. . .

. . .

~

The Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him, said, "The best of you are those who are best to their wives." (Tirmidhi)

~

Haroun's phone rings.

Zoya glances at the caller ID, a smirk playing on her face. She picks up the call and turns the speaker on.

"HAROUN!" Farhan bellows. Zoya slaps her palms over her ears, quickly turning the speaker off.

"HAROUN!" He yells again, and the man being called appears from the other room, a quizzical expression on his face. He takes one look at Zoya's giggly features and folds his arms in mock anger. "MY BOY, GUESS WHAT?"

Zoya clears her throat and alters her voice a few degrees deeper. "What?"

"I prayed five times a day this whole week!" His voice is ecstatic, and Zoya can imagine the expression on his face even through the phone.

Haroun rushes forward, grabbing the phone from a silently giggling Zoya. "Really?" he says to Farhan.

"Yes! I did it!"

Haroun strides into the other room. "See? I knew you could do it." Pause. "You're the man. Now we're gonna keep this up, alright?"

Zoya rolls her eyes at the childlike excitement in their voices and turns back to the designer files in her hands.

When Haroun enters the room again, he opens his mouth to say something before he receives another call. Sending Zoya an apologetic look with this eyes, he picks it up. After returning, he says, "My boss asked me to order a cake for someone in the company. It's for his tenure."

Zoya jumps at this opportunity for conversation. Although Haroun has been very glum since Sunehri died, she can tell he is trying to get past it. "What kind of cake?"

"Nothing too fancy. He's a simple, homey kind of guy."

Zoya mulls over it before she has a brilliant idea. One that will (hopefully) allow Haroun to loosen up a bit. Although she grudgingly has to admit he's looking much better after Farhan's call. "Why don't we bake the cake for him?"

Haroun processes this for a moment. "That's . . . actually not a bad idea."

"Litotes, Mr. Suleiman?"

He stares at her as if she's grown another head. Zoya laughs. "It's a literary device. Like when someone says 'not bad' instead of saying 'good.'" Haroun watches her strangely before cracking a smile.

"I didn't know you were the English type," he says amusedly.

Zoya shrugs as they both head to the kitchen. "I did best in English class."

"Really? What class did you do worst in?"

Zoya wrinkles her nose. "History."

Haroun chuckles. "History was definitely boring. But I really hated chemistry." Zoya gives him a surprised look, to which he says, "what?"

"I just thought you'd be the chemistry type. You know, helping everyone out with formulas. Wearing extra thick goggles. Smarter than the teacher. Etcetera."

"You think too highly of me." His voice is casual as he reaches into cabinets to pull material out, but Zoya can sense the distress behind that statement.

"So what was your favorite subject?"

Haroun thinks about it for a moment, baking powder suspended in his hands. "Honestly, I'm not sure. I think in college it was religion classes, but in high school it may have been . . . Spanish?"

Zoya lets out a gleeful laugh. "¿Habla español?"

Haroun flicks her nose before he pours the bakery contents into a mixing bowl. "Sí, mon chéri."

Zoya tuts. "Eso no es español."

"Hayır, aşkım."

Zoya dissects his accent. "That's not Spanish either." Then she pauses, backtracking. "Did you call me mon chéri?"

Haroun dodges her question and says, "Can you pass me the eggs?"

She does. "And what was that second thing you said? Aşkım?"

"That means lightbulb."

Zoya sputters out a laugh at his attempt to slide her off. "You know I can Google translate it, right?"

"If you figure out how to spell it right, sure." Haroun smiles at her then, and Zoya is relieved he's momentarily distracted from Sunehri.

They start to prepare the cake together, with Zoya occasionally joking around and Haroun artfully dodging her questions. He watches her curiously when she does all the messy work with her sleeves rolled down as usual, but she doesn't give him a chance to ask as she ties an apron around his waist. In return, he gathers her hair into a bandanna.

When Zoya sees that Haroun is busy mixing the contents and pouring them into a pan, she sidles to the sink to wash her hands. Instinctively, she pushes her sleeves up and laughs at something he says. She doesn't notice when he comes up behind her.

Zoya's laughter dies down when her scars become visible to him. She darts a quick glance at Haroun and sees him looking at her with an almost curious expression on his face.

Her heart begins to thump really fast.

It seems that the atmosphere thickens with tension. Although Zoya is pretty sure Haroun has seen her arms while she's sleeping, she has always consciously worn long sleeves. But right now, in her conscious awareness, he is witnessing her malfunctions.

Haroun is one of the only good things in her life. And when she sees the one of the only good things in her life witnessing all of the ugliness in it, she has the overwhelming desire to self-destruct.

Zoya suddenly has a hard time breathing and the spoon in her hand clatters to the floor as she spins and rushes away. Upstairs. Into her room. She bangs the bathroom door open and stands breathlessly in front of the sink, chest heaving up and down.

When Zoya sees herself in the mirror, her eyes trail down to her exposed arms. After therapy, her scars have stopped bothering her so much, but to know that Haroun has seen them in front of her now tugs at her uncomfortably.

She clutches at her throat, feeling as if she may throw everything inside of her up. She should have known. She should have known her life only consisted of small glimpses of happiness in between everything dreary and horrifying. Zoya claws at herself, rubs her arms, scratches the scars. Wanting them to go away. Wanting them gone and invisible.

She doesn't want to see them, doesn't want to be reminded of them. Not when she finally began to forget them.

"Zoya?" Haroun's voice is distant, but his footsteps are coming closer with every second. Zoya halts, breath hitching as she cries. She doesn't want him here. He shouldn't be here. He shouldn't see her like this. She makes a move to close the bathroom door but hears rushed footsteps and suddenly Haroun is blocking her path, palm flat against the door. His eyes are wide, confused, appearance disheveled.

Haroun's eyes trail down, and everywhere he looks Zoya feels as if she is on fire with shame. As if his gaze will make her erupt into flames with the humiliation of what she is carrying. His eyes move to her raw, reddened arms.

She turns her back to him.

"Zoya." His voice is soft, gentle. But she doesn't want that right now. She wants him to go as far away from her as possible so she can drown in her mortification.

Through the mirror, Zoya sees his hand lift but edges away so he can't touch her. "Zoya," he murmurs. "It's okay."

Zoya shakes her head and wraps her arms around herself, tears streaming down her face. Loud sobs emit from her. The desire for the ground to open up and swallow her whole becomes increasingly intense.

She feels Haroun's hand touch her shoulder, and she flinches away from him, wiping her nose of the snot that has accumulated. "Hey," he tries again, this time stepping around her to look at her. Zoya turns away once more, feeling awfully bruised and beaten. Like a malfunctioned electronic piece he is trying to put back together.

She wants to short circuit. She wants to be done.

"Zoya, look at me." His tone is firm.

She doesn't. But then his fingers come up under her chin and lift her face, and suddenly she is staring into his strong black eyes.

Zoya's chin wobbles, and Haroun shakes his head slowly. "It's okay."

Despite wanting to hold herself together, Zoya fails miserably as more tears come gushing out, trailing down her cheeks and trickling onto his fingers at her chin.

"Let me see," he says quietly. Zoya shakes her head, mortified. She begins to turn away but his hold on her chin — though gentle — is firm. Tears pool down her cheeks endlessly. "Zoya."

His voice unravels her, unspools her as it always does.

Slowly, slowly, without looking into his eyes, Zoya lifts her arms and turns them over to showcase the scars. Looking at them while he is awakens a new feeling within her. A renewed disgust. The urge to itch and scratch at her skin until it becomes raw overtakes her again, but she remains utterly frozen. Posture tense, waiting for his reaction.

Zoya suddenly remembers something Ms. Fray had said. "The first step to recovery is your acceptance that something is wrong. That help should be sought. That something is plaguing you. This does not make you in any way a weaker person, in fact it makes you a stronger person because you are willing to acknowledge and accept your own faults and vulnerabilities."

Haroun brings his fingers to her hands and trails them down to her wrists, down her arms, to the crook of her elbows where he holds her steadily. As if he knows the world is spinning beneath her feet. As if he senses she needs an outside force to upright her. Zoya wants to throw his hands off her, tell him to peel his eyes away from the vermin in front of him.

But he does no such thing. Instead, his fingers trail back up to her hands and he loops his fingers through hers. "Do you know what these make you?" he asks her. His voice is a silent thrum in the big, empty house. "A warrior."

At this, a scornful laugh escapes her. "A warrior who lost the battle?" Her voice cracks as it comes out.

"A warrior who was able to return from battle alive." Haroun lifts her left hand and brings it to his cheek. "You may not have thought you won, Zoya, but you survived." Slowly, without taking his eyes off her, he leans into her hand and presses a kiss to her knuckles.

At the contact, something in Zoya breaks, and she begins to sob again. "Shh," Haroun coaxes. When she looks back into his eyes, he says, "You are a warrior because you managed to come back from the battlefield. You managed to survive."

At this, Zoya's eyebrows scrunch together and she leans down to press her cheek to his knuckles. She holds his hand then, steady, and simply stares into his eyes. This man who manages to turn every ugly thing in her life into something so tragically beautiful that she is never able to look at it the same way again.

And maybe, maybe, he is teaching her that the heart beating in her chest deserves to love itself just a little bit, too.

. . .

Weeks pass as the couple transitions from the honeymoon phase to the comfortable phase with one another. They make it a point to take out time throughout the week for one another in between Zoya's busy schedule — because of Zameer's new project — and Haroun's tight schedule. Especially because Zoya had angrily told Haroun they didn't spend enough time with one another and he had profusely apologized and promised to make it up to her.

Zoya frequents the mosque with Haroun nearby regularly, and the community has taken an incredible liking to him. The youth especially connects with him on a very personal basis.

Despite the couple being piled with all forms of work, they still go out together at least once or twice a week. Sometimes they surprise one another by taking the other out to someplace cool, and sometimes they bring the party home. Fast food and laughter in front of the TV screen. Falling asleep together on the couch wrapped in blankets.

Zoya has discovered many interesting new places courtesy of Haroun's adventures. Such as the quiet, serene rooftop overlooking New York City. Where Haroun had gotten surprisingly emotional and told Zoya that he never brought anyone there before because he felt beauty like that only deserved to be seen by someone equally beautiful. Zoya had turned to him and said, "Like you." But he had shaken his head and responded, "I found this place by chance. But you are here because this place is a reflection of you." And then he had watched her shyly, and Zoya could have sworn she saw stars in his eyes.

On top of Haroun's undeniably growing affection towards her, Zoya is benefiting a great deal from her therapy sessions — although she will never admit that out loud. She overhears Mumtaz telling Haroun that there is less of Zoya's hair in the trash cans. Lighter eye bags. A more radiant smile.

Despite all of this, however, Zoya can never truly shake off the hollowness within her. The guilt at what she's done. The anxiety at how she will fix it.

And then that ever-present feeling. The horrible, aching emptiness. Persistent and prodding.

She has everything she wants — business is booming, she is capable of controlling her fears to some extent, and her and Haroun are happy and comfortable with one another — and yet it doesn't feel like enough.

There always seems to be something missing.

And this is what she is thinking when one day she lies on Haroun's chest, listening to the telltale beating of his heart and playing absentmindedly with his fingers. His arm is wrapped around her, and the other hand strums through her hair softly. Like playing the strings of a guitar or running fingers through warm water. He untangles her curls and passes his fingers over her forehead, massaging it. Zoya closes her eyes in contentment, a soft smile making its way onto her face.

"Haroun?"

"Hmm?" he replies, trailing his hand to hers and entwining their fingers together.

"I'm scared."

He brushes the tips of his fingers over her forehead again. "Do you want me to turn the lights back on?"

Ever since Zoya has been meeting with her exposure therapy expert, she has slowly started practicing things at home as per the therapist's recommendation. Like occasionally turning the lights off at night.

Zoya chuckles softly at his question. "No, not the lights. I'm scared because . . . " She takes a deep breath, afraid to speak her truth. Afraid that somehow saying it will jinx her words. Even though this is what Haroun had been hinting at weeks ago as well. Except his feelings differ slightly from hers. He is afraid of taking risks. She is afraid of losing what she has risked. "I'm so happy. And I'm scared of all this happiness."

His fingers halt in her hair, then resume stroking through it. "You're scared of being happy?"

"Yes."

He tightens his arm around her and leans down to peck her forehead, then rests his head back against the headboard. "Why?"

Zoya turns around so she's facing him. Even though she can't see his face in the dark, she can hear the pounding of his heart. The reminder of his humanity. "I'm terrified because this world is crazy. It does things. It's a seesaw, and one day or another, it has to balance. And I'm scared that because I'm so happy, one day my happiness will be snatched away from me."

Haroun takes her hand and places a soft kiss on it. "I think about that a lot. Like, a lot." He sighs. "The best thing I can tell you is not to worry so much about what might happen because you'll forget to enjoy what's happening right now." He shifts so that he's upright and facing her. "Take a deep breath. Relax. Your anxiety isn't going to stop whatever's going to happen from coming." He lets out a soft chuckle. "Do you remember what you told me once, Ms. Zoya? 'Jo ho gaya, so ho gaya.' Whatever has happened, has happened.

"Keep the same mentality for the future. What's going to happen is going to happen. And worrying about it is only going to make you more uneasy and restless." He lies back down and places his arm around her and she rests her head against his chest.

"But — " Her lips tremble. Zoya Zameer's lips tremble. "I'm so happy, Haroun. You make me so happy and I" — her breath hitches as he hugs her tighter — "Newton once said every action has an equal and opposite reaction. So this much happiness . . . " She trails off. " . . . must have an opposing reaction. It must lead to some conflict, some trouble. After all, there needs to be balance, right?"

Haroun quiets for a moment, then says, "Zoya, balance isn't always what the world sets up for us. Balance is what we make of a situation, too. It's the choices we make to set the seesaw straight. We're not . . . puppets; we're given choices by God. He's put it in us to have the sense and the decency to make the right or wrong choice. Although everything is predestined, the choices we make are what make the seesaw go high and low."

He twirls one of her curls around his finger, and Zoya senses he's trying to tell this to himself just as much as he's trying to tell her. It awes her how, despite the fact that he struggles with trusting his emotions, he still manages to give her the advice he wishes he could listen to. "Allah has written what's best for us, and at the end of the day that's what we'll get, but He's given us control and the ability to make a choice. We rein our own horses and make our own decisions — whether they set the seesaw straight or swing it up and down. Balance is our choice."

Zoya stills. His speech, his eloquence, always seems to baffle her and take her breath away. After a moment, he gently nudges her. "You okay?"

She takes his hand. "Yes, you just constrict my vocal cords sometimes."

His answering laugh is deep and throaty. It rumbles against his chest and reverberates throughout Zoya's core. Such a comforting, homey sound that she snuggles closer and buries her face deeper into his chest. Inhaling his clean, calming Dove soap scent. Calm like everything about him.

He kisses her hair. "So jao, meri jaan."

Zoya tilts her head up at him in surprise at the words of endearment. "You know I can't sleep after that."

He laughs. "Why not?"

"Now you have to speak to me in Urdu."

Haroun groans. "Zoya."

She laughs. "Haroun!"

He sighs theatrically.

"Hmm," Zoya muses. "Tell me . . . tell me a childhood story. All in Urdu, though."

He seems to want to protest but gives in at the longing present in her voice. "Aik din — " Zoya squeals and Haroun laughs. "I haven't even started yet."

"I know but you sound so good!" She laughs, wrapping an arm around his torso. "Okay, no interruptions now. Go ahead."

"Aik din jab mai chaar saal ka tha."

Zoya holds back a squeal, and they spend the rest of the night talking and laughing. And Zoya — although immersed in Haroun's stories and his enchanting words — can't ignore the nagging, pressing worry that is still present at the far back of her head.

That so much happiness can only yield to so much pain.