Damian didn't try to return the booklet Yasmine gave him the next day at school. I took that as a somewhat good sign. Unless he had forgotten about it...but every time I had the misfortune of locking eyes with Damian, I could see that he hadn't forgotten, nor had he given any hint that he had remembered either. I wondered if he had attempted to read it, and I wondered what he thought if he did. But Allah didn't make us mind readers for a reason, and communication was the key to our existence - responsible for both the good and bad parts.

"Let him come to us," Yasmine said on Wednesday at the lockers. Damian wasn't at the lockers that often, not that I knew his whereabouts every hour of the day like some girls in our year level did. Ever since Samantha confessed to me her feelings for Damian, I'd been noticing her with him a lot more. The times I would sit with Theo, Denise and Yasmine in our usual spot on the grass across from the fence where Damian and his gang hung out, I'd see Samantha talking avidly with Damian, singling him out while the rest of their group clustered off. Aidan was dating Annabelle, who was a petite blonde with a musical laugh, and though it wasn't my business, I'd check Yasmine's reaction and she didn't seem fazed about it at all. In fact, I was more interested about them than Yasmine was, and I wasn't interested at all.

I found myself looking toward the popular gang more than I should've, for my friends would have to wave a hand in front of my face to snap me back to focus. Each time Denise would peer into my eyes with a slight frown, as if she were concerned for me, when I should've been concerned for myself. My eyes were straying to places I didn't belong, to people on a whole different level to me. It was times like those when I felt so isolated as a Muslim in a non-Muslim country. Yeah, I had Yasmine, and my sister by my side, but being around all these people who went about their lives so blindly and carelessly made me yearn to live in an Islamic country where we'd have Fridays off for Jummah and you wouldn't have to worry about food being halal and you could fast in Ramadan without the temptation of food. Now that was the ideal life for me in this world.

Zeinab's volunteering shift went so badly that she decided to withdraw from it. Apparently she had delivered wholemeal bread to a gluten free patient by accident and she had spilled a water jug in the kitchen, so she decided that perhaps it was best she stayed at home. Baba and Mama tried to convince her to continue, but Zeinab was so embarrassed by her mistakes she couldn't bear going back there again. Zeinab liked to make good first impressions, however if she failed she found it hard to face the same people afterward. I used to be like that, until I realized that not many people remembered first impressions, and that some of us were just that forgettable.

Zaid and I ended up working on different floors of Building A for this Wednesday's shift. I served meals to patients younger than Zeinab, and most of them had parents with them when I knocked on the door. There were a couple of Muslims who greeted me with the universal peace greeting of Salamu Alaykum, which I returned, always happy to see other Muslims, even if they were in an unfortunate place like the hospital.

By the time my break rolled around I was extremely hungry. Serving food was torture for my empty stomach, and this time Mama packed me some fried rice with cinnamon chicken, pine nuts and almonds. It was a traditional Lebanese dish and it was probably one of my favourites. She'd even packed me some tabouli in a separate container, and I heated up the rice in the microwave of the tearoom on the floor I was working on, my mouth watering as I watched it spin inside the radiation chamber. Once it was warm enough, I took it outside and headed to the elevators so I could eat in the food court. I found Zaid at the café, buying himself a vegetarian focaccia.

"That looks delicious," I commented as he bit into the plump Italian bread sprinkled with herbs and melting with cheese.

"I could say the same for yours. Is that riz al-dajaj?" Zaid pointed to my steaming Tupperware, and I nodded, grinning.

"It's the best, especially when my mum makes it," I replied, spooning some rice into my mouth, the nuts crunching in my teeth.

"Sometimes my mum makes it, too, even though she's Palestinian," Zaid said, wiping his mouth with a napkin and once again impressing me with his civil eating habits. I was tempted to take a photo just to show Nasr how a real man was supposed to eat like. Wait a minute, did I just call Zaid a man? Well, he certainly wasn't a woman, haha.

"Palestinian food is so good," I groaned, remembering the maqluba I had tasted at a Middle Eastern restaurant. It was so rich in spices and flavour, with the fried eggplant and tomato and rice...

"It is," Zaid agreed without hesitation. "Have you tried musakhan?" I shook my head sheepishly, and Zaid's eyes widened. "Girl, you don't know what you've been missing! If you haven't tried musakhan, what have you tried, then?"

"Maqluba," I sighed dreamily. Maqluba meant 'upside down' in Arabic, because the dish was cooked in a pot and then served on the plate upside down. Palestinians sure had an interesting way of serving food.

"Yeah, that's pretty good, but you haven't truly lived until you try musakhan. I've got to get you to try it sometime," Zaid grinned.

I raised an eyebrow. "And when will this sometime be?" I inquired.

Zaid winked. "When you're ready."

"Do I have to undergo some kind of training to try this musakhan, Zaid?" I snorted.

"No, but you do have to do one other thing, though," Zaid alluded.

"What's that?" I smirked.

"Meet my mother," Zaid said it so casually, but I couldn't help choking on my tabouli.

"And why would I do that?" I grabbed a tissue and coughed into it, the spicy rice burning my throat. Zaid offered me his water bottle but I declined. I wished I had brought my own water bottle, but I was too lazy to.

"Because my mother makes the best, and I mean the best musakhan in the world, and if you try it from anyone else it will never be as good," Zaid said solemnly, his gaze fixed on me. Whatever happened to lowering your gaze?

"And how will this meeting go about?" I asked lightly. I was concentrating on not choking on my food from here on out, and trying to enjoy the flavour without thinking about what Zaid was actually saying.

"I was thinking maybe you could come over to my house, with your family, and we'd have one big meal mingling both our cuisines and cultures, talking about life and...happiness," Zaid sounded wistful at the word happiness, as if it were a goal he was reaching, so close yet so far away.

"Have you found happiness, Zaid?" I queried, scraping the base of my container streaked with grease. Seriously, my mum put so much olive oil in her cooking!

Zaid stroked his chin in thought for a moment, and I noticed the shadow of stubble. No surprise, since Nasr sprouted his first beard at sixteen, and Middle Eastern guys tended to peak early, hair-wise. "I can't say that I have. But I'm nearly there," he replied finally.

"What's stopping you from reaching happiness, Zaid?" I was full of deep questions today, wasn't I?

Zaid pierced me with his gaze, the wind blowing through his hair and barely disturbing his black locks as he responded with, "You."

"Me? How am I stopping your happiness?" I asked, feeling accused.

Zaid shook his head to my question. "You're not stopping it, Mariam. That's the thing -" he sighed, glancing down at his half eaten focaccia. "You are my happiness."

I didn't know how to react to this, so I just laughed. And not just a couple of 'ha-ha's, no, this was a full-blown rupture of laughs that I couldn't stop.

"What's so funny?" Zaid asked, seeming confused as to why I laughed. I was confused too, because he sounded so serious.

"You're not...joking?" I faltered, my smile vanishing. Zaid had stated it so bluntly and abruptly that I was sure he was just fooling around, as usual.

Then Zaid's face broke into a grin, his shoulders shaking with laughter. "Of course I was joking, Mariam! Lighten up, you looked so scared for a second," he said as he finished his food. I watched him for a moment, studying his expression as if searching for some kind of clue as to what he was thinking. Why were men so ambiguous with their thoughts?

"Scared? And what would I be scared of in this case?" I questioned, knowing the answer, deep down.

Zaid looked up then, smirking. "Me."

"You're ridiculous," I muttered, closing the lid of my container.

"And you're b -"

At that point I stood up, my chair scraping loudly against the concrete as I checked my phone for the time. "Our break's over. We better get back," I said, wiping my fingers on a clean napkin and gathering my stuff.

Zaid looked confused for a second, before nodding, brow puckered. "Yeah, we better."

I never got to hear what he was going to say, nor did I want to. I already felt guilty for eating with him in a public place and spending time with him. Even worse than that was I enjoyed every second of it. Astaghfurullah. I couldn't let things like this distract me.

We waited for the elevator, seconds passing by ever so slowly in silence.

Finally the doors opened, and I was about to step in when Zaid pulled me back, fingers gripping the crook of my arm, for a swamp of people spilled out of the lift, and I would've been stampeded on if Zaid hadn't pulled me out of the way.

I glanced up at him, smiling my thanks, even if he had touched me without my permission. Zaid smiled back. "You should be more careful, Mariam," he scolded in a light tone.

I rolled my eyes at him, eyes flitting back to the elevator as a man in crutches limped out. And just when I thought the lift couldn't have carried any more people, one more passenger stepped out. Damian.

Damian's POV

I wasn't surprised to see her here, but I was surprised about the dude beside her, who had his fingers curled around her arm, standing by her side. It wasn't her brother - I knew how Nasr looked like. No, this guy was a complete stranger, and he was smiling at her like she was something special. Did I agree with his smile? Maybe.

"Damian," whenever I heard my name being spoken by a girl, it was always accompanied by the batting of eyelashes and a stroke of my arm, said in a sultry tone that turned me on, but this girl didn't do any of that. Not that she was the first, because I knew there were girls who thought I was a cocky jerk preceded by his reputation as a bad boy. It was one of the reasons I found her...intriguing. She was a challenge, and not in the ways that I wanted to conquer and move on, but someone with an immovable force I wanted to stay with, because I was that stubborn.

"Hi," I said, because what else was I supposed to say? Mariam wasn't someone I could ignore easily, even if I had been doing that for the last couple of days.

The guy beside her turned his gaze to me, scrutinizing me as I emerged from the elevator. He had released his grip on her arm, but he stood by her side protectively. I arched an eyebrow, wondering what this dude's intention was.

Mariam offered me a smile, but it was hesitant, an emotion she never showed, except when I proposed the bet. She was purposeful with all her actions, but the way she regarded me as if I was something fragile and taboo made my fists clench up instinctively. This was exactly what I had wanted to avoid, but I had gone and ruined it by blurting my sorrow to her first. Why did I choose her to load my burdens onto? Because I knew she could take it, and because I wanted to see if it would break her boundless hope. But it seemed to only strengthen it even more.

"Let's go," the guy murmured, leading the way into the elevator and passing me in a cloud of his cologne. Only douches wore that much cologne...wait a minute. Man, I was such a hypocrite.

Mariam followed him in, and for a moment I watched him press the button as Mariam shuffled from one foot to the other, locking eyes with me as the doors closed. Those eyes of hers held such a diverse mix of emotions, and for a moment I saw a particular emotion I recognized in myself occasionally - and I was talking every blue moon here - guilt.

Mariam's POV

"Who was that guy?" Zaid questioned me.

I shrugged nonchalantly. "He goes to my school," I replied honestly. But there was a difference between being honest and being vague about the details.

"Is he a friend?"

I turned to Zaid as we travelled upwards in the lift, amused by his question. "Friend?" I echoed, tasting the word. No, Damian wasn't a friend. We didn't swap numbers and meet up on the weekends, nor did we talk about our weekends and...wait a minute.

"Yeah, you know, a companion that one tends to share interests with," Zaid defined sarcastically as the doors opened for our floor.

"I know what a friend is, and Damian definitely isn't one," I snapped.

Zaid raised his eyebrows. "Okay, okay, no need to get snappy about it. Unless..."

"Unless what?' I grumbled as we weaved past nurses and doctors. Some day that would be me, In Sha Allah...

"Unless you like him," Zaid teased, and I couldn't refrain from groaning.

"Oh, puh-lease, don't even start."

"Why? Is it true?" Zaid peered at me with a playful expression tainted with...no, it couldn't be. Could it?

I shook my head. "Not even close, mate."

Zaid let out a stream of air. "Alhamdulillah."

I chuckled at his use of praising Allah, and then it got me thinking: did Allah decide who we had feelings for or was that up to us? You know what, let's save that question for another day - it was way too profound for a Wednesday evening.

***

"Why do you wear a scarf on your head?"

I smiled at the young girl's question as I organized the playroom. There were a handful of kids in the room building Lego - reminding me of Zaid - or at the table colouring pictures. My job was to sort the bookshelf and make sure there were no hazardous objects for these young kids to accidentally step or trip on.

"Well, it's basically to protect me from all the evils of this world," I explained in simple terms to the blonde girl with a bandage on the side of her face, scabs on her chin and her arms. She had been colouring until I came in, and I had suddenly become so interesting to stare at. When kids stared at me, I tended to not take it too seriously because they were just kids, exploring the world with their senses, but sometimes it could get a little uncomfortable.

At my answer, the blond girl's blue eyes widened. "So it's like armour? Like on a superhero?" her voice rose with each word in awe.

I nodded, amused by her innocence. She couldn't have been more than six. "Exactly. I'm a super-Muslim."

"Muslim?"

"Yeah, I'm a Muslim," I told her.

"Are all Muslims superheros like you?" she asked, making me melt with her cuteness. She had no idea, did she?

"Not all," I admitted honestly. "But some of us are."

The boy at the table with her glanced up with big hazel eyes, his left arm in a cast, however that didn't stop him from colouring a picture of a dinosaur. "Can I be a superhero too?" he asked eagerly.

"Of course," I said as I dusted the shelves. They were very dusty, and it wasn't healthy for the kids, especially the ones with asthma.

"She's a super-Muslim," the blonde girl whispered to the boy, making his wide eyes grow even wider.

"Cool," he breathed, and I chuckled amusingly, continuing with my work. Eventually, their parents came and took them back to their hospital rooms, and I noticed they had left a couple of their colourings behind. I glanced over at one of them, laughing when I saw that they had drawn a caricature of a Muslim girl in a hijab with a cape and a big smile. If only all people in the world viewed us like these kids did. How peaceful this world would be.

***

"I have a question."

I pretended to look taken aback. "You do? Wow, I never thought I'd live to see the day - Damian has a question." There was something about sarcasm that just made anything sound funnier, but Damian didn't seem to appreciate my sarcasm. What a waste of my sarcasm, I thought sadly as I packed away my books.

"I'm being serious, so listen up," Damian did sound serious, which was scary, because since when was Damian serious? Oh, wait, that's right, since...

"About that book...scientific miracles and stuff," Damian continued as I gave him my attention. Frankly, we had just survived the first physics test of the year, so my brain was a little buzzed, and I didn't know if I was ready to answer any questions at the moment. But as soon as he mentioned the book, well, I couldn't refuse, could I?

"What about it?"

"It's..." I shut my locker, sandwich in my hand (Nutella and banana this time because I was craving something sweet in the morning), and turned to see his expression. Since Wednesday, he'd been strange around me. Stranger than usual, of course, but this type of strange was better described as cautious. So it seemed we were both tiptoeing around each other like a ballet performance.

"It's what? Interesting?" I smirked as Damian scratched his head, brow puckered.

"I was going to say intense," Damian said instead. I let him get to his locker, and he pulled out the book mentioned, handing it to me. I hummed in approval. He had managed to keep it intact, something he had been unsuccessful with in the past when handed stationery or, God forbid, textbooks. It wasn't my book - it was Yasmine's, well, technically, it was her brother's, so when Yasmine handed it to him I was surprised, because first of all, she must've stolen it from him, and second of all, if Yusuf found out, she'd be a dead woman. He was very possessive over his possessions, as one should be.

"Well, I suppose it is for someone outside of the religion," I remarked, tucking the book under my arm. Yasmine still wasn't here - I swear that girl walked slower than a snail. Oops, I exaggerated.

"That's the thing, it was intense, but not religiously," at Damian's words my heart sunk. He turned to me with those eyes of his...why did God bless him like that? They made me feel funny, like he was undressing my soul. Okay, maybe that was a bit too provocative. "The facts were cool and all, but I'd rather stick to science, since it's more legit."

"Legit?" I scoffed. "Half of the things you read were revealed way before science, plus, they are all proven to be accurate, so which one is more legit? The word of Man or the word of God?"

"There you go again with the G word," Damian tutted, slinging his bag over his shoulder. I raised my eyebrows. Where was he off to?