I shudder and a sinking weight settles on my ribs, concaving them. My stomach is hollow with nerves. How do I tell him about Khawf? I want to. That want started when he first showed me the sunset. Like a whisper at the back of my head.
I stare at the scars on my hands, tracing the silvery slashes.
“Salama?” Kenan says. Concern is wrapped in every syllable.
I look up at him and try to keep my breathing steady. I’m not ashamed of who I am and the struggles I go through. Khawf is an integral part of my life who has shaped so much of who I have become these past months. I won’t deny that it would feel like a punch to the gut if Kenan flinched away from me after I tell him. But if we’re to have our version of a real life together, I don’t want to start it with a lie.
“I, uh…,” I begin, then clear my throat. “No. I’m not all right.”
“What are you saying?” His tone is fearful. For me.
I sit back against my spot and reach for a little plant growing between the cracked concrete, twirl it between my fingers. I say the words quickly, like ripping off a Band-Aid, exposing my secret. “Since last July, I’ve been having… visions. Hallucinations, I guess.”
I pause, staring at the plant’s baby leaves, but the only sound I hear is Khawf’s slow clapping. He looks impressed and there’s a glint of pride in his eyes.
I peek at Kenan under my eyelashes and catch the surprise in his expression.
“Visions?” he asks, and he glances a few feet from where Khawf stands. “You mean you’re seeing things that…” He falters.
“Aren’t real,” I finish for him. “Mostly I see one person.”
Khawf straightens his back and dusts off his suit. “Oh my God, are you going to introduce me?”
I ignore Khawf and continue. “Khawf. He’s been in my life since Mama died. I fell pretty hard on my head that day and, I don’t know, maybe a head injury coupled with my PTSD has affected the relationship between my brain’s frontal lobe and sensory cortex, but I won’t be sure until I can get checked.”
Kenan looks stunned. “Khawf?”
I nod, throwing the plant away, and force my tone to stay calm. “He shows me memories. My regrets.” I leave out the degree of trauma I feel after each one. He doesn’t have to know all the details. I take a deep breath. “I’ve learned to live with it.” I exhale. “Now you know.”
I hug my knees to my chest, burying my head in my arms to hide my teary eyes, my heart shivering with what he’ll say. It’s taken me a long time to accept Khawf, and I have no idea if Kenan will be able to come to terms with it. If he’ll seemeand not someone haunted by her mistakes.
Kenan doesn’t say anything for a while, and I let him have that. He needs to unravel the words I’ve just said, understand what they mean for him. For me. For us.
“Salama, look at me,” Kenan finally coaxes gently.
Reluctantly, I peer through the folds of my sleeves.
“I’m not going anywhere.” He smiles. “You’re my Sheeta.”
Joy reclaims my heart and I feel foolish, but I say it anyway: “You’re my Pazu.”
Kenan looks away, a shadow falling over his cheeks, and he presses a hand to his forehead. Then he twists toward me.
He looks nervous, but a different kind of nervous. “Salama, I want to do this right. Even if we don’t have our families fussing over us, chaperoning our dates and whatnot. Even if Khawf is around. And I don’t want to wait until we’re in Munich to do this. I don’t want to do it on a boat. I want to do ithere. In our home.”
My internal temperature rises. “Dowhat?” I stutter.
He swallows hard and slips his hand into his pocket. When he opens his palm, a ring sparkles on it. “I want to marry you. If you’ll have me.”
“What?” Khawf snaps.
“What?” I exclaim, the air vanishing from my lungs.
He fights a grin. “Is that a good what or a bad what?”
My mouth falls open. “I—I didn’t think you’d do thathere!”
“Proposing on the revolution’s anniversary?” His eyes twinkle. “I’ve been planning this for a week.”
