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I had become a lot less hostile around my mom, and she too had become a lot less overbearing towards me. Or perhaps she remained the same person she was, and I had simply galloped through the cloud of dust blinding my eyes to recognize she was only doing what she thought was best for me.
Although we tried to pretend as if that day had never happened, something had definitely changed between us. I no longer felt as if I was marching into a battlefield every time I came home, and my mom seemed to have decreased her observations of me that had always pissed me off.
I met Imama a couple days after the emotional breakdown with my mother. The girl had been surprised when I texted her chipotle run? Nevertheless, she had agreed right away.
At Chipotle, when she entered and I waved her over to my table, she gave me a wary once-over.
"Don't worry," I started. "I won't yell at you."
A nervous laugh escaped her. "Noted."
I sighed, swirling my straw around in my soda. "I need your help."
She cleared her throat. "Sure." Pause. "With what?"
I took a deep breath and uttered words I never in a million years expected to hear from myself. "Getting over Zunair."
Imama was clearly surprised by this declaration as well because she sat back, folded her arms, and furrowed her brows. For a long moment she didn't say anything, and I cursed my stupid heart for its rapid ascent at the pregnant silence.
It was then that I recognized another personal defect.
That stupid heart of mine—the heart that accelerated and decelerated, marionetted by people's words—was so used to detaching itself from its sole host. From its sole vessel.
That heart lived in others.
It attached itself to others. Objects and memories and places and people especially. And it remained detached from the one vessel that would ideally give it life.
Me.
It beat quickly when it faced the wrath and sadness of others, it slowed down when it encountered a dizzying situation in relation to others. It pumped and thirsted for the words of others.
Most of all, it taught its host to love itself and tie its worth in association with others.
How much did Zunair love me? Not enough, which must have entailed I myself wasn't enough.
How much did my father love me? With muted affection, which must have meant I was expressing my love in the wrong manner.
How much did my mother love me? Too much, which must have meant I myself was unbearable, too much. Like an overflowing cup.
No wonder that stupid heart was so cut and frayed and bruised. It loved itself based on how others loved it.
I was rattled from my groundbreaking thoughts when Imama finally murmured, "Why me?"
I blinked at her, trying to remember what the conversation at hand had been about. Ah, yes.
Scraping my heart off the bottom of Zunair's shoes.
I looked away from Imama and shrugged, unable to look her in the eye when proclaiming my newly discovered findings. "Because you saw things in me that. . .I didn't even realize I was trying to hide."
Imama continued to watch me with knitted brows. "Sarah, you know I'm willing to help you in any way I can. But. . .are you sure you're up for this?"
Are you sure you're up for this?
Words like these had always threatened my frail heart. Because the very obvious answer was no.
But maybe that's why it was so important for me to do.
So I nodded firmly to Imama and she passed me a tentative smile.
And despite it all, despite the rapid thumping of my heart, I returned her smile.
