Leilah Usman awaits an acceptance from a university abroad so she can leave the country she never loved when she stumbles upon an ancient diary. Through the eyes of Mahrosh Irfan, she finds herself in a world so completely different from hers.
One w...
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Mahrosh had always yearned for Walid's letters; when she stood impatiently by the post office, going through the pile of letters and helplessly searching for her name somewhere, and eventually, when she handed everyone else theirs with a heavy heart. Her straying eyes would linger on the cursive hand-writing a little longer, learning the curve of his t's and the distant dot of his i's so she would be prepared when he would finally write her one as well. But the letters never came and Mahrosh deemed them non-existent.
The ache remained with her until the day of her outburst under the Kikar tree, "You wrote me no letters. For two years — it's fine, I get it. No one should be forced to keep ties with people they do not want to."
And when Walid had apologized, "I do not hate you, Mahrosh. I'm sorry about the letters," Mahrosh had forgiven him. She did not stop to think why he hadn't said I'm sorry for not writing you any letters — perhaps, because even in her wildest imagination, Mahrosh could never have imagined these letters to exist.
And now the very letters she had once ached for lay in her hands; her knuckles tightening, and her heart pounding painfully against her ribs.
Dear Mahrosh,
It is cold here; so cold it seeps into my heart. I am losing my grip on courage. I am losing my grip on the will to live.
I thought the hostel rooms were cold, but now they seem like a luxury. The mornings here are no different from the evenings back home.
Home.
I think about it often. I wonder if Baba still peels apples for Aleena, and if Aleena still insists on painting the borders of his bedroom door. Do you still come over for sleepovers? And when you do, do you still hide out of everyone's sight — or did you just do that with me? Vanishing the moment I saw you.
I am living a lie, Mahrosh. Every time I get Baba's letters, I leave them on my desk for days. I can not bring myself to read his letters; to read him telling me how proud he is of me. I cannot bear it. And yet, I continue the lie. I tell him that my studies are going well. I tell him that I am doing well, fooling myself too.
I wonder what he would think if he knew the truth. Would he still say he is proud of me when he finds out that I haven't been to university for weeks —
The door pulled open and Mahrosh' head snapped up, her heart jumping in her throat.
"Did you find the book? Asr salah is an hour late now, thankfully I met Mr. Mahmood —" Walid cut off, his gaze dropping to the letters.
He froze.
Mahrosh saw the emotions that flickered across his face. Somewhere within his eyes; a mask fell — but this time, he did not cover it up. His knuckles turned white around the doorknob.
