10. Zinneerah
10
Zinneerah
M y teeth worry at my bottom lip as I stare at the blank email draft, fingers hovering over the keyboard.
What am I even supposed to say to Professor Daniels? I feel like I owe him a thousand-word apology just for not visiting. After Baba, he was the one who always had my back, who pushed me to keep chasing my dreams, aiming for the stars—no, higher. The celestial level, Zinneerah , he used to say, like it was just within my reach if I kept stretching.
I can still picture him, that slightly exasperated look in his eyes as he pressed play on another one of my recordings, the two of us hunched over the playback as he encouraged me to pick apart every mistake. He went out of his way for me more than anyone else. He reached out to performance troupes, trying to get me a spot as a guitarist. Even emailed record labels to try to get our band signed.
Our band . God, I almost forgot how much I loved that chapter of my life. An all-female lineup, and we were good. Extremely good. I was lead singer and guitarist, Alex on bass, and Ophelia on drums. We called ourselves The Cryptics. If Pink Floyd had a lovechild with The Cranberries, that would’ve been us—dark, gritty, a little romantic around the edges.
The band name didn’t mean anything. Just a random collection of words we slapped together one night when Ophelia and Alex were drunk on cheap beer, and I on wilder ideas. If anyone asked, I’d shrug, maybe throw them a wink, and let them read whatever they wanted into it.
Truth is, there was nothing to read. We—Alex, Ophelia, and I—weren’t exactly ones for hidden depths. We wore our mayhem like gold medals.
I was the “fun” one, I guess. The one who could get a whole bar singing along by the end of karaoke night. Alex was more of a wild beast. She’d climb on tables, draw every eye in the room. She’d hit on whoever struck her fancy, take them home if she felt like it, then show up to rehearsal the next day wearing some stranger’s ring or a pair of sunglasses she’d lifted from her night shift at some motel. And then there was Ophelia. Rational, slow-moving, always half-lost in a haze of discounted bourbon and whatever she could smoke. She was our landing strip, or maybe our warning light. Hard to say which.
In a way, maybe the band name was ironic. People would see us and have questions.
Especially him.
They’re bad for you, Neerah. You’re too smart to hang around with people like that, Neerah. Why don’t you just write your songs with me, Neerah?
My fingers curl into tight fists on instinct. A high-pitched ringing settles into my left ear, drowning out his voice in my head. It’s like the ghost of him still lives there, waiting to crawl into the stillness, plaguing the empty caves where my thoughts should be. It’s been years, and somehow, he’s still there, choking out the sound of my own conscience. I don’t even remember what my voice sounds like anymore. Just his.
I grab my headphones, fingers trembling a little, and hit play on ‘Don’t Fear the Reaper’ by Blue ?yster Cult, cranking up the volume.
Professor Daniels doesn’t deserve an email.
No, I need to go see him, look him in the eyes, and just wrap him in a long hug. Let him feel my apology, as if it could transfer from my skin into his. He’ll have questions, of course. And I’ll do my best to answer. But really, all I want to talk about is music. And the summer concert.
I open my desk drawer and pull out the flier, smoothing its creases with my palms.
When Raees handed it to me last night, I froze.
The summer concert. My summer concert. I used to run that thing, back when I was at SLU, back when I was on fire. It was my stage, my spotlight—a chance to play my heart out in front of label managers and production scouts. I used to walk off that stage with a fistful of business cards, promises and possibilities pressed into my palm. And the devil I’d danced with tossed most of them out.
If I do this, if I sign up as a guitarist again, I’m going to have to face down this ridiculous fear of mine. The fear of even touching that instrument.
God, I’ve tried so many times to take it out of the bag, to just strum it like I used to. But every time I lift it; it feels like holding . . . I don’t know, a stranger? My body remembers—the rhythms pulsing under my skin, my brain still tuned to every chord progression—but the moment my fingers brush those rusty strings, something inside me threatens to snap.
But that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t try.
Strings can always be replaced; I know that better than anyone. I’ve swapped them out dozens of times, all in the name of getting that perfect sound. It’s just a little patience, and the payoff is worth it. Picking up the guitar again, it would be like honoring everyone who believed in me, everyone who pushed me to where I am. Especially Baba.
I glance at the clock. It’s 3:30 p.m., and Raees’ last lecture ends at five. If I leave now, I could catch Professor Daniels in his office.
I tuck the flier and a few other essentials into my bag, slinging it over my shoulder as I head downstairs.
By the door, I spot the car keys sitting in the little ceramic cup. I pluck them out, letting them dangle from my fingers.
When I step outside and see the car he picked for me, I actually have to bite back a laugh.
A cream-colored Volkswagen Beetle.
My dream car, sitting right in front of me. Why didn’t I check the garage on my first day here?
I press the unlock button, and the cheerful little beep of the car welcoming me sends a giddy thrill down my spine.
When was the last time I felt this excited about anything? For something as simple as a car? Your dream car, Zinnie.
I slide into the driver’s seat, and the scent of citrus and mint from the air freshener washes over me. My fingers trace the curve of the steering wheel, pausing over the horn, then settling around the leather-wrapped grip. The dashboard is a soft, cream color to match the outside, with a perfectly retro dial in the center that almost makes me feel like I’ve time-traveled back to a sunnier decade.
I close my eyes for a quick second, sending up a little prayer. It’s been a while since I was behind the wheel, and the idea is nerve-wracking after the accident.
But then I turn the key, and the engine purrs to life alongside my smile. “Oh, I could definitely get used to this.”
The campus is packed—too many people, too many cars, and not a parking space in sight.
I finally settle for the plaza down the road, the one with all the little restaurants, and, of course, Tapioca Time.
I haven’t been here in ages. The girls and I used to come after every open mic night, spilling in at the end of the evening, laughing too loud and ordering one last round of drinks until they practically had to kick us out.
As soon as I step inside, the bell above the door chimes, and the warm, sugary scent of milk tea and grilled cheese wraps around me.
I glance around, taking in the groups of students huddled at tables, some hunched over laptops, others absorbed in board games from the shop’s collection. There, on a shelf by the window, is the old Ludo board. I remember teaching the girls how to play.
I bite my lip and get in line, pulling out my phone to distract myself from the nostalgia that’s creeping in. Ever since Raees handed me that flier, The Cryptics is all I’ve been able to think about. The girls were my world once, and if I take up Professor Daniels’ offer, will it mean finally seeing them again?
I drove all the way here, though. I told myself I wouldn’t come back to these places. And yet, here I am, pining for the past. If I can do this, if I can walk in here and breathe the same air I used to swear off, maybe I can reach out to the girls, too.
With a shaky exhale, I tap into the search bar and type: Alex Watanabe.
My lips twitch upward as the search results load a cascade of images, articles, and videos—all of her. It’s been a couple of years since I last checked up on her. Back then, she was just starting out, releasing singles on streaming platforms, pushing her name out there like any inspiring new artist.
But here we are.
Alex is on fire. Millions of streams on every song, like it’s nothing. Her whole brand now feels like some kind of neon-cyberpunk fever dream. And apparently, she’s on tour. Selling out clubs, lounges, even full-blown concert halls.
And her last stop? Toronto. Our hometown.
In two weeks, she’ll be here.
My tongue darts out to lick my lips as I stare at the concert date, half in disbelief. Tickets are still available. I could be there. I could actually—
“Hey, there! What can I get for you today?”
The voice snaps me out of my thoughts, and I blink up at the barista. I fumble with my phone, tapping out my order before I lose my nerve. Large taro milk tea with tapioca for me, warm milk tea for Professor Daniels. She punches it in, I pay, and then I step aside, clutching my phone.
Two weeks . Alex will be here in two weeks.
The path to campus winds through the plaza, cutting across the metro tracks that slice the square in two. The plaza feels like a stage, a wide-open space where everyone’s watching, or maybe that’s just me, nerves crackling in my veins. Past it, campus unfolds—a widespread medley of ancient, ivy-clad walls and modern glass buildings.
Now I’m here, standing outside the music building like I’m a freshman again.
My heart’s pounding, trying to make itself heard over the chatter of students spilling out of the glass doors, violin and cello cases slung over their shoulders. I catch someone’s eye and manage a polite smile.
I step inside, and a wave of anxiety takes over, prickling my skin with sweat. Every nerve in my body is screaming, “Turn around, just leave!” but I’ve made it this far. And I have to do this. I know the way to Professor Daniels’ office by heart, and my feet carry me there on their own.
I stop in front of his door, taking a large gulp of breath, and knock.
It swings open so fast it startles me. “For God’s sake. Book your student hours—” His voice cuts off, eyes widening as he takes me in. He inhales sharply, and I do the same, mirroring him. “ Zinneerah ?”
“Professor,” I whisper.
He presses a hand over his mouth, and I see the shock settle into his blue eyes as he takes in . . . everything.
Back then, I was all edgy and colorful—maroon-dyed hair, nose ring, tight jeans, neon crop tops under a leather jacket, and Alex’s endless chains around my neck. I wasn’t afraid to be seen.
Now I’m barely there. Black skirts that skim my bony hips, long-sleeved sweaters hiding everything beneath, my hair dyed back to its natural black. There’s barely a hint left of the girl he knew, except maybe the kajal swept along my waterline, my cat-eye sharp and precise. He used to ask me to show him how to do it for his wife.
“Come in,” he breathes, shifting aside to let me pass.
I step through the doorway, and his office is exactly as it’s been for years. Nothing’s changed. The walls are still sky-blue, shelves sagging under the weight of countless old music theory books, each one crammed in without any regard for order. Music sheets and assignment papers cover every available surface, scattered around the table. There’s a faint smell of coffee, ink, and dust that settles on things long-loved.
“For you.” I hand him the drink, smiling as he takes it with a nod of thanks, his eyes lighting up as soon as he tastes it.
“This is exactly what I needed.”
A tiny bud of satisfaction blooms in my chest. It’s good to be remembered for the small things, even after everything else.
But then, he’s eyeing my own cup, and that delight starts to fade. “You shouldn’t be drinking something cold,” he says, pointing at my mug with a frown. “You don’t want to swell your vocal cords.”
I press my lips together as I lower myself into the seat opposite him.
He picks up on the sudden shift, leaning forward with that attentive look he gets when he knows he’s missed something important.
“Can’t talk for too long,” I whisper, voice cracking, “I’ll keep it short.”
He blinks, and in that tiny pause, the worry in his expression deepens. “Zinneerah,” he says carefully, “you’re scaring me. What’s wrong? Where have you been?”
I take in a deep breath.
You can do this.
And then, slowly, the words begin to spill out.
I tell him the story, piece by piece—the disaster that followed graduation, the sudden fracture of my friendships with Alex and Ophelia, the devastating loss of my voice, the endless months in and out of sterile hospital walls, the countless therapy sessions. And then, finally, my wedding with Raees, the chapter of healing that came after all the damage.
He holds his breath. Frowns here and there. Tiny reactions that make me want to look away, to give him space to feel whatever it is he’s feeling as he hears my confession.
But I don’t. I can’t. I’m frozen, clutching my cold drink, forcing myself to take slow gulps, letting the chill settle in my throat.
Then, he dabs at his eyes with a crumpled tissue, sniffles, and finally smiles. Somehow, that makes it worse, seeing him affected, knowing that my pain has reached him. That it’s real enough, powerful enough, to make someone else feel.
“Zinneerah,” he says, rolling the tissue between his fingers. He lifts his head to look at me, and his smile stretches. “I’m really glad you’re here. And I don’t just mean here in my office, talking to me. I mean here . You are here. You made it here. And I know you’ll keep making it out there.”
I drop my gaze, unable to keep looking at him, and trace my fingers over my throat, a protective reflex. There’s so much I want to say, but the words are locked up, sealed behind the scar tissue of all I’ve been through.
“Don’t let that bring you down,” he states. “You may have lost your voice, but you didn’t lose your spirit.” He holds up his fingers, counting off slowly, one by one. “You didn’t lose your talent. You didn’t lose your skills. And you most certainly didn’t lose your will to push through the pain.”
My breath catches as tears slip silently down my cheeks. It’s not the first time I’ve cried over this, but right now, it feels like some part of me is being stitched back together caringly.
Professor Daniels opens his hand, and without really thinking about it, I place mine there. His hands close around mine; warm, calloused fingertips from all those years of plucking and practicing.
He looks at me, a mellow smile in his oceanic eyes. “Zinneerah, you’ve always been a daughter to me. You’re brave. You’re remarkable. You walk into a room, and everyone knows who you are, without you even saying a word. We all see it. We’re nothing but proud of you. And that . . . is never going to change because of your disability. Not for one second.” He lifts our hands, and nods toward mine, like it has its own little heartbeat. “ This ? This is still yours. And I’d bet it’s itching to play, isn’t it?”
I swallow. “I’m scared.”
Then a cough breaks free, catching me off guard, and I fumble for my drink, taking a quick, desperate sip to clear the itch away. That’s enough talking. I think I’ve met my speaking quota for the next week.
“Being scared doesn’t make you weak, Zinneerah. It makes you human,” he whispers. “Fear— real fear—that’s what makes you dig your heels in. That’s what gets people moving. Because nobody wants to feel small or shaky doing the thing they love most. Not when it’s the one thing that usually makes them feel untouchable.”
I looked down at our hands. His wisdom prickles a part of me that still remembers how it feels to play without a care in the world, to be the kid with a guitar who thought she could take on anything.
“Tonight,” he goes on, giving me instructions I better not ignore, “I want you to go stand in front of the mirror. And I want you to really look. Look until you figure out what’s making you shake like this. Hold your guitar while you do it—don’t even think about leaving it out of this. Then, when you’re ready, just strum one chord. Your favorite one.” He gives my hands a reassuring squeeze. “Can you do that for me?”
My chest heaves, and I can barely choke out a nod as the tears spill over. I feel foolish, crying my eyes out like the time I was fifteen and snapped my low E-string right before my high-school talent show.
But Professor Daniels just watches, his own face a little damp. And then he steps around the desk, coming close. “Would it be all right if I hugged you?”
I can’t get any words out, so I just stand up on trembling legs, wrapping my arms around his waist. His arms go around me, one hand moving over my back in slow, careful circles, the other cradling the back of my head, holding me together. And I cling to him, burying my face in his shoulder, sobbing hysterically.
“You’re safe now, Zinneerah.” His voice is a thread of sound. “You’ve got a whole team of people backing you up. I’m just one player in the orchestra, but I’d say your husband’s definitely the first chair.”
I pull back, sniffling as he hands me a tissue. I dab at my nose, trying to keep some dignity, though at this point, it’s probably a lost cause. He bites his lips together, shoulders shaking with a laugh he’s trying to stifle.
“What?” I mumble, instantly suspicious.
He gives me a crooked grin. “It’s . . . well, your makeup.”
I pull out my phone and flip the camera. Smudged eyeliner and dark streaks under my eyes. “Oh, jeez.” I look like I just crawled out of a cave. Or maybe like a raccoon who’s been through a tough breakup.
Professor Daniels chuckles outright, giving me a little pat on the back. “Tell you what, I’ve got an idea. Why don’t you go splash some water on your face, and then we’ll head over to the auditorium? Take a little walk down memory lane.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“You’ll see.”
After I’ve splashed some cold water on my face and tried to pull myself together, we head into the empty auditorium.
It’s quiet as a tomb in here, but someone’s left their mark—a piano pushed off to the far left, a guitar leaning against it like an old friend, and a drum set lurking in the back with a couple of stray chairs scattered around. Whoever was here before us must’ve just packed up and gone.
Professor grabs a chair and drags it across the stage with a scrape that echoes through the room, then settles himself on the piano bench.
“All right,” he says. “We’ll take it slow. Step by step.” He nods toward the department’s provided guitar. “Why don’t you pick it up? Just lay it across your lap. Get used to the feel of it again.”
My hands feel shaky as I reach for it, fingers hovering for a second before they actually make contact.
“Take a deep breath,” he whispers.
I try to push down the lump that’s crawling up my throat, and grip the neck of the guitar.
But that’s as far as I get. I just . . . hold it.
It sits there on my lap like it’s got teeth, or might turn on me any second. The guitar was an extension of me—it knew my hands better than I did. Now, it feels like I’m sitting across from an old friend I haven’t seen in years, and neither of us knows what to say.
“Good job.” Professor gives me a light pat on the back. I must look like an idiot. “So, what song should we play?”
I just shrug. My mind’s blank.
He lets out a thoughtful breath, crossing his arms as he leans back, his eyes going a little unfocused. Then, a slow grin starts to spread. I can see the gears turning, that lightbulb flickering to life. He cracks his knuckles, slides his fingers over the keys, and says, “All right. Don’t laugh. But I’m dedicating this one to my star student.”
He starts playing, and it takes me a second to catch on.
But then the melody clicks, and I recognize it—“Hey Jude.”
Is he serious? A smile sneaks onto my face, big and goofy. I probably look like I’ve swallowed the sun, but he’s too busy bobbing his head to notice, foot tapping the pedal.
The tears start prickling before I even realize, and I have to blink hard, trying not to turn into a blubbering mess. My grip on the guitar loosens, and I slowly ease it up, settling it in my lap where it belongs.
Professor Daniels suddenly bursts into song, not holding back in the slightest. “‘ For well you know that it’s a fool who plays it cool by making his world a little colder .’” He’s belting it out, loud and proud, and I laugh, startled, as he leans into the “ na-na-nas ” like he’s on stage at Wembley instead of a university auditorium.
My fingers instinctively find their way into the opening chords for the second verse, muscle memory kicking in before I even think about it. I fish out my old, chipped guitar pick from my pocket—the same one I’ve kept since I was a kid—and hold it ready above the E-string.
Professor Daniels catches my eye, his head nodding in time with the beat. One, two, three, four .
I start strumming.
A shiver runs down my spine.
But my hands keep moving, and once I’m playing, really playing, the song has taken over.
Professor Daniels’ obnoxious singing is so loud, it drowns out every single doubt rattling around in my brain. I can’t hear a single one of those little voices telling me I can’t, that I shouldn’t. They’re gone, blasted to smithereens, and I’m—God, am I crying?
Yes. Yes, I am.
But it’s not the ugly, scared kind of crying. No, these tears are electric, like I’ve been hit with a lightning bolt of something euphoric and lustral, something I thought I’d buried a long time ago.
Because I, Zinneerah Shaan, just played the fucking guitar after five years.