Laila.....
I didn't mean to speak to her.
It just… happened. Like how sometimes you say "bless you" when someone sneezes — reflexive. A habit of politeness I couldn't contain, even when I wanted to stay invisible.
But Tracy stayed too. She could've left like the others. She didn't.
She sat across from me and let the silence exist between us without trying to fill it. That kind of silence felt strange — not awkward, not cold — just present. Like it had permission to be there.
Maybe that's what made me ask her about the rain.
When she answered, her voice was soft, unhurried. I wasn't ready for that. I thought she'd sound like the others — rushed, loud, unsure around me. But she didn't.
Then there was the thing I said — about her writing.
It slipped out before I could stop it. I regretted it immediately. But then she looked… startled. Not offended. Not annoyed.
Just seen.
---
Back home, I told Mama the rain held me back. She nodded, already stirring the pot for dinner.
Abu was reading the Qur'an. He paused only to ask if anyone had said anything improper again. I said no.
They believed me.
Mostly because I'm always quiet. Always obedient. Engaged to someone who hasn't even seen me in months. A good Muslim girl.
I should be content with that image.
I am.
Most days.
---
But that night, something gnawed at me.
In the small drawer under my bed, I found the folded piece of paper I'd scribbled on two weeks ago — a few lines I thought I'd tear up but never did.
I unfolded it now. Picked up my pen. And added:
> "There is a girl who wears no hijab and believes in saints. She sat beside me in silence, and I felt less alone. I am not supposed to write about this. I am not supposed to feel anything at all. But I do."
I folded the paper again and tucked it deep inside a scarf I never wear.
---
I don't know if Tracy noticed how much her presence mattered today.
But I noticed her.
And I don't think I can un-notice her anymore.
---