I belong to quick, futile moments of intense feelings. Yes, I belong to moments. Not to people.

—

The mirth in her dark orbs paints them lighter than they actually are, or maybe it's just the light from the lamp. Burq doesn't know, neither does he care as he bugs her with his words. But she seems to take his statement easy and let it slide by, chuckling slowly.

"Ah, you credit yourself too much, but not my observations," she says, trying to pull away from him but he doesn't let go of her wrist. She ceases to struggle and stays leaning over him, raising an eyebrow in query.

"And here I thought you were fond of me when you barely knew me enough," he comments, referring to a previous conversation between them.

"I was fond of you when you didn't bring titles between us."

"What changed?"

"You did, for reasons I do not know of."

"Why can't you talk to me about it?"

Leyla shakes her head and tugs her wrist free, straightening back. "It's bitter. I don't want you to go through a pain your loss of memory is saving you from."

Burq frowns. "Ain't that unfair on my part?"

A knock comes at the door and Waleed enters with a tray in his hand. Burq's scowl deepens, partly on seeing the soup and partly on Waleed's untimely interruption.

Leyla gets up to take the tray from him and politely dismisses him. She puts the tray between them and helps him sit up, placing a pillow behind his back.

"I'll eat on one condition," Burq declares.

"I won't listen to your every whim," Leyla playfully scolds.

"Don't you fancy me enough for that?"

She lets out a small laugh at his jest. "Tell me your condition."

Burq grins, satisfied. "You'll tell me about yourself too."

"You don't want to know about me, but about us," Leyla states surely, giving him a knowing look.

Burq chuckles. "Guilty. But I do actually want to know your full name."

She takes a while before replying, as if debating whether to tell him or not— as if weighing what she is about to give away. "Leyla Khanzada."

Burq hums thoughtfully. "Ms. Khanzada," he smiles, pleased at knowing something about her, "can you promise me one more thing?"

"What is it?"

He leans forward towards her. "If you do not wish to tell me something, then don't. But don't lie to me."

Leyla tilts her head. "I suppose this is about the hospital visit that day?"

"You upset me."

"I never lied to you. I just didn't tell you the complete truth. I'm sorry about it. I didn't want to overwhelm you when you had suffered a terrible accident."

"And about us being friends?"

"I wish not to talk about it," she refuses right away.

Burq glances down at her hand between them and then up into her eyes again. "So you agree to my promise then?"

She sighs and nods, giving him a smile. "Yes." She places her hand back over his. "Will you have your dinner now?"

He groans as his shoulders slump in resignation. He stares at the soup a good while before finally agreeing. "Okay, my lady." Burq matches her smile.

And Leyla grins at him.

Fear is a powerful emotion, so strong that it can even suffocate your peace in your sleep. And Burq particularly does not like this one that triggers his deepest fear— fear of being alone.

The night is silent and black, making the eight year old boy feel haunted even in the safe confines of his mother's arms. He doesn't feel at peace.

"Umi?" Burq whispers to his mother. "I'm scared."

She doesn't reply.

He shifts his small frame easily in her arms to face her, her arms feeling limp over him.

"Umi?" He touches her cheek. "Mom? I'm scared. Please wake up."

But he's met only with her eternal silence as the darkness starts closing on him.

"Mother?"

Silence.

He sniffs. "Wake up, please."

Silence.

"I'm scared..."

"No!"

He wakes up with a gasp as if a drowning man pulled out of water, reaching right away for his chest and desperately clawing at his shirt. His eyes meet the ceiling in the dark and they widen, but the sound of heavy rain outside keeps him from panicking.

"Umi..."

He drags away the covers from his body and pushes himself up urgently, a piercing pain shooting up his arm as he puts too much pressure on it. He winches but doesn't stop from reaching out for the lamp. His whole body trembles violently and his elbows jerks in pain, making him lose his balance and hit his bandaged arm with the side table. He hisses, biting his tongue against the pang, the lamp going down with a loud clash in his effort to turn it on.

He tries to steady himself and catch his labored breaths. His heart beats too close to his breastbone, too erratic to be calmed.

The door to his room opens and he hears footsteps.

"Turn on the lights," he orders hurriedly, disheveled and frantic.

Immediately harsh white glow meets his eyes and he closes them involuntarily. Even when he opens them after a while, his thoughts and surrounding are a mush.

"Burq?"

Her light touch to his shoulder and her faint voice soothe the throbbing of his head. He's not alone.

Burq looks up to her face, conflict and confusion lacing her features as she looks back at him. It takes him a while to realize Leyla was with him in the middle of the night, and not in the hospital but at his home, in his room.

He furrows his brows in perplexity. She never stayed the night at his place with him before, but only when he was at the hospital. The tension in his body slowly dissipates with her presence.

"Are you okay?" she asks.

He only manages to nod, attempting to clear the remaining haze from his composure.

"What happened?"

He shakes his head. "You turned off my lamp?"

She blinks. "Yes?"

"I don't sleep in dark."

"Oh." She uneasily lick her lips. "I'm sorry. I didn't know."

She certainly stated a lot of details about him, but she still misses enough. He waves it off dismissively.

"What are you doing here?" he questions instead, then adds, "I thought you left last night."

"I did. The weather was bad and I couldn't find a ride. It was late and Waleed insisted I stay the night, but you were already asleep so I couldn't ask you," she explains. "I hope you don't mind?"

"I don't." He looks into her eyes as his expression becomes disgraceful. "You can stay here whenever you want, but not by Waleed's permission. He's not the lord of this house, I am."

Her own expression instantly colors with infuriation as her gaze turns into a glare. "I'll keep that in mind. Hopefully this won't happen again."

Damnation. He curses mentally. Leyla is a woman with both smooth and cutting edges. And he realizes he stepped on a cutting one. He needs not to be a prick around her.

"I meant no offense."

"None is taken."

She turns around to leave and he quickly grasps her wrist. "Leyla?"

She looks back at him.

"I'm glad you stayed."

He watches the frost in her orbs slowly melt, in a way that tells him she's fighting against her own logic to be with him— gambling on her sanity to stay in the moment, as if she's making a dangerous bargain. Yet the way she gazes at him tugs at the strings of his heart. He likes her concern.

He knows his cause is selfish. He doesn't remember this woman, and no matter how close they were, it is meaningless now with his memories of her gone. But Leyla brings him a tranquility he cannot deny. Be her a stranger to him, he needs her to tame his demons of isolation. And be his ego not let him admit it to her, he can read it in her eyes— how she knows the truth but still decides to be with him. It surprises him, but pleases him.

Exhaling, she settles close beside him on the bed. He releases her wrist and she folds her hands in her lap.

"Are you hurt?" she asks quietly.

"No."

"Your fingers keep twitching. Did you hit your arm?"

He can't help the upward curling of his lips. "Yes, but I'm fine."

She turns to face him. "You want to tell me what happened?"

"I had a nightmare," he mumbles. "Or it was more of a memory."

"What about?"

He rubs one side of his face before running his fingers through his hair. "My mother, when she passed away."

Leyla's eyes turn round in shock and puzzlement, her eyebrows going up on her forehead. "Wait, your mother is...?"

"I've a stepmother who raised me and loved me like her own. The woman who birthed me died twenty one years ago," Burq tells her easily, hiding any feelings behind his apathy.

"I didn't know," she replies, searching his face. "You always referred to your stepmother like your own. I never figured."

Suddenly Burq misses her, overcome by nostalgia. He quickly clears his throat and looks at Leyla. "I never told you about my family?"

"No, you've mentioned your parents very briefly only a few times."

"I..." he hesitates, glancing out the window to the pouring rain.

"You don't have to tell me anything, Burq."

"I love the rain," he says instead, staring outside now. "Especially when it's loud and angry— when it makes noise. I would prefer a storm over a quiet drizzle that cannot even acknowledge itself. But I don't like the gray clouds or the dark sky. I prefer the bright, midday sun over them. But then the sun burns and I don't like it either." He finally turns his gaze back to Leyla, locking it with hers. "I think I like it messy: a storm with heavy rain but on a cold sunny day. Is that even possible?"

Leyla smiles, a smile that tangles all the strings of his intellect. He's left lost in front of her.

"Everything is possible," she tells him calmly, surely, almost frighteningly.

He tips his head and gestures between them. "Then is it possible we were ever more than just friends?"

He notices the dilation of her pupils and the contraction of muscles along her jaw, but her countenance otherwise remains stoic. "It is," she answers in a whisper.

Burq inches his face nearer to hers. "How close were we?"

"I cannot answer this question for you."

"Why not?"

"Because the definition of this said closeness was different for both of us."

He grins, staring into the black of her orbs. "You know," he flicks his tongue between his lips, "I don't like your name."

Leyla fails to keep her chuckle, leaning slightly away from him. "Do tell why," she says with amusement.

"Leyla means night, and night is both dark and silent— hauntingly so like a grave. I've never liked it." He motions with his chin towards her. "When you can't give me a straight answer, you steer the conversation in a direction to lose me. Your darkness, like your name, envelopes my queries entirely. But your silence," he shakes his head, "its raw and screaming to me."

Her easy demeanor slowly dissolves as she stiffens, swallowing uneasily. He can hear her breathing in the still air as his own. He doesn't let go of her gaze.

Eventually she pushes herself off his bed and stands up. "The dawn is about to crack." She looks at him. "Would you rest some more or should I send Waleed to help you freshen up?"

"I'll watch the sunrise from my patio," he replies.

Leyla nods. "I shall go pray. I'll make you breakfast afterwards."

Burq hums and she walk towards the door.

"Wait," he stops her and she turns back towards him. "I don't have a prayer mat in my house."

She smiles at him. "I'll ask Waleed for something."

"You can take my keffiyeh," he quickly suggests, then sheepishly scratches his head. "But will you pray to God for me?"

Her smile turns tender and genuine. "I will."

"What will you ask Him for me?"

"I don't need to specify it to Him, for He already knows what's in your heart."

With that she leaves, closing the door behind her.

Burq exhales audibly, staring after her. "Then I hope He fixes my heart, habibi."

➳

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