. . .

. . .

~

"You are not a drop in the ocean. You are the entire ocean in a drop." —Rumi

~

Haroun wakes in the middle of the night, eyes opening to mostly darkness save for a sliver of moonlight peeking through the windows. He rubs his eyes, huffs out tiredly, and rolls up into a sitting position.

The clock reads 1:42 A.M.

He shakes his head and pours himself a glass of water, knowing this will only give him a harder time falling asleep but drinking it anyway.

After setting the glass back down, he stands and trudges to the door, opening it to glance out into the long hallway.

Every single chandelier is lit and Zoya's door is wide open, the lights brightening her room up as well.

Haroun hesitates, then walks over to her room. He peeks in, observing Zoya's appearance. She's in a T-shirt and leggings, blanket half covering her and half sweeping the floor. One hand rests underneath the right side of her head and the other dangles near the edge of the bed.

Her face is smooth of any animosity, any hostility, any fear or pain. It's soft, open.

Vulnerable.

Haroun steps in and walks over to her slowly. He pauses when he's close enough, surprised as well as saddened by the scars riddling her arms. The arms she never exposes, probably for this very reason, except in the comfort of her own presence. For a moment, he simply stares down at her, wondering how someone who is so bitter most of the time can look so peaceful in sleep.

His mother's words ring through his head suddenly. Be there for her. She needs you right now.

He recalls his words, his frustration. His watery eyes. I just need some time, Mama.

And the more time you take, the more guarded she will become. She sees you as a source of comfort.

But I shouldn't be her sole source of comfort.

Haroun, do you think it was easy for her to beg you for marriage like that? Can you imagine what amount of helplessness made her resort to that as a last option?

Then Haroun reaches down and adjusts the covers over Zoya, tucking them carefully around her. She shifts a bit, curls falling forward onto her face, eyebrows furrowing slightly, hands warding off unseen demons. The scars on her forearms become more visible with her movement.

Haroun freezes, but breathes out a sigh when the wrinkles in her forehead smooth out and she snuggles into the blanket. As he watches her, he recalls the conversation they had earlier that night. She had said her ex's name for the first time — Farhan — and suddenly so many things had made sense to Haroun.

And then he remembers talking to Mumtaz bibi about Zoya. The elderly woman had said that Haroun entering Zoya's life was a huge blessing and that she had observed Zoya's fondness of him. She had said that maybe Haroun could be the one to help Zoya confront her past and heal, to help her change.

Haroun had shaken his head. If change comes, it will be by Allah's hand. Besides, I feel like true advice comes after two people are entirely comfortable with each other. I don't wanna force anything on her when she's especially vulnerable and hard on herself. She already thinks she lacks any goodness — one wrong word from someone she cares about and she'll never see potential for growth and change. I think she needs to believe in herself before she's ready to tackle her insecurities.

Haroun stands over Zoya for a second, arms folded, before turning back around to exit the room.

At the door, however, a strange gravity tugs at him, forcing him to turn around.

And then he leans back against the doorframe, folds his arms over his chest, and continues to watch her sleep.

. . .

At the breakfast table, Aisha chitters excitedly about an art gala taking place at her school, where a couple of her paintings will be showcased. Zoya and Naima cheer her on as she does a little celebration in her seat. Her mother smiles at her.

Haroun, however, sits quietly. Occasionally his eyelids droop and his head jerks towards his cereal bowl, but he snaps back awake with a disoriented gaze around the room.

When Zoya had watched him pour his milk, she had choked mid-chew and almost spit out her food, to which Haroun had given her a raised brow.

"You put the milk before the cereal?" she had exclaimed.

His answering smile had been riddled with fatigue. "I feel like it lets me control how much cereal I take."

Zoya had stopped chewing despite the casual way in which he had phrased his statement. That was not what she had expected. His words nagged at her.

Until she had realized with an uncomfortable twist in her stomach.

She has no sense of organized control the way Haroun does. No sense, especially when it comes to forcibly taking the things she wants. The concept of delayed gratification is foreign to her, alien. She needs everything in her grasp at the exact moment that she desires it.

And then there is this man — who measures his milk carefully so that he doesn't take too much cereal.

Zoya blinks, trying to shake the swirling thought out of her mind.

The thought that she has not done good to him.

"Calculating the electrons in your milk, bhai?" Aisha queries in a casual tone, but Zoya doesn't miss the concern on her face.

"What?"

"Nothing. Everything okay?"

"Yeah." His movements are hazy. He rubs his eyes.

Ammi's all furrowed brows. "You didn't get enough sleep?"

For a brief moment, his eyes shift to Zoya before he turns back to his mom. "I couldn't sleep last night."

Ammi runs a hand through his hair. "Chalo, you have some time before work. Get some rest, then."

He shakes his head. "Can't. I have a job interview at a bank today."

Once the breakfast is cleared, Haroun bids them goodbye. He gives a kiss to each one of his family members, then turns to Zoya as Aisha waggles her brows suggestively. He leans close, gives Zoya a swift peck on the forehead, and backs away quickly.

Zoya feels a mix of relief and disappointment.

Once he leaves, the women sit together for a bit before each scatters to her own work. After a phone call with an investor in Pakistan, Zoya trudges upstairs to get ready for the office.

On the way to her room, she passes by Naima's and hears sniffles inside. A moment of hesitation later, she knocks on the door. "Can I come?"

There's a short laugh from inside. "Bhabhi, this is your house."

"And your brother's," Zoya reminds her as she enters, stopping short suddenly. Naima is sitting in the midst of scattered pictures, hastily wiping her cheeks. "What's wrong?"

"Oh, it's nothing." Naima forces a laugh. "I was packing some of my stuff before we go to our grandpa's and found these. Just got a little nostalgic."

Zoya bends down, observing the pictures. With a start, she realizes they are all of Haroun and his family. Through all ages. Pictures of two little girls and one little boy laughing and splashing around in a pool. Pictures of the three of them at the amusement park. Pictures through the ages. Through their graduations, other accomplishments, and parties at home. And in some pictures stand their parents on either side of them, laughing and staring at them with adoration in their eyes. As the years pass, one parent begins to disappear from the pictures, but the children who have grown older still force smiles on their faces for the camera.

Sharpness pricks at Zoya's eyes. What must it feel like to have a wholesome family like this? To capture memories through laughs and tears to be looked at later and reminisced over? Zoya's childhood had consisted of crayons and markers and papers bought of the highest class, which she had excitedly used for drawings upon drawings of the perfect family to show to her dad, expecting him to appreciate the talent but becoming grossly disappointed as he simply turned his face away with storms in his eyes.

Zoya raises her gaze to Naima. "Wow," she manages to say. "These are beautiful."

Naima smiles wistfully. "Yeah." She points to one. "This is when bhai went ziplining for the first time. Aisha was crying because she was too young to go, while I was scared to even watch bhai go. But he was excited beyond imagination." She chuckles. "He was always fearless. Always wanting to try new things. Both of them."

"Was?"

Naima sighs. "He's . . . different now. Seems like he's afraid to have fun, to enjoy himself. Afraid to be happy."

Zoya settles into a more comfortable position. "How come?"

There is a sad smile on the younger girl's face. "After what happened with our dad and then" — her eyes dart quickly to Zoya — "Sumaiya, I don't think he really allows himself the liberty to be too happy. I've seen how much he struggles with placing his trust in Allah in this matter. He wants to be happy without thinking of the consequences, but we're all human, aren't we?"

"Wow." Zoya's voice is full of awe. She is shocked, to say the least, about the way Haroun thinks of happiness. It is startlingly similar to her own mindset.

Naima's face darkens. "It's a horrible thing, isn't it? To know that a single incident can change your entire life?"

"Maybe sometimes the change is good." Zoya shrugs.

"Yes," Naima agrees. "But to gain something valuable, we always lose something important in return."

This quiets Zoya. She thinks for a moment. "You know, Haroun really doesn't seem like the guy you're describing."

Naima laughs. "That's because he's closed off most of the time. Battling his demons all on his own. He hardly shares his problems with anyone." She rubs a hand over her forehead in a motion laced with fatigue. "Have you seen him? He has these permanent eye bags and carries himself like something's weighing down on him, but he bottles it all in. Throws a forceful smile when he catches anyone staring."

This, more than anything, concerns Zoya. Because she knows Naima is right. She has seen Haroun's exhausted demeanor, has been plagued at work by thoughts of what could be bothering him. But she has also always seen Haroun as stable, a peg in the ground. Untouchable. Unshakeable. And this — this description of him — it makes him utterly human.

"But he always seems so . . . composed," Zoya says.

Naima's responding laugh is bitter. "That's the talent, isn't it? He fools everyone. But I've woken up so many nights hearing him crying in his room, and I've been too afraid to comfort him. He's the kind of person who . . . feels as if he shouldn't talk to loved ones about his problems."

"But that's what they're for," Zoya argues.

"Exactly. But I think he feels like he's burdening people by telling them about his issues. He thinks people have their own battles to fight and he's just adding more baggage by sharing his."

Zoya scoffs. "That's insane and foolishly selfless. He needs to take care of himself before he takes care of others. Otherwise, he'll be pouring from an empty cup all his life."

Naima sighs with a shrug. She runs her fingers over the pictures absentmindedly as the two of them stare into the distance, lost in thought.

"What does your brother dream of doing for a good time?" Zoya's voice turns mischievous to lighten the mood.

Naima's lips turn up. "Adventurous things. Dangerous things. Like zip lining or roof topping or riding a helicopter on top of New York City or something equally exciting. He likes taking chances like that, experiencing new things. Him and Farhan are always embarking on some new adventure."

Zoya thinks of Haroun's lowered gaze and his dignified demeanor. "He really does keep it all in, doesn't he?" When Naima gives her a quizzical looks, she clarifies, "I mean, no one would be able to tell by looking at him that he enjoys wild things like that."

The younger girl chuckles. "You're right. If he wasn't my brother, I would think he would call reading on a Friday night a fun time." She pauses, then backtracks quickly. "Not that reading on a Friday night isn't a fun time."

Zoya turns to her, observes her face. While Aisha looks every bit like Haroun, with her glossy raven curls and dimpled cheeks, Naima is pretty in a softer way. A big-brown-eyed, less-curly-haired way. Looking at her, Zoya thinks of the day Naima told her father not to put up the pretense of caring. It makes Zoya think of how surprised she'd been to hear her say that. Not only because it was unexpected, but also because while Aisha is boisterous, quick to trust, and finds comfort in the tensest of situations, quiet Naima is more careful, always seeming to be fidgeting. Carrying herself as if she believes she weighs a little too heavily on the ground.

"What's your idea of a fun time?" Zoya asks her.

She grins. "Reading on a Friday night?" The two of them break out into giggles

"What about the future? What are your plans after college?"

"I want to be a mother." She smiles dreamily before an immediate wariness settles over her face. Her eyes dart towards Zoya.

Zoya offers her a smile, and the girl relaxes somewhat. "Yeah? I can totally see that."

Naima's eyes spark. "I want to marry somebody who makes me fall in love with him every day. And I want to have his children."

It's such a simple, small request. But the magnitude with which she says it coupled with the longing in her gaze tells Zoya how much this means to her.

Months ago, perhaps Zoya would have sneered down her nose at this girl. Rolled her eyes and told her she was too high up in the clouds. But something has changed in her after being surrounded by this gentle family, specifically Haroun. So instead of passing a snarky comment, she says, "And you shall."

Naima shakes her head, scoffing. "Too bad not everybody thinks like you." She turns to her bhabhi, hesitant. "Do you know how difficult it is to live in a dominantly Western environment, having people constantly shove radical feminism down your throat? To have them sneer at you and call you oppressed or backward when you say you'd rather be a housewife than work towards a career simply because your idea of a successful life is different from theirs?" She scoffs again, turning away to focus her gaze on the pictures scattered about the floor.

Zoya raises her brows at this. Having spent the majority of her working life in the business sector full of people from all walks of life, she can definitely attest to this reversed bigotry. She has certainly met some radical feminists in her time — on both ends of the spectrum — and it has made her realize how truly complicated the issue is. With some people masking their beliefs for fear of ridicule and others misinterpreting the entire issue and others going unheard due to their opinion's lack of popularity.

But hearing someone else point out these things — especially this reserved, gentle girl — is an entirely different story.

"I think that's stupid." Zoya shrugs. "Every woman wields her power in different ways."

Naima laughs without mirth. "Unfortunately, the world is not as open-minded as you, bhabhi. In one of my classes, I made the mistake of saying that I'd rather be a housewife than a working woman. And a girl turned to me and said, 'Yeah, well isn't that, like, in your culture anyway?'" Naima lets out a sound of pure frustration. "I've learned that it's so difficult to earn respect as a woman in today's society if you are not a working woman. Because somehow, being less conspicuous makes you less intelligent or ambitious."

Zoya lifts a tentative hand and squeezes the younger girl's shoulder. Words bubble to her lips, but all of them taste wrong. What can she say to make this torn girl feel better?

After a moment, she takes a deep breath. "I think you're incredibly admirable for saying those things in a classroom full of people who are opposed to your ambitions. And it doesn't matter what they think. Your strength lies here." She taps Naima's temple. "You are just as fierce as those women on battlefields or those women at the forefront of every protest. You are not limited to a single definition."

Zoya stands up and smiles, satisfied. Naima gives her a bright, real smile in return.

"Well," Zoya blows out a sigh. "I better get to work. You know, because my worth lies in my being a working woman." Naima laughs as Zoya edges out of the door, a strange happiness settling in her heart.

. . .

In her office, Zoya pages the receptionist to send the good-for-nothing man in. When he knocks and enters, Zoya gestures for Farhan to sit down.

"You asked for me, Ms. Zoya?" Farhan says. He trembles a little less around her now, though the tense expression never truly leaves his face.

What Zoya wants more than anything after her past has been exposed is for people not to pity her, to treat her like she's normal. Haroun is like that. And — as much as she despises him — Farhan is like that too. And this attitude causes her to be a degree less frustrated around him.

Just a degree.

She slides a file towards him. "I need you to go over this again."

He opens the file, looks over it briefly, and nods. Zoya talks some other things over with him, and while she's speaking, Bill continues to periodically come into the office. First he sets some files at the desk near the door, then he enters with a crystal jug of water which he settles on her desk, and later he simply peeks in and glances at them. Frustrated, Zoya says, "What, Bill Nye?"

"Just checking to see you haven't killed him."

Zoya scrutinizes him. "Do I look like I'm capable of murder?"

Bill hesitates. "Do you want me to answer that?"

"Get out," she says instead, and Farhan covers his laugh up with a pathetic excuse of a cough. Zoya turns her narrowed eyes to him. "Tumhe bari hasee aa rahi hai, huh? Chalo, tum bi niklo. Jaao." Farhan picks up the file, uses it to cover his widening grin, and quickly exits her office.

Zoya rolls her eyes, catching her expression in the small ornate mirror on her desk. "I wouldn't kill anyone," she scoffs.

Not literally, anyway. Only metaphorically, a voice in her head nags.

Zoya gazes at her reflection in the small mirror, then turns her eyes skyward, deep in thought. Then she murmurs, "Oh, shut up, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde."

. . .