“Hey,” he said. He took a deep breath, gave it back.
He had the darkest eyes. Thick, inky lashes. There was a depth in his gaze, a collapsed star that beckoned, tempted me to peer inside, lose myself, and if not there—here, in the elegant lines of his face, in the sharpness of his jaw, in his smooth, dusky skin. There was so much to appreciate, so much for the eyes to enjoy.
But I, I could not stop staring at his mouth.
“Hi,” I whispered.
“Hi,” he said.
“You really shouldn’t be here.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I just—” He cut himself off. Did not continue.
I nodded for no reason. I stared at my socked feet, wondered who’d removed my shoes.
“I called you,” he said quietly. “Last night.” He laughed, then. Sighed. Turned away.
“I lost my phone.”
He looked up. “Oh.”
When I said nothing he exhaled, pushed a hand through his hair. It was a nervous habit, something he did a lot. I’d watched him do it for years, and I watched him do it now. I’d often wondered what it would feel like to touch him like that. His hair looked so soft.
“Shadi,” he said. “What’s going on?”
I dragged my eyes back to his face. “What do you mean?”
He froze at that, froze with something like anger. “What do you mean, what do I mean? You collapsed at school.”
“Right. Yeah. Yes,” I said. My heart was suddenly pounding again.
“Shadi.”
I met his eyes. I saw the effort he was making to breathe, could see his chest moving, even out of focus. He was struggling to contain his frustration.
“What happened? The school told my parents you’d begged them not to call your own mom. Is that true?”
“Yes,” I whispered.
“Why?”
I shook my head, looked away, bit my lip too hard. I was desperate to confess, to say nothing. I didn’t know what to do; I only knew what my parents would want me to do, which was to protect their secrets, to protect their pain from public viewing.
So I said nothing. I stared at his chest and said nothing.
“You’ve been asleep here for the last four hours,” he said quietly. “And no one knows what’s going on.”
“I’m sorry. I’m going to leave. I was going to leave before y—”
“Stop,” he said angrily. “Stop. Just stop, okay? I’ve been trying to let this go, I’ve been trying not to push you to explain yourself, but I can’t take it anymore. I can’t. You have to tell me what’s happening, Shadi, because you’re starting to scare the shit out of me. Every single time I see you lately you’re crying or injured or completely out of your mind and I ca—”
“I’ve never been out of my mind.”
His eyebrows flew up. “You ran into the middle of a car accident! Tried to pull someone out of a damaged vehicle!”
“Oh.” I’d forgotten about that.
“Yeah. Did you forget?” He smiled, but his eyes were angry. “Did you also forget when you nearly broke your skull? Is that why you never mentioned it again? You got that phone call about your mom and I drove you to the hospital and I didn’t even ask you to explain—but I did think that, maybe, considering the fact that I had to get four stitches in my arm after catching your head on the pavement—”
“You had to get stitches? I didn’t—”
“Yes, I had to get stitches, and I lied for you, lied to my parents and told them I’d ripped my arm open playing soccer because I didn’t think you wanted people to know what was happening, but I thought you might at least tell me why your mom was in the hospital or why you fainted, but you never did, and still I let it go, told myself it was none of my business. And then, the next day, after you’re done pretending to be a paramedic—”
“Ali—I’m sorry, I’m so sorry about your arm—”
“—you tell me everything is great, that your mom is waiting for you at home, and I knew you were lying—I knew it, I could just tell, it was written all over your face—but I told myself to let it go, told myself not to pry—”
“Ali. Please.”
“And then,” he said, breathing hard, dragging both hands down his face. “And then, God, and then—last night. Fucking last night, Shadi.”
“Ali—”
“Stop saying my name like that. Don’t—”
“Ali—”
“You’re killing me,” he said, his voice breaking. “What is happening? What are you doing to me? I used to have a life, I swear, three days ago I had a good life, Shadi, I’d moved on, I’d finally moved on after you tore my heart out of my fucking chest and now, now I’m— I don’t know what I am.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Stop,” he said desperately. “Stop saying you’re sorry. Stop standing there looking at me like that. I can’t take it, okay? I can’t—”
“Ali, just let me say something— I just want t—”
The words died in my throat.
He’d walked away without warning, sat down heavily on Zahra’s bed. “Please,” he said, gesturing at me. “By all means, say something. For the love of God, say something.”
I stared at him then, lost my nerve. Words jammed in my chest, inside my mouth. My excuses vanished, the day’s events momentarily forgotten. I studied the tension in his shoulders; caught the tremble in his fingers before he curled them into fists.
I looked into his dark eyes and thought only one thing.
“I’m sorry.”
“Jesus.” He dropped his head in his hands. “Why do you keep apologizing?”
“Because,” I said. “Because I never did.”
Ali’s head lifted slowly, his spine straightened slowly. He unfurled before my eyes, turning toward me not unlike a bloom in search of the sun.
“I never wanted to hurt you,” I whispered. “I’m so sorry I hurt you.”
He went deathly
