Laila.....
Sometimes I wonder if Tracy sees me the way I see her.
Not fully. Just glimpses. The outline of something soft.
She doesn't talk much in class, and when she does, her voice sounds like the kind of prayer I wish I could say out loud. Not loud like the imam's recitations. Quieter. Almost like a secret.
We were walking home yesterday — not together, just side by side by accident.
She didn't say much. Neither did I. But I remember her smile when we passed the old tree by the chapel. The one that always smells like dried leaves and memory.
She said, "It's peaceful here."
And I just nodded.
But inside me, something answered: "Only when I'm near you."
---
I'm not supposed to think like this.
Not about a girl.
Not about Tracy.
I'm engaged.
My parents believe I'm lucky. That I've been chosen by a good man, respectful and strong. I barely know him — Amir — but he's been kind in the way letters are kind. Flat. Predictable. With a signature that feels more like permission than affection.
I haven't told Tracy yet. I was going to.
Then she laughed with me once. And I forgot.
---
This morning, Mama said I looked too tired.
She brushed a strand of hair from beneath my hijab and whispered, "Don't lose yourself, Laila. You are his now. Focus on being a good wife."
But what if my heart is not ready to belong to anyone?
What if it's already leaning toward someone else — someone wrong?
---
At school, I felt her watching again. Tracy.
Not in a strange way. Not even romantic.
Just... present.
And it scared me how safe that made me feel.
We were paired for a literature exercise. The teacher asked us to write a letter from one character to another, something personal and raw.
Tracy's hand moved fast. Her writing always flowed like she was pouring out something honest.
I kept pausing.
Then I wrote:
> "If I had met you in another world,
One where names didn't come with rules
And hearts didn't bow to laws…
I might have let myself love you."
I didn't show it to her.
---
That evening, I walked home in light rain.
It reminded me of the first rain when we had all stood there, silent in shared wonder.
Tracy had looked up at the sky then, and so had I.
Not saying a word.
Not touching.
Not knowing.
Now, I know too much.
And yet — not enough.
---
> Two girls.
One holding a rosary.
The other tracing the shape of Allah's name inside her heart.
And in between them — something growing that should never grow.
One day, I'll have to tell her. About Amir. About why this can't go further.
But not yet.
Not when standing beside her still feels like the only thing that makes sense.
---