On the eve of his 19th birthday, we celebrated, immersed in the euphoria of our youth. The car echoed with laughter and country tunes, our hands entwined, a symbol of our unbreakable bond. Suddenly, a blinding light shattered our world. A crash, glass raining, and amid the wreckage, his warm eyes turned lifeless. I closed my eyes, trying to escape, but the pain persisted.
I look at myself. Raven hair, thin lips, round hazel eyes staring into my soul, belonging to a person I do not recognize. I look at myself in the reflection of the lake and I am reminded of him. What happened that night? My mind rushes to trace back my thoughts, my memories, my fears, my love, my fate. An explosion, a crash, a shatter, and destruction are all I remember.
I still feel him, in this park, in the air, in the chill brought by the early mist. Serene blue eyes, looking into mine, all of a sudden- cold, gray, and dead. I take a seat on the bench. I close my eyes, raising my hand to my hijab to feel the stitch that still hurts raw on my scalp. Pain pierces through, fierce and burning. I take it all in and secure myself in the frigidity of loneliness.
My mind escapes temporary peace when I feel movement beside me. I keep my eyes closed. I hear children laughing, holding out their innocent hearts to feel the intensity of joy. I imagine them down the slides, swaying on swings, around the merry-go-round.
“Zainab,” a voice whispers. I freeze. Realization floods through me. My brain, my blood, and my bones locks. I am suddenly seized by an uncontrollable paralysis that spreads throughout my whole body. Him. Him? No. I must be dreaming.
“Zainab,” he says again. I open my eyes and turn my head to face him, only to find no one there. The spot next to me on the bench lies just like it was, empty and volatile.
It’s 7:52 in the lonely evening, rain pouring as I walk home from the park. The rhythmic dance of raindrops drench my clothes and backpack. Lightning streaks the obsidian sky, thunder resonates, and I decide to seek refuge in a K2 phone box. Its dim glow offers a brief sanctuary, sheltering me from the storm’s onslaught.
Inside I could still hear the storm, howling wind, and the pitter patter of raindrops against the glass walls. I put my coins in and dial the only number I have ever cared to memorize. Rings once. Rings twice. Thrice and a couple more, till it hits me. Hits me harder than it ever has. I break down, a total mess, depressed and distressed, not lonely but completely alone.
It should have been me. I was the one meant for it. I was the one who deserved to die that night. Not him. Not now, not ever. It’s like Allah picked the purest flower in his garden to keep.
I sit down on the floor of the booth in silence, tears endless. I pull my knees to my chest and lean my head against the glass. I couldn’t help but think “I need to get back home.” Yet who is there now to return home to?
Freedom and comfort are all I ask, to be free of this unrelenting world and its agony, truth, and sorrow. To breathe air for myself. To cry freely while being held. To live while being lived with.
I look back at life two months ago. I close my eyes, while I let the flashbacks roll. The night before his 19th birthday, we’d gone out to celebrate. We’d gone to all our favorite spots in town.
We were wasted, not with alcohol, but with happiness and bliss from each other’s company. We were just children, naïve and full of love.
Jolted by knocks on the glass, my thoughts snap to attention. Raindrops obscure the figure outside. Panic sets in; could they need help? I’d completely lost track of time. Hastily, I rise, trying to discern the person. Hesitation lingers, but my instinct prevails. I open the door, the first response that surfaces, inviting them in from the storm.
“Hey, I am so sorry I was just-”
“Ya’ illahi , Zainab.”
In an instant, I’m enveloped in a hug by a stranger, their warmth and a familiar scent confusing my senses. “Zainab,” my name echoes, out of place. Heart racing, I retreat, fearing a hallucination warned by my therapist. The stranger, a mix of concern and unknown recognition in their eyes.
“Is it really you?” I stammer, my voice trembling. “You’re supposed to be gone; you’re not supposed to be here.”
He doesn’t say a word. The rain continues to trickle down the window, casting a delicate glow. His blue eyes still holding the same amount of poise. That is when I notice something strange, his figure seems translucent, like an apparition. Like a memory brought back to life. He feels so alive, yet he isn’t.
“It’s time Zain,” he finally says, “It’s time to move on. Time to let go.”
His words resonate like a haunting melody, a reminder of the pain chaining me to the past. Clinging to his memory, tears stream as he urges peace.
“I’ve watched you,” he whispers, eyes filled with love. “Life is short and you deserve so much happiness.”
Overwhelmed, I question moving on. He comforts, “Carry me without the weight. Live a joyful life.”
His words caress my soul, unlocking a door to a brighter future. “Stars beyond infinity will guide you,” he assures.
Our love, a shining beacon, lights my path. As he fades, promising to watch over, I nod, ready for healing. The rain outside eases; the world beckons. Stepping out, a cool breeze lifts the heaviness. Stars twinkle, promising a new beginning. The weight lifted, I silently thank the telephone box. Smiling through tears, unbound by the past, I embrace a future where happiness and love await.