2.

It was a day like any other. I stepped into the kitchen, the house blanketed in silence except for the soft rustling of my steps. Fajr was my refuge, the one and only moment in the day when I truly felt peace, when the world was still and my thoughts could breathe.

I used to love sleeping after Fajr. Back when Ammi and Abbu were alive, I'd curl up in bed after prayer, and sleep until the sunlight spilled across my room. I was very childish at that time. But that was a lifetime ago. Now, the house hummed with expectations I couldn't escape.

"Sleeping in is for the lazy," my aunt had said once, her tone clipped, her eyes narrowing at me like I was the embodiment of sloth.

The kitchen was dimly lit, the faint glow of the morning sky filtering through the curtains. I tied my apron tightly, ready for the routine that awaited me. The maids were already up, bustling quietly as they prepared ingredients for the day. Together, we moved in sync, chopping, stirring, and setting the table. But no matter how much they helped, it was always my responsibility to ensure everything was perfect.

By the time the aroma of parathas and tea filled the house, the clock ticked closer to waking hours. I dusted my hands on my apron and went to the bedroom my sister and I shared. She was still curled up under the covers, her soft breaths barely audible.

I couldn't help but smile. She looked so peaceful, so unbothered by the weight of the world. "Come on, uth jao ab, sleepyhead," I said gently, sitting on the edge of her bed. (Come on, get up, sleepyhead.)

She groaned, pulling the blanket over her head. "Bas five more minutes, Api," she mumbled. (Only five minutes more, sister.)

"You said that yesterday. And the day before. And the day before that."

She peeked out from under the blanket, her eyes squinting. "Ap kuch ziyada hi energetic lag rhi ho aj subha." (You seem extra energetic this morning.)

I laughed softly. "Woh toh mai hamesha hi rehti hun. Now get up before Chachi comes storming in here." (I am always like this. Now get up before Aunt comes storming in here.)

That did the trick. She sat up, her hair a wild mess, and stretched like a cat. "Fine, fine. Uth rhi hun, ap chachi chachi kar ke mat daraein mujhe." (Fine, fine. I'm getting up, stop scaring me with Aunt.) She pouted, making me laugh.

She was my anchor, my reason to keep smiling even when the days felt endless.

As I helped her straighten her hair and prepare for the day, the rest of the household stirred to life. My aunt's sharp voice carried through the walls, instructing the maids or complaining about some trivial matter. My uncle's heavy footsteps echoed down the hall, heading toward the dining room.

By the time we joined them, breakfast was laid out, every dish in its place. My aunt sat on her chair, her gaze scanning everything with a critical eye. "Good," she said, nodding slightly as if my work had barely passed her standards.

My sister greeted everyone with her usual sunny charm, earning smiles and indulgent laughter. I moved around quietly, refilling teacups, passing dishes, making sure everything was perfect. It was expected of me, after all.

When he entered the room, calm and composed as always, my heart skipped a beat. He greeted everyone with a nod, his voice steady and warm. When his eyes briefly met mine, I immediately turned my head. It was nothing out of the ordinary, but it was enough to send a flutter through my chest.

"Mash'Allah, ye aloo ke parathe bohot ache bane hain," he said casually, eating his favorite aloo ke parathe. (Mash'Allah, these potato parathas are really well made.)

"Thank you," I replied softly, looking down as I cleared an empty plate.

My aunt chimed in almost immediately, her tone cutting through the moment. "She should be good at it by now. She's had enough practice."

I bit my lip, keeping my head down as I continued working. Her words were nothing new, but they still stung.

He shook his head negatively, continuing with his breakfast.

I didn't dare look up, afraid that if I did, the emotions swelling in my chest would show on my face. But as I moved to the kitchen to fetch more tea, I couldn't stop the small smile that crept onto my lips.

The rest of the weekend passed in a blur of chores and errands, as it always did.

And later that night, as I knelt on my prayer mat for Tahajjud, I prayed for him with even more fervor than usual. I asked Allah to bless him, to protect him, to reward him for his kindness. And I asked for strength... not just to bear the weight of my days, and have sabar,  but to keep smiling through it all.

Because no matter how heavy life felt, no matter how invisible I seemed to the world, I knew Allah saw me. And that was enough to keep me going.

.....

The Monday morning rush was always chaotic, but I put on my niqab as soon as possible and I'd mastered the art of slipping through the house unnoticed. My bag was slung over my shoulder, my shoes clutched in one hand as I crept toward the door. I was determined to make it to university on time today.

"Where do you think you're going?" Chachi's sharp voice rang out behind me, freezing me mid-step.

I turned slowly, pasting a smile on my face. "To univarsity, Chachi. I'll be late if I don't leave now."

She raised an eyebrow, her lips curving into a mockery of a smile. "Late? But the dishes in the kitchen haven't been washed yet. You can't just leave your responsibilities behind, can you?"

My heart sank. "But Chachi, there are maids—"

"I asked you, didn't I?" she snapped, cutting me off. "If you want to eat under this roof, the least you can do is earn it."

I wanted to scream. The maids were more than capable of handling the dishes, and she knew it. This wasn't about the dishes—it was about control. About putting me in my place. I clenched my fists, my nails biting into my palms as anger surged through me. It's my house too. The words were at the tip of my tongue, sharp and ready to spill, but I held them back.

"Ji, Chachi," I said through gritted teeth, my voice trembling with the effort it took to stay calm.

Just as I turned toward the kitchen, Ayaan's cheerful voice cut through the tension. "What's going on here?"

He strolled into the hallway, his trademark grin lighting up his face. He was always so full of life, his energy infectious even in moments like this.

"Nothing," I said quickly, not wanting him to get involved.

But Ayaan wasn't the kind to let things slide. He looked at me, then at Chachi, and his grin faltered ever so slightly. "Chachi, you know she'll be late if you keep her here. I'll take care of the dishes," he said, flashing her a charming smile.

Chachi narrowed her eyes at him. "You'll do no such thing. This is her responsibility."

"Well," Ayaan said, tilting his head thoughtfully, "if she's late, her professor might call, and that wouldn't look great, would it? People might think the family isn't supportive of her education."

Chachi's expression hardened, but Ayaan's logic had hit a nerve. She let out an exasperated sigh, waving her hand dismissively. "Fine. Go."

I shot Ayaan a grateful look as he walked me to the door. "Thank you," I whispered.

"Bhai kis liye hote hain?" Ayaan grinned as he helped me escape my aunt's wrath. (What are brothers for?)

The driveway was crowded with my cousins, as usual. Aman leaned casually against the car, his phone in one hand and an annoyingly smug smile on his face. He was Chachi's pride and joy, her golden boy. Handsome, confident, and utterly insuferable.

"Well, if it isn't my favorite cousin," Aman drawled as I approached. "Or should I say, my biggest cousin?"

I stiffened, heat rising to my cheeks. "Good morning to you too, Aman."

He smirked, clearly enjoying my discomfort. "You know, if you keep skipping breakfast, you might lose a little weight. Just some friendly advice."

Ayaan appeared beside me before I could respond, slinging an arm around my shoulder. "Come on, Aman, leave her alone. You're just jealous she's got a brain to match her charm."

Aman scoffed. "Charm? That's a new one."

Before I could retort, Pari stepped out of the house, her expression as calm as ever. She was Aman's sister, but they couldn't have been more different. She was mischievous and kind, often victim of her mother's taunts.

"Are we leaving or not?" Pari said, her voice soft but firm. She glanced at me briefly, her gaze lingering just long enough to feel like a silent apology for her brother's behavior.

"We're leaving," Seher announced as she walked past us, her head held high. Seher was a mirror of her brother Aman—sharp-tongued, quick to judge, and always ready to remind me and my sister of our place in the family.

"Finally," Seher muttered, sliding into the car. "We're going to be late because of her, as usual."

"She's not the one who takes an hour to get ready," Ayaan quipped, earning a glare from Seher.

The tension eased slightly as we all piled into the car, with Ayaan taking the driver's seat. He turned on the radio.

"Who's ready for another thrilling day at university?" Ayaan said, his entusiasm breaking through the lingering awkwardness.

"Thrilling?" Aman snorted from the back seat. "That's one word for it."

Pari stayed silent, her gaze fixed out the window. Seher was on her phone, pointedly ignoring everyone else. I sat quietly, feeling the familiar swirl of emotions—gratitude for Ayaan, annoyance at Aman, and a strange sense of unease whenever Pari was around.

By the time we arrived at the university gates, I had managed to push most of my frustrations aside. I looked at the campus, buzzing with students, and took a deep breath. Whatever happened at home, this was my sanctuary. Here, I was a student, a person with dreams and goals of my own.

Ayaan nudged me playfully as we stepped out of the car. "Cheer up, will you? It's a beautiful day."

I smiled despite myself. "Thanks, Ayaan."

"Anytime, little sister," he said with a wink before jogging off to catch up with his friends.

As I walked toward my class, I couldn't help but feel a flicker of hope. Maybe today would be better. Maybe I'd finally get a moment to just... breathe.

.....

The sun hung high as the day unfolded on campus, and despite the morning's chaos, I found solace in the familiar rhythm of university life. Classes, laughter, and the vibrant energy of students filled the air, and I felt lighter, even if just for a while.

It wasn't long before I spotted Ummul, my best friend. She waved at me from the bench near the library, her wide smile a beacon of comfort.

"Anam! Over here!" she called out, patting the seat next to her.

I hurried over, my own smile growing. Ummul had been my bestie for years. With her, I didn't have to pretend.

"How was your morning?" she asked, her tone already hinting she knew the answer.

I sighed, slumping into the seat. "The usual," I replied trying not to spout out any insults for her, even though she treats me like shit, but still I shouldn't talk badly behind her.

Ummul clicked her tongue, shaking her head. "How do you even deal with this every day?"

She knows about my daily routine.

I shrugged, forcing a small smile. "Patience. And prayer. Lots of prayer."

She reached over and squeezed my hand.

We chatted for a while, sharing stories and laughs until it was time to head back.

.....

The drive home with my cousins was the usual mix of noise and tension. Ayaan tried to keep things lively, cracking jokes and making silly faces in the rearview mirror, but Aman's sarcastic remarks and Seher's pointed silences created an undercurrent of unease. Pari, as always, stayed quiet, her attention focused on the scenery outside.

When we finally pulled into the driveway, I felt the familiar knot of anxiety tighten in my stomach. Stepping into that house always felt like walking into a battlefield.

As soon as I walked through the door, Chachi's voice rang out. "Anam, you're finally back. Good. The kitchen is a mess, and lunch isn't going to make itself."

I froze, my fingers tightening around the strap of my bag. "But Chachi, I just got back—"

She cut me off with a dismissive wave. "Don't start with your excuses. Look at your cousins—tired from studying all day. And you expect me to let them work? Go on now, get to it."

My cousins were far from tired; Aman was already lounging on the couch, scrolling through his phone, while Seher walked off to her room without a second glance. Pari hesitated, her gaze flickering to me for a moment, but she said nothing and followed her sister.

I could feel the anger bubbling inside me. It wasn't fair. Why was it always me? Why did she treat them with so much care and treat me like I was nothing?

"Chachi, that's not right," Ayub, my younger sister, piped up, stepping forward. Her voice trembled slightly, but there was defiance in her eyes. "There are maids for this—"

"Stay out of this, Ayub," Chachi snapped. "Your sister knows her place."

Before Ayub could argue further, Ayaan spoke up, his tone light but his words pointed. "Come on, Chachi. You're being too harsh. Anam's been at university all day too. Let her rest."

"Ayaan, tum chup rho, aur jaa kar fresh up ho." Chachi snapped. (Ayaan, be quiet and go freshen up.)

Ayub and Ayaan both fell silent as the sound of the front door opening filled the air. The men of the house—Chachu Salman, Chachi's husband; Ahmed, my Taya abbu; and Feras—stepped in, their presence immediately commanding the room.

The tension shifted instantly. I bit back the retort that had been on the tip of my tongue, straightening my posture as if their arrival had flipped a switch in me. Ayub and Ayaan exchanged glances, both stepping back reluctantly.

"Salam alaikum," Feras said, his deep, calm voice cutting through the silence as he greeted everyone.

"Wa alaikum salam," we all mumbled in response, some more enthusiastically than others.

Feras's expression was unreadable as his gaze briefly swept the room. He was always like that—cold, distant, and impossible to gauge. His indifference was like a wall, one I'd never been able to break through.

"What's going on?" Salman asked, his tone neutral but curious.

"Nothing," Chachi said quickly, her voice taking on a sweetness it never had for me. "Just reminding Anam of her responsibilities."

I kept my eyes down, my jaw clenched as I moved toward the kitchen. Feras didn't say another word, but I could feel his eyes on me as I passed. I wondered briefly what he thought of all this—or if he even thought about it at all.

As I busied myself in the kitchen, my hands shaking slightly from the suppressed frustration, I couldn't help but wonder what it would take for things to change. For someone to see me—not just as the only family member who's Shia and treat me as a betrayer but as someone who is their equal and not lower than them.

But as always, I swallowed those thoughts and focused on the task at hand. Complaining wouldn't change anything I need to be patient and thank Allah for his blessings.

Still, a part of me couldn't stop replaying Feras's voice in my head. Salam Alaikum. It was such a small thing, but it carried a weight I couldn't quite explain.

"Haye rabba mereya, why do I keep on thinking about him?" (Oh my God)

.....

The day had finally worn itself out, and so had I. After cleaning up the dinner table, making sure the kitchen was spotless, and talking to Ayub for a while, I finally had a moment to myself. The house was quiet now, with most of the family retreating to their rooms.

I rolled out my prayer mat and stood for Isha, letting the familiar rhythm of the salah soothe my weary soul. The weight of the day slowly melted away with each word, and by the time I whispered out my dua, crying and complaining and asking for sabr, I finally felt a semblance of peace.

Exams were looming, and I couldn't afford to waste a second. I set up my books on the small desk in my room, flipping through the pages of my notes as I tried to focus. My head throbbed slightly from exhaustion, I just wanted to give up and go to bed as soon as possible but, I remembered the farman of Mola Ali: The worth of a man is according to the extent of his ambition.

I studied diligently, my fingers tracing the words on the pages as my mind fought against the pull of sleep. Time ticked by, and the chill in the air seeped through the cracks of the windows. When the headache became too much to ignore, I pushed my books aside and decided to make myself some strong cold coffee.

The kitchen was dark when I entered, the faint hum of the refrigerator breaking the silence. I was too tired to turn on the lights, relying on the dim glow from the moonlight streaming through the window. As I approached the counter, I froze.

Aman was standing near the door, his silhouette unmistakable. He was swaying slightly, and when he turned to face me, I felt my heart plummet. The sharp scent of alcohol hit me like a slap.

"Aman," I said cautiously, keeping my voice steady despite the tremor in my hands. "What are you doing here?"

He didn't answer, but the way his eyes roamed over me made my skin crawl. There was something in his gaze—something predatory, dangerous.

I tried to step around him, but he moved quickly, grabbing my arm with a grip that was far too tight.

"Where are you going, Anam?" he slurred, his voice low and unnerving.

"Let me go," I said firmly, yanking my arm, but he didn't budge.

His laugh was dark, mocking. "You've always been so... stubborn. Why don't you stay for a bit? We could—"

Before he could finish, I slapped him. Hard. The sound echoed in the stillness of the kitchen, and for a moment, everything was silent.

I didn't wait to see his reaction. My legs moved on their own, and I bolted for the door, my heart pounding in my chest. As I turned the corner in my frantic escape, I collided with something solid—someone solid.

I stumbled back, my breath hitching as I looked up. My wide eyes met Feras's cold, steely gaze. He was wearing his usual composed expression, but the sharpness in his voice sent shivers down my spine.

"What's going on here?" he asked, his tone hard, his eyes narrowing as they shifted between me and the direction I had come from.

My throat went dry, and for a moment, I couldn't speak. My fear, my anger, and my shame all tangled together, rendering me silent.

I barely managed to whisper, "I, mai woh—" (I... that...)

But before I could finish, Feras's jaw tightened, and his gaze darkened, as if he already knew something wasn't right.

"Life consists of two days, one for you and one against you. So when it's for you, don't be proud or reckless, and when it's against you, be patient, for both days are a test for you."

—Imam Ali a.s.