Hayat Amanullah was always the pampered child in her household. With loving, hardworking parents and two older brothers who were more like best friends, Hayat was never neglected of anything. She had no sense of responsibility, no worry in the world...
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~ Pink hibiscus (flower): Young love ~
For the rest of the week, I'm in a sour mood.
The interaction with Mikaal has left an incredibly unpleasant taste in my mouth, and I've continuously been reevaluating the conversations I've had with him since Arafat's death. I didn't think I was being too "friendly," as he said, I thought I was just being nice. But I guess people can't appreciate kindness without an ulterior motive anymore.
On top of that, to think that he felt I was trying to make a move on him or get close to him or something has me feeling so embarrassed that I avoid stepping out of the house for days so as not to run into him. I don't know what I was thinking, cooking for him to show my appreciation. Every time I think of the discomfort lining his features when he read the note on the plate of brownies, I want to melt into the ground.
Luckily, I have something to distract from the entire insufferable ordeal—Rumana's birthday party.
Currently Abeer is at my house, chattering away and applying makeup and twirling around in her dress the way normal teen girls do. She begged me to let her do my makeup, and even though makeup tends to break me out, I relented when she gave me her puppy dog eyes ("I promise I'll only use the super necessary products! Your skin will be completely fine!").
Ihsaan comes home and drops by my room when he hears the commotion, eyebrows rising at the dresses strewn around the floor and the makeup products littering the vanity. Abeer's eyes widen as if we've been caught doing something wrong, and she chirps out a greeting to my brother.
"Wa 'Alaikum Salaam, kiddo," he says. "What's going on here?" Since Ihsaan's various overprotective older brother comments and the embarrassing encounter with Mikaal, I've subconsciously been more observant of various gender interactions. I don't leave the house much, but I still take note of whatever I am able to. Like right now, how Ihsaan is not entering the room so as not to make Abeer uncomfortable, and how his gaze is mainly on me, despite his question being directed towards both of us.
"Birthday party!" Abeer squeaks happily, plugging in the straightener and parting my hair as it heats up.
Ihsaan gives me a once-over. "Wow. You don't look like a churail."
I scoff as Abeer laughs merrily. "It's the Abeer touch," she says, quickly adding "Not that our gorgeous Hayat ever looks like a churail!" when I give her a dry look.
Ihsaan shakes his head, lips turning up in the ghost of a smile. Then he purses his lips and begins to fidget with the ring on his finger.
Abeer stops straightening my hair and scrutinizes Ihsaan, cocking her head to the side. "Is something wrong, Ihsaan bhai?"
"No, no, nothing's wrong." His gaze darts to me once before he quickly asks, "Whose birthday party is it?"
"Do you know our friend Rumana?" Abeer says before I'm able to respond.
