Trust Me (An Islamic Love Story)

Chapter 45

I am walking on the line of fear and bravery, hope and death. My eyes are as dry as my throat. The world around me is passing by in blurs, the world of the living.

I slip away when no one is paying attention and call a cab and go to Azar's house. I take whatever I own. I can feel Raheesh watching. I can see him laughing fanatically at the corner as I pack. I can see him twirling his knife as he shakes his head. I can see him everywhere.

I don't know how I force myself to remain sane. A weird sensation clouds my heart. A part of me is dying, and a part is willing to die, but both are not dying in vain. I am not dying in vain. I am doing this for Azar. I am doing this for his family. I am doing this for Maliha. I am doing this for Mom and Pops.

They all deserve more than I can give. They deserve way more than my burden and my fears. I want them to be free of me. I want them to live. I want them to thrive. Allah can take care of them. I need to trust Allah. I need to go away. They don't need me. They won't need me.

I quickly pack my suitcase and remove the SIM from my mobile. I break it into two and throw it away. I keep the mobile on Azar's table and then hesitate as I look at the ring in my hand and the bangles box on the dresser.

"I made you mine years ago, angel; this ring is a witness."

"I don't know the name, but he chose the same set as the sister here he chose. He has green eyes."

The vivid memory shakes me. Nostalgia takes over me, wishing to hold on to a souvenir of our temporary marriage. I ignore the guilt building up inside me as I head outside, taking the ring and the bangles with me.

My eyes glue to the spot where Azar fell. It is almost as if I can see myself holding him and crying. I ignore my reluctance to leave. I lock down the feelings. I pretend that I am fearless. I spare a glance at the house for the sake of all the memories, the happy ones and the sad ones engraved on these walls.

I give it a moment of silence, a moment of appreciation for whatever Allah gave me here. Then I return to the cab. "Where do you want to go now?" the driver asks in Arabic.

Home, a voice inside me says. Just go home.

I clear my throat before replying, "Can you take me to Hijlah?"

As we drive away to the outskirts of the city, I hold on to a single wisp of hope amidst the chaos: I m going to meet my parents.

My parents...

They won't even recognize me. Would they even accept that they have a daughter?

I shake my head to push away the fears. I want to see them, speak to them one last time.

Just once.

Time passes slowly. A part of me wishes the time froze, as I am haunted with fears of what lies ahead, yet another part of me is desperate for time to fly and to fly with time, but when I reach an hour later, I can't tell these two apart.

I find my legs shaking as I step down out of the cab. I had promised myself to never go back. I had promised myself to never enter this place again, the place that knew all my secrets.

How could I have known then I'd survive this long? How could the eleven-year-old me have known then that no matter what I did, the center of my world will forever reside here? It takes years sometimes for a message to sink in and took years for me to understand that no matter what I had promised for the future, no matter what I planned, Allah is, was, and will remain the Best of all Planners.

I pay the driver and walk down the street at the end of which is my home. Nothing looks changed, and I don't know whether I wish to cry or laugh at the irony of it. It is unnerving how places stay untouched while the people keeping them alive never stay the same. With every step, I become more hesitant, wishing to turn and never come back, but I push myself forward, reminding myself that I need to face them one day.