29. Zinneerah
29
Zinneerah
M usic filters through the practice room, looping itself between the thump of Ophelia’s drumbeat and the honeyed resonance of Alex’s piano. My foot bobs in time against the worn wooden floor, as I tug at the strings of my acoustic guitar, letting the notes melt between their melodies.
In the dark behind my eyelids, it’s just me and Baba. He’s sitting alone in the front row of an empty auditorium, his hands clasped tightly, watching me play. For him, I’d play forever. Each practice chips away at the nerves, loosening them like old strings of a leather journal.
Soon , I tell myself. Soon, I’ll be able to open my eyes, meet the crowd’s gaze, and finally stop living on the inside of my own head.
“Woooooh!” Alex’s clap slices through my thoughts, a jolt of espresso to my daydream. She swivels on the piano bench. “That was perfection, ladies. Actual perfection. Daddy Daniels is going to lose his mind at the concert. He’ll have no choice but to put us on the syllabus permanently.”
“Please, for the love of all things holy, don’t call our professor ‘Daddy.’” Ophelia sticks out her tongue and jabs a drumstick toward it like she’s ready to self-gag.
Alex cocks a brow, smirking. “Right, because you and knock-off Harvey Spector never role-played the whole ‘lawyer and client’ thing.”
“That was one time!”
Alex rolls her eyes right at me. “So, did that sound fine? Or do I need to add a little more razzle-dazzle?”
“So far, so good,” I say, hoisting myself up from the chair. I flip off the amplifier with a practiced flick, unplug the wire from my guitar, and start packing it up. My brow twitches at the silence behind me. “Go ahead. Spit it out.”
“What the fuck happened?” Alex blurts out like a dropped vase. “It’s been three days, and you haven’t told us a single goddamn thing.” She leans forward. “Did you guys, like, fight? Is he pissed?”
I zip my guitar bag in one smooth motion, then turn to face her. “He’s just processing the fact that I can talk.”
Ophelia does a ba-dum-tsh . “Cat’s out of the bag.”
“Very funny,” I whisper, shooting her a look. “I can’t talk -talk. Not yet. We haven’t really . . . talked about it.”
“Wait, wait, wait.” Alex’s hands slice through the air. “So, are you actually planning to tell him? Like, everything?”
I nod. “Soon.”
“How soon?” she presses. “We’re already a week into August, Zinnie. You’ve known him for a year and”—she counts on her fingers—“six months. A year and six months. And this is the first time you spoke to him.”
The truth is, I didn’t speak in front of Raees because my voice is the one thing I’ve never been able to face. When you grow up being told your voice is your superpower, that you’ll “win hearts” and “change lives” with your singing, only to open your mouth and sound like a chain smoker who gargles gravel for fun is a little soul-crushing.
And then there’s Raees, who’s basically human sunshine. He’s thoughtful, brilliant, a beacon of humanity. The kind of guy who makes strangers in coffee shops smile just by existing.
So, I stuck to my hands. I told myself it didn’t matter—that he accepted me for who I was. But deep down, there’s always been this little fear clawing at me: What if he heard me and couldn’t unhear it? What if I ruined us the second I opened my mouth?
Staying silent was the only answer. And he never pushed me to speak. He never asked me to.
Until I decided two nights ago.
“You know I’m uncannily great at reading people, Zinneerah,” Ophelia says. “Raees is probably the only man alive I’d say actually deserves his rights.”
“Not probably, Fifi.” Alex stands abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor. “He does deserve every right because—” She presses her lips together, biting down on her bottom one. Her fists curl at her sides.
Ophelia’s gaze is as flat as a tidepool, but pinned to Alex.
“Because?” I prompt.
Alex exhales through her nose, her shoulders slumping. “Because he’s great, okay?”
I sigh. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
Apparently done with pretending she’s above melodrama, Alex drags herself over to Ophelia and flops unceremoniously onto her lap like a human-sized cat. “You’re the mother of the group. Talk some sense into our child, please.”
Ophelia’s completely unbothered by the fact that Alex has just taken up residence on her thighs. “You need to have the conversation with Raees. He’s not going to judge you for it. I know him. He’d be the biggest piece of shit to ever exist if he did.”
“Wouldn’t that be the plot twist of the century,” Alex mutters.
“Knowing Raees?” I smile. “He’ll cry.”
Alex’s head snaps up. “Wait. He’s a crier?”
“Sensitive. Caring. Patient.” Ophelia counts down on her fingers. “Probably good in other . . . sectors.”
“Sextors,” Alex coughs out.
“Something tickling your throat?” I ask.
“Just saying.” She shrugs, clearly enjoying herself. “Instead of standing on business, maybe try bouncing on it instead.”
I’m so close to sealing her lips shut with a guitar string.
Ophelia tries to reel us in. “Uni Zinnie wouldn’t have touched a guy like him with a ten-foot pole—”
“Shut up, Alex,” we both snap at the same time, because we already know where her brain is going, and it’s nowhere helpful.
For once, Alex actually listens, her lips pressing into a tight line as she holds back what I can only assume is another borderline inappropriate comment. “Look,” she says, her voice softening just a hair, “I know it’s none of my business, but progress can be made. We’re past baby steps now, Zinnie.”
Speaking of babies. I glance at the clock and remember. “I’ve got Amina’s birthday party,” I say, hoisting my guitar bag higher onto my shoulders. “I’ll update you two later.”
“We’re sorry,” Ophelia blurts out. “If we made you uncomfortable.”
I shake my head and manage a smile. “No, you’re right. It’s about time I told him.”
Alex slides off Ophelia’s lap in one fluid motion. Then, in her typical fashion, she grabs my hands and squeezes them, her grin stretching wide. “You know what this means, right?”
I tilt my head.
“Zinneerah, be honest with me.” She lifts a thin brow. “Do you like him?”
Like Raees? Of course I do. He’s given me no reason not to. Sensitive, caring, patient—all the things Ophelia said he was. The kind of man I thought existed only in Dua’s romance books or regency movies. Especially after I swore off trusting the species altogether.
“I do.”
“ No ,” Alex drawls, “not that kind of like. I mean, do you have a crush on your husband? You know, all jittery, flustered, weak knees and sweaty palms, the whole ‘oh my God, he smiled at me, I’m dying thing.’”
My cheeks burn. Okay, fine. Yes. I do. A lot.
I’ve felt it ever since the concert.
Somewhere between the morning coffee-tea talks, his charming lopsided smile, soft touches, and childlike tendencies, I became . . . well, ridiculous. Like a schoolgirl clutching a diary with his name written inside a thousand times in pink glitter gel pen.
Ophelia’s expression is as flat as a sheet of paper. “Someone call Nora Ephron because Zinnie is done for.”
“What? No—I—” I lick my lips, suddenly parched. “I’m not—I mean . . .” How do you even argue something you can’t define anymore? I’d handed the word “love” over to someone once, only to watch him twist it into something ugly. If this feeling for Raees is love, then how would I know? What if I’ve forgotten what it’s supposed to feel like?
“As long as you’re admitting you’re attracted to him and genuinely like him, that’s all that matters.”
“Yeah, Zinnie,” Alex says, fixing my hair. “I mean, shit, we love your husband, too, and we’ve known him for what, two weeks?”
“Yeah,” Ophelia chimes in, grinning. “And I don’t love many people, but Clark Kent is definitely in my top ten. I’d trust him with my drink.”
“I’d trust him with my unreleased album,” Alex adds. “He looks like the kind of guy who still types out W-W-W in the browser before Googling something.”
He does. Oh, God, he does.
It’s not something I’d consciously noticed before, but now it’s all I see. I notice everything about him. The lint that clings to his sweater. The smudge on his glasses he always misses no matter how many times he cleans them. The way parsley gets stuck between his teeth when he’s too distracted talking to remember to chew properly. How he taste-tests sauces with his pinky, or how he counts to three with his thumb first. The way he blinks twice—just twice—before his smile breaks through.
Well, that’s interesting.
I’m not just noticing Raees. I’m memorizing him. I’m attracted to him. Irrevocably, catastrophically. And there’s no return from here.
I knew something had shifted last night, the second his ex-fiancée kissed his cheek during the hockey Kiss Cam. A part of me wanted to tear through the television screen, grab him by the hand, and bring him home. He’d look so frightened, trying to squeeze out of the situation, like a wet puppy. It shattered me seeing him that way.
And then he came home with eyes red and swollen, a frown I can’t bear to see on his face, and a cup of my favourite chocolate pretzels in his hands that he probably bought while breaking down. Right there and then I knew I was . . .
I was . . .
I . . .
Oh, my god.
I am in love with Raees Shaan.
My body jerks like I’ve just been struck by lightning.
“Uh, is she okay?” Ophelia’s voice is somewhere far away.
My knees give out, and I plop into the chair behind me like I’ve forgotten how to stand.
I am in love with him.
I can’t breathe.
Oh, God, I can’t breathe.
“I’m in love with him . . .”
I want to murder his ex-fiancée. Murder . I want to carry the weight of his hurt on my back and tell him he never has to be sad and alone again. I want to pull him into my arms and press him against my chest so tightly that the broken pieces of him melt into me. I want to run my fingers through his stupidly silky hair, cup his face, and kiss him until the pain in his eyes disappears. I want to listen to him ramble for hours about whale documentaries, pretending I don’t care while secretly memorizing every word.
I need him.
I need to feel every inch of his skin under my fingertips. I need to sleep next to him and wake up to his face, messy hair, morning breath, and all. I need to share a bathroom, bump into him while brushing my teeth, fight over the hot water in the shower and laugh about it later. I need to share everything with him.
“You’re getting a call,” Alex’s voice cuts through the pounding in my ears. “It’s Clark Kent.”
I grab my phone like it’s a live wire, my breath catching as I stare at the screen. Even the sight of his contact name sends a delicious jolt through my chest.
Why is everything kicking in now? It’s like my body finally connected the dots my brain refused to. Like the words ‘love’ and ‘Raees’ were a code that unlocked some secret compartment inside me.
I love his smile.
I love his laugh.
I love his voice.
I love baking for him.
I love feeding that ridiculous sweet tooth of his.
I love his hand on my back, my waist, my arm.
I love that he rambles, and I find myself hanging on every random tangent.
I love listening to him.
I love the crinkle between his brows when he’s focused.
I love his love for newspapers, fountain pens, wristwatches, DVDs, the way he still writes in full sentences even in text messages.
I love making lunch for him.
I love his cooking.
I love the way he smells like sandalwood.
I love how hard he’s trying. For himself. For his students. For me.
I love how easily he fits into my life, loving my friends without hesitation.
I love his resilience. His patience. His kindness.
Him. Him. Him.
There’s no fighting it now. No escape hatch. No Plan B. No detour around this truth.
I’m completely in love with Raees Shaan.
“I hate you,” I whisper to Alex, my lips curling into a shit-eating grin.
“I’m scared,” Alex says, ducking behind Ophelia like a toddler. “What’s wrong with it?”
There’s a girl clawing her way out of the grave inside me. A familiar girl. A girl I buried years ago and promised I’d never dig up. The girl who lost her father when she needed him most. The girl who handed herself over to a man who broke her bones and left her silence where her voice used to be. The girl who froze in time because moving forward felt like death.
That girl . . . she’s alive.
She’s here.
And she’s jumping up and down, shrieking Raees’s name like it’s her favorite song. “Raees! Raees! Raees!” Over and over, until his name sticks to the walls of my chest and reverberates in my throat, the only name I want to say.
My phone buzzes in my hands.
I read his text message.
Raees: I’m waiting outside. Take your time.
Nope. I’m leaving now.
“I gotta go,” I say, launching myself out of my chair.
“Wait, Zinnie!” Alex calls.
I spin around, my grin so wide it’s making my cheeks ache, and I know I probably look unhinged.
“Nothing,” she says, throwing her arm around Ophelia’s shoulder. “Have fun at the birthday party.”
“See you Monday!” I toss back as I burst out the door.
The second I’m outside, I skip down the department building’s steps.
Calm down, Zinneerah. We get it. You’re in love. It’s a grand reveal. Fireworks, a marching band, confetti—all very impressive. But maybe no sudden hugs, or impulsive kisses. Let’s not terrify the man.
Raees spots me from across the parking lot and smiles. The kind that could knock planets out of orbit.
I pace over, trying to walk like a normal human being and not someone who just realized they’re in love with their husband. I can’t help it, though. I grin back, because how could I not?
“You look happy,” he says. “I take it your practice went well?”
“Yes,” I say, too quickly. Get it together, Zinnie.
Raees sucks in a sharp breath. “Yeah, I’m still reeling from the fact you can speak.” He runs a hand through his hair. He’s so adorable. Like, blindingly adorable. I’m seeing him in a whole new light. A rosy, glowing, sparkly kind of light. “But Zinneerah?”
“Yes?” Raees, Raees, Raees .
“I don’t want you to strain your voice,” he assures gently. “We’re still going to continue implementing ASL, okay?”
“Yes,” I say again. It’s automatic. Everything he says is fine. Everything he says is golden. What is wrong with me?
His eyes crinkle behind his glasses as he smiles, and oh, I love when they do that. I love those crinkles. I want to frame them and hang them in a museum.
He motions toward his car. “Shall we go entertain a toddler?”
I nod and fall into step beside him as we head to the parking lot. My eyes flick down to his hand. Big, warm hand. I want to hold it. I want to slide my fingers between his and lock them there, like a knot that can’t be undone.
But instead, I keep my arms glued to my sides and grip the strap of my guitar bag until my knuckles ache.
“Raees.”
The silvery voice slices through the haze like a cold gust of wind.
My attention snaps up, and there she is: his ex-fiancée.
Goddammit. Of course she’s here, leaning against his car like she has a right to it—or him.
She flicks a quick, apologetic glance at me (fake), then turns to Raees with something much deeper (performative).
“My wife and I are running late to an event.” Raees doesn’t even hesitate. That’s my man . I just wish I could say it out loud. “If you don’t mind, please leave—”
“I’m sorry, Raees,” she interrupts, stepping forward. “For what happened. I shouldn’t have done that. It was wrong, and I’m deeply ashamed of hurting you.”
Hurt him? Oh, she didn’t hurt him. She humiliated him. And she knows it.
She turns to me now, her face a picture of carefully constructed remorse. “I’m sorry, Zeerah.”
Zeerah?
“Zinneerah,” Raees clips out. “If you’re going to apologize, at least get her name right.”
Her lips twitch ever so slightly, a flicker of irritation, before she smooths it away with another one of her practiced smiles.
“Of course,” she says. “I’m sorry, Zinneerah. I hope you can forgive me.”
Forgive her? My pride scoffs at the idea. In fact, my pride would rather make an itemized list of why she’s not worth forgiving. She kissed my husband’s cheek on live television— married man, for the record—while the guy sitting next to her practically begged for her attention. She could’ve kissed him. She should’ve kissed him. But no. She aimed for Raees.
No, she purposely chose my husband. And I know exactly why.
My fingers tap Raees’ shoulder, signing quickly. Can we go now?
His jaw unclenches just enough for him to speak. “Gladly.” He brushes past her with a polite nod, taking just the tips of my fingers in his hand.
I don’t miss how her lips tighten.
As we pass, my mind turns over her name. Was it Sarah? Sasha? Something with an “S”? Whatever. I’m not going to bother butchering it the way she butchered mine. On purpose, might I add.
If she still has feelings for my husband, I highly recommend she gets her delusions checked out before I do it for her.
Raees is silent as we walk back to the car, which is fine, because I’ve got plenty of thoughts to keep me company.
I sneak a glance at him. The muscles in his jaw twitch like they’re fighting to escape his face. His eyes flicker to the ground, then to the car, then back again. One hand hovers near the door handle but doesn’t touch it.
He’s paralyzed.
I’ve never seen him like this. There’s a quiver in his chin, just the smallest one, but enough to tell me everything.
That conniving woman. She’s still got him on pins and needles.
I follow his gaze, and that’s when I see it.
Hearts.
Big, stupid, cartoonish hearts drawn on the passenger window.
My husband’s ex-fiancée actually drew hearts on his car window like a lovesick teenager marking her locker. Could she be more cliché? Could she try harder to leave her little fingerprints all over his life?
A deep scowl burns into my face before I can stop it.
I don’t say a word.
I just pull the sleeves of my sweater over my hands and rub at the window furiously, scrubbing over the hearts until they’re nothing but streaks and smudges. Let her hearts smear into oblivion. Let them rot.
When I glance back, Raees is staring at me with his brows raised in surprise.
I smile, all teeth. “I was thinking chocolate chip cookies today?”
His lashes flutter, like he’s still processing the past five minutes, but then I see the shift. The knots in his shoulders undoing. The lines in his forehead smoothing.
And then, finally, finally , he smiles. A real smile. One that reaches his eyes. His glasses catch the light, and the crinkles I love so much settle in at the corners.
There you are , I think.
He opens the passenger door for me, still quiet, and I slide into the seat, settling my guitar bag in the back.
As he closes the door and walks around to the driver’s side, I glance out the window.
The smudged hearts are still faintly there, but they don’t bother me anymore.
She doesn’t get to keep her hearts here.
Not in his car.
Not in his mind.
Not with me around.