I let my head drop and Aiza lets go of my face, her hands dropping down to my shoulders which she squeezes firmly.

"You're okay," she says again. I look up at her and I'm not sure if I want to cry or laugh. In the end a watery laugh bubbles out of me, my eyes moist with relief and the pain of flashbacks that I seem to always carry. Aiza wraps her arms around me and pulls me in for a hug.

I look over her shoulder to find Henry and John standing there. John holds out his hands, his skin ashen and eyes wide. "I am so sorry," he says. "I had no fucking idea, I am so, so sorry." I shake my head at him to let him know it's not his fault that my mind is screwed up, and then I notice that Aiza is kneeling on the road so I let go of her and wipe my hands down my face.

"I'm okay," I say with a smile, trying to convince them as well as myself.

Aiza nods at me and gets up to walk over to the other side of the car to sit back inside. John apologises again, and then hands the car keys to Henry before going to sit in the front passenger's seat, hands raking through his mop of blonde hair.

And then Henry is the last man left standing. The door of my side of the car is still open. Through the gap Henry and I look at each other, and for once I can read the expression on his face. His green eyes burn with recognition and a dreadful understanding. For a few moments that feel too long to be comfortable, we stare at each other. I can't tell whether we're trying to stare each other down or just attempting to understand each other.

But all of a sudden, I feel that I may be closer to him than I'd initially considered myself to be.

Finally, Henry let's out a breath, breaking our eye contact by hanging his head. When he takes a step forward and closes the car's door, I notice that his hands are shaking.

The rest of the drive to Lawaiza's house is spent in silence, with the only conversation offered by Flora Cash on the car's stereo.

At first I feel like I should excuse myself and leave. Get out while I can. I think of saying that I'm not feeling well, that I need to go home. I can feel the words on the tip of my tongue when the car rolls to a stop in front of a beige-coloured house. But then Aiza squeezes my hand and gives me a warm and encouraging smile, and all my intentions of escape dribble out the window.

In the next few hours I meet her mother and her older sister, who is home for the weekend from her university. And I eat daal chawal because they are Henry's favourite and Mrs. Asif alternates between cooking the favourite dish of each kid every Friday. And when I admit in a mumble, and then loudly later on, that my father used to love Pakistani cuisine, that he used to cook for us at home at least once every month, and that my favourite dish used to be chicken biryani, Mrs. Asif smiles at me as warmly as my mother used to, and announces that that is what she'll be cooking next Friday then.

And I figure out where Aiza gets her fierce smile and warmth and love from.

So even though I'd thought of running, I don't run. Rather, I end up relishing Mrs. Asif's hug at the end of the night, when she's bidding us all farewell. And when she murmurs into my ear that I'm welcome in the house all the time, any time, and that a tray full of biryani will be waiting for me come next Friday, I have to blink back the tears in my eyes when I smile at her in silent thanks.

Later at night, after I have kissed Asteria goodnight and have tucked myself into bed, I pick up my phone to find two sets of messages waiting for me.

New messages: Mates in Straits.

Lawaiza: Good day guys! 😁

Lawaiza: And Irisa, my mother is officially in love with u. Tho tbvh I dunno why my parents find literally all of my friends as ideal children as compared to me 💔

John: Cuz u talk too much

Lawaiza: I. Do. Not!!!

Lawaiza: today's pictures!

Mates in Straits: Downloading 9 pictures.

I smile in spite of myself and shake my head. The aftereffects of the panic attack are still reeling through me, like a freshly revamped system after a firmware attack, checking itself for glitches again and again. But for the first time in a long time, the pen sits firmly capped at my table, and my skin is ink-free. There's an accomplishment in this that I want to take note of and celebrate.

Backing out of the group window I see the other message, which is a DM from Henry. For a few seconds I stare at the screen of my phone. Then I finally take in a deep breath and tap open the chat.

Henry: I'm sorry

Henry: For everything. For being a git

Henry: And for everything else that has happened...

Henry: I hope u feel better, Irisa :)

Putting my phone aside, I blink my eyes a few times, gaze unfocused and sifting over the empty walls of my room.

Slowly I pick up the phone and look at the screen, at his messages, his apology. For a long minute my finger hovers over the keyboard. When my eyes start to burn, I tell myself that it's because of staring at the bright screen for too long in the otherwise dark room.

Finally, I type my reply, hit send and then put away the phone. Borrowing in the duvet, I wrap the sheets all the way up to my face.

When a single tear slides down my cheek, it gathers into the dimple by the side of my smiling lips, before quietly landing on the pillow.

Irisa: Thank you, Ry