"How beautiful it is to find someone who asks for nothing but your company." -Brigitte Nicole

My social life exploded after winning. Everybody from my class tried to be kind to me. It might be because of their newfound knowledge of my talent. Or that the school's president was my uncle. It didn't matter to me.

I was taking my classes regularly, and I had talked to my classmates—they were lovely and respected me. I didn't remember why I had been so insecure when I first came here since everyone was so nice to me.

I hadn't seen Aaliyan Haider since that day, but his unique golden eyes and that damn dimple still haunted me. Even subconsciously, I always searched for him. My eyes roamed over the university, hoping to chance upon him, but he was never there.

I was quite disappointed with his absence—especially when my eyes were dying to see him, and my nose was crying for the smell of his engulfing scent. My ears refused to listen to any other sound, but that voice and mesmerizing laughter. My hands were itching to touch his shiny brown hair and his beautiful olive skin.

Oh, God, I'm screwed! Stupid, Musca, stupid, stupid, snap out of it!

I had always been the kind to wear my heart on my sleeve. I had ever swooned over a fine specimen of men, but this time—this attraction was torturous. I craved him, and that was bad. Terrible.

You need to pull yourself up by your socks!

Lost in my thoughts, I practically ran over the pavement between the lawns. I collided with a hard chest. Gasping, I stepped back and looked up, only to find my uncle glaring at me, with a nasty expression on his face like chewing uncooked fish.

"What's up?" I asked in a nervous tone.

He didn't reply, and he looked over his shoulder at someone. I followed his eyes. My eyes found a tall girl; I could see her eyes shining with naughtiness even from this distance. One side of her pink lips curled up into a smirk.

I gave her a confused look while taking in her appearance. She seemed a year or two older than me; her waist-length hair was black, darker than coal. She wore a button-down shirt that reached above her knees, dark blue denim jeans, and her printed scarf wrapped loosely around her neck.

Uncle gave her the last glare and moved forward, ignoring me completely. I shrugged and moved forward.

It was my habit to have dinner in a different restaurant every night since I had arrived in Pakistan. There was a Japanese restaurant a few blocks away but I never visited it. Today, Uncle had invited me to have dinner with him there.

I was not very talkative with people I was far from, but in Uncle Mubashir's presence, I learned to have a small talk with him, and he was a very kind person. The only questions I got from him were about my health, my wellbeing, and if I needed anything.

I pulled up my car in front of the restaurant and tossed my keys to the valet. He caught them and gave me a polite smile.

The warmth of the heaters welcomed me as I walked inside, the lush interior decorated with paper lanterns emitting yellow lights, and bamboo plants accompanied with an indoor waterfall. Overall, the entire look was Japanese with traditional writings on the walls. I smiled at the calming atmosphere.

A waiter welcomed me and walked me to a table. I approvingly assessed the tasteful details of traditional cutlery and asked the waiter to bring the chef's best dish. He went away, smiling.

Since I arrived, Papa had called me a total of once when I landed, to ask if I was safe. There were no calls afterwards, just the money every month on the due date. Sometimes he would send me loads of money for no reason.

He had sent me clothes, shoes, bags, jewelry, and much more through internet orders. But internet orders couldn't carry his soothing voice, love, or care.

Tears stung in my eyes, and I blinked furiously to avoid them. I wanted to cry so badly. He never really did that, so why do I care? I sighed and sat there for what felt like an eternity, staring with empty eyes. I felt numb, and I liked it; numbness felt good.

I hated my mother for giving me this life. Marrying a rich non-Muslim who used her, took possession of her child and divorced her, then threw the child in a boarding school for a lifetime.

When the child finally came back to live in peace with her family, he told her that all this time she had a Muslim mother living in Pakistan who died a few days ago. I could never meet her, but I had to live with the pain that the woman left me with.

I hated her with every cell in my body for leaving. Why the hell did she get married to Harry Stuart? Why couldn't she, but no, I had no right to blame her; I hadn't been in her shoes. She might have had her own reasons. No, she did it on purpose; she wanted me to live like this. She wanted me to be on two boats at the same time. She wanted me to rot in hell.

Still, I couldn't stop loving her. It was impossible to stop loving my mother, who had been with me at night in the dark dorm room. She was there to listen to complaints about the bullying classmates or the little things that hurt me.

I liked to think she was there on my birthday, her eyes smiling at me from the photograph by the bed. Back then, my only problem was that she was only there in a photo, but now, she would only be alive in a photograph.

I laughed a bitter laugh. She was never dead. I could have had a better life. I could have had a mother, a loving mother! No, not a loving mother. If she was a loving mother, she would have never left me. What was her reason for leaving? Nothing? No reason?

"Enjoy, ma'am." The waiter's voice interrupted my thoughts as he placed the sushi in front of me.

I played with the chopsticks, eyeing my cell phone screen with a blank stare. After a moment, I tapped contacts, scrolled down, and tapped on "Papa." I put the phone to my ear.

"I'm busy at the moment. Please leave a message." Hearing his voice, I pressed my eyes to hold back tears.

"Hey!" I whispered. I couldn't talk because of a ball of tears in my throat. "I miss you, Papa."

I put my phone back down and ended the call. My face was wet with tears. I rubbed my face, inhaled a significant amount of air, and exhaled when I saw Uncle Mubashir making his way to me.

I felt embarrassed about ordering before he arrived, but I was literally starving because of not eating anything all day. I gave him a forced smile as he sat opposite to me.

Saying Salam to him, I dropped my head, and the delicious sushi came into my sight. I dug in, in anger at Papa or hunger I didn't know.

"You don't look okay?" Uncle asked, his stare carefully reading me.

I nodded slightly. "Yes, I'm not alright. I have not been alright. But I'll be fine. I'm sure." With that, I stared up at him, and while chewing my sushi gave him a small reassuring smile, which he returned. After that, there was a long conversation about his daily affairs and my university life, which was going very well.

We both left after he paid the bill, and no matter what I said, Uncle came with me in my car while his driver followed us in his. It was the sweetest thing anyone had ever done for me.

☆☆☆

I sat in the loud and cold cafeteria, where the aroma of coffee and snacks swirled. I fixated my vision at the steam coming out of my coffee. I put my gloved hand around the cup to get some warmth and took a sip, gulping down the hot liquid.

"Yearning is more beautiful than fruit."

The voice stopped me—it was smooth, beautiful and had a hint of mockery in it. My arm loosened down, and I put the cup down. I turned to my side in the desire to look at the owner of the voice.

"Drink less, be thirsty, yearn, and you'd know the value of water." The girl smirking at Uncle earlier that day stood in front of me, with that unusual shine in her chocolate brown slits.

I was curious about her. Why had Uncle behaved strangely? I stood up and nervously offered her my hand, not knowing what to do. She took it in her fragile one. The feel of her hand was soft.

"May I sit with you?" Her voice was low.

I sat down and nodded. Her brown eyes told me she was taken by surprise.

"What's your name?" she asked enthusiastically.

"Musca."

"What does it mean?"

"It's a Pashto word, which means smile." I gave her a small smile. "My mom gave me the name."

"Oh, that's the reason your smile is so pretty." She rested her chin on the palms of her hands; her elbows propped daintily on the table.

I sipped from my coffee. "What's your name?"

The cafeteria was bursting with loud chatter, and the surrounding air was comfortable. It was getting louder with each passing second. Everyone was in a hurry to eat so they could head to their next class. Only some careless students sat there who rarely showed up in the class. And when they did eventually show up, they would be so late that the professors kicked them out.

"I'm Asmat from Sindhi literature department and the chief editor of this university's magazine-" she raised her eyesbrows, shutting her eyes close for a brief moment. "-And, it's Us-mut and As-matt."

"Asmat," I smiled at her. "Your eyes are pretty, Asmat, almond-shaped, and shining with tricks."

"My eyes can't be as beautiful as yours!" Asmat exclaimed, catching my attention again—her eyes shone with the unique, naughty twinkle.

Allāhu ʾakbar Allāhu ʾakbar {Allah is the greatest.}

"That's an absolute underestimation of-" before I could complete my sentences. Asmat signaled me to stop talking, gesturing to the speaker hanging in the cafeteria's corner that rang with Azan.

Azan was an aesthetic sound. Whenever I had heard it, I felt as if my surroundings fell under a peace that was comforting to the heart. Like now, even with most of the people around me talking, it felt as if it was the only sound present there. It pulled my heart and gave it an unearthly peace.

ʾAšhadu ʾan lā ʾilāha ʾillā Llāh [I acknowledge that there is no deity but Allah]

"Ashadu an la ilaha illallah wahdahu," Asmat repeated after the Muezzin in a slow voice. I silently listened to the Muezzin and then her.

Ḥayya ʿalā ṣ-ṣalāh {Hasten to the prayer (Salah)}

Asmat replied, "La hawla wa la quwata illa bi-llah."

"Listen to the Azan silently and repeat after the Muezzin," Asmat told me after saying kalma when the Azan ended.

"What does it mean?"

"It is a call made to inform people that it is the time of namaz. Have you not heard it before?"

"No, not that, I know that, I... I have, here and in my country too. But I have never seen people reply to it, as you did."

Asmat chuckled. "Hmm, no, be silent even though most people don't stop talking—big mouths and no brains you know—you have to be silent."

The way she said it, a smile crawled up to my lips. "What does it mean- I mean, I know it's Arabic, tell me what it says."

"Oh, it shows the greatness of Allah and testifying to the messenger ship of Muhammad PBUH, and then it calls us to come and pray because it is the real success—returning to Allah is the real success."

Goosebumps prickled on my skin. I was familiar with the charm the words had, but Asmat's way was effective. "Wow."

Asmat smiled. "We have a namaz room here. Have you seen it?"

I shook my head. "No, uh, would you... show me? I need to pray too. I'm thinking of starting praying again like I used to do with my roommate."

She was stunned for a moment before she replied, "I'd love to."

"Oh!" I exhaled. "Thank you!"

"It's fine, may I ask you why did you come here, uh, I am just curious."

"I found out that I had a Pakistani mother who died a few days ago..." I couldn't see because of the smoke in front of my eyes as I said the words with a dry throat and dry lips.

"I'm sorry!" She put her hand on my hand. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have..."

"No, no." I blinked furiously to clear my eyes. "It's alright. I'm happy you asked. It feels nice to have someone to talk to."

"Feel free. I'm always here to listen to you."

A group of seniors shouting caught my attention. They were yelling, annoyingly, "Samosa samosa lao!" I cringed, confused, and stared at Asmat's smiling face.

"Thank you, Asmat!" I beamed at her. "What's samosa?"

She snickered involuntarily. "I'll offer you a samosa, but on one condition."

I gave her a curious look, "What?"

"Shout samosa like those," she pointed at the seniors' table, "Freaks are shouting."

My lips tugged up in a skeptical smile. "Seriously? No, I'm not going to."

"Then there's no samosa for you!" Her lips sat in a thin line as she shook her head.

"Okay, okay, I'll do it only because I want to know what samosa is."

I cleared my throat, and, after a moment, I shouted at the top of my lungs with Asmat. People watched us like we were some mental cases who were at large. Even so, after a while, every student was banging their hands on the table, shouting samosa samosa!

That was the first happy moment I had in two months of my stay in Pakistan.

☆☆☆

I placed my prayer rug on my shelf when I heard the doorbell ring. I took the dupatta off my head, wrapped it up like a ball, and put it on the prayer rug. I was a messy person, nobody expected my room to be clean and neat.

My room was big, with a door open to a balcony with a perfect view of my yard. The door was always open, but I didn't remember ever setting foot on the balcony.

A French window at the side was open, too. The white walls surrounding it were plain—no paintings, nothing. All I had in my room was my study table and chair, a comfy bed, a dressing table, a wardrobe, and a laundry chair.

The bell rang again, this time with urgency and impatience. Now it was me who had to go running downstairs to open the damn door. After living in my Papa's mansion, where there was an army of maids, it irked me going downstairs to open the door.

Ha life! I thought while crossing the lounge, which was a total mess while the soft tune of some song played on the stereo. The mess and the music didn't match at all.

My clothes were everywhere; the throw pillows were on the floor, my shoes on the dining table, and a pile of dirty plates near the sofa and not to mention the hundreds of empty cans of Red Bull and empty soda bottles collided with each other on the floor. My sneakers were placed on the central table. I almost threw up.

Clean this mess as soon as possible! I made a mental note to do so as I ran outside to the gate and opened the door.

"Assalam o Alaikum, I am out of coffee, would you please... is it you?"

With a gasp, I forgot to breathe. My eyes widened as big as saucers, and my jaw dropped on the floor. There stood Aaliyan Haider in a green shirt and denim jeans. His golden eyes were watching me intensely, or instead with amusement.

"Is it you, or am I daydreaming?" he asked, suppressing a smirk but failing to hide his dimple.

"Do you usually daydream about me?" Having blurted out those words, I cut myself into pieces in my head. Earth, please swallow me up! Sky, please eat me up!

His laughter was so loud that even the neighbors could hear it, yet it was so addictive—I wished he would have laughed a little more.

"No, I don't." His grin was wider than the road. "Now, would you please give me some coffee?"

I nodded and immediately slammed the door in his face. If he hadn't taken two steps back in time, he would be walking around with a broken nose, and I'd be in jail. I slapped my forehead while cursing myself.

"I-I'm so sorry; please come in." I opened the door again, inviting him in.

"No, it's okay. I'll stand here. You go get the coffee."

"No, no, please come in." My voice was all squeaky and shaking wildly. I cursed myself. Is it you, Musca? Where's your famous confidence?

"Okay." He came inside as I closed the door. I turned around to have a look at the lawn, and it only made me swear under my breath. The plants were dying, the grass was knee-level, and the yard was last watered... I didn't remember. God! Why did I invite him in?

An empty bottle went rolling on the floor and collided with his foot as he entered the lounge. Another step he took, and he had to bend to pick up a throw pillow from the floor. I bit my lip in embarrassed agony and tasted blood.

"Uh, please don't!"

I snatched the pillow from him, drowning in shame. His lips twitched as he suppressed his oh-so-beautiful grin. I felt so disgraced.

My MP3 connected to the stereo was now playing the most perverted song I had in my playlist. Holy cows of Afghanistan! Wait, is that even a curse? I chucked all the throw pillows in my arms onto the couch and began searching for the remote control in a complete panic. Useless!

You gotta gotta gotta gotta love me harder!

Heat spread across my cheeks. I was blushing; I never knew that I could blush. Oh, holy chickens, I can blush!

"Uh, uh, um w-why, why don't you sit down?" Screw the remote!

I let the music play, and gestured towards the sofas, finding my lost voice. Why are you stuttering?

"Thanks."

He sat down uncomfortably. I bent to take the pile of plates placed near his feet. He jumped up, horror decorated on his face like I would turn him over from his heels. I almost died of embarrassment.

I hurried to the kitchen and put the plates in the sink and the remote control fell from the plates.

And if at the moment you bite your lip

When I get you moaning you know it's real

Can you feel the pressure between your...

I shivered, attempting to not look into his eyes. I put the battery in the remote control and turned the music player off.

His face was crimson red as he cleared his throat. "Um, coffee."

I grinned internally at his blush. "Ya, sure." He followed me as I headed back to the kitchen.

I took the coffee box from the cabinet and put some coffee grounds in a small bowl. "Here, take it." Turning around, I extended my hand to him.

"I'm out of... sugar and cream, too," he said while scratching his neck. He looked so adorable. No, no, no, I'm not drooling over him.

I composed myself, giving him a stern look, my gaze on his nervous face. "How are you supposed to make coffee then?"

"I thought I'd ask you for coffee. Then go to the other neighbors and ask for sugar and cream. But now I know you're my university fellow, so we know each other," he gave a lopsided grin. "You could probably offer me coffee, right?"

"Definitely-" I beamed sweetly at him. "-No." I shook my head. "I don't know how to make coffee."

"I can make coffee," he said hastily. "I can make some for you too."

"No need!" My lips tightened in a thin line as I shook my head, giving a straightforward no.

"I could help you clean this mess." He gestured toward my living room.

My mouth hung open at the insult, offended. "My house is not a mess!"

"I can give you a lift to the university every day!"

"What? Are you for real? For a cup of coffee?" I was beyond confused.

"Yes," he nodded. "I need coffee. I'm aching for it."

And I'm aching for you!

I cleared my throat, shaking my thoughts away. "Okay, it's no problem; you don't need to do anything!"

I opened the fridge and took out the coffee cream. I took out the sugar from the cabinet. "You can take these."

"I can't take all of it!" he said while taking all of it.

"Uhm, it's okay. Go ahead, enjoy!" I gave him a fake smile. He returned it while his golden eyes gleamed with mischief.

He left, but not before saying, "You're extremely rude!"

If he thought I was rude, after I gave him all he wanted, what on earth was his definition of kindness?

Author's note: Darlings, like, comment and share. It makes me as happy as a child receiving candies.