Chapter 4

Leading up to the entrance of the library, petals from the rose bush at the front scattered across the pavement, settling between the lines in the concrete. 

At four in the afternoon, I expect it to be empty inside but all the tables are full. Students take up every seat, heads dropped between books. They flip through notes, scribble inside their notebooks and switch between their laptops. A few heads glance up while I pass through, keeping my footsteps light on the carpet and venture onto the third floor where I’d been with Aarif at lunch. 

My legs are slow, feeling like molasses as I force myself up the staircase swirling towards the top. 

Every part of me is aching since I fell off the horse. 

When I reach the top, I drop my bag on the floor between an aisle, relishing the silence. 

All I needed was to ask the librarian about the books the instructor recommended. At the front desk, she looks up from her screen, regarding me. “Do you have any university handbooks?” She stops typing, grabs a notepad and then tears off the page. “Floor one, that’s where our handbooks are.” I take the note, folding it in half and suddenly feel stupid for not remembering earlier. I’d just been there that morning.  

I decide not to go back again and spend the afternoon roaming through this section. 

Each section is dedicated to a specific genre, and I skip the one where Aarif and I had been, trying not to reignite the memory. 

Towards the back, a long tapestry hangs across the wall spanning from floor to ceiling. The silk fabric, etched with Quranic verses and hadith underneath in a specific calligraphy I don’t recall. 

The tapestry reeled me in, and neared towards the front, threading some of the verses together. My mind chips away at each word, trying to pick up on the words until I hear my name aloud. 

It’s Aarif’s voice, but I don’t turn around and start walking.

He’s behind me now, pulling at my bag. I give in, turning to face him. 

The first sentence in my mind begins with an apology, but what would it do? An apology wouldn’t mend the wings back together.

“Look man, I’m sorry about what I did.” Guilt begins to peel away my voice. I fiddle with the strap of my bag, forcing myself to meet his eyes. 

“Good to know that fighting spirit wasn’t on purpose.” Aarif smiles, but I still feel awful. 

“I’ll make it up to you.” My nerves make me jittery. I force myself to stop moving, planting my feet on the ground. 

“Great, because I’m still up to learn karate like you offered ages ago.” He’s laughing now, punching me in the shoulder. “Come on dude, you didn’t think I was that pissed off at you, did you?” I flinch, holding onto the area where it still throbs. Aarif looks concerned for a moment but I shake my hand. 

“I’m good, just achy from the lesson.” It was somewhat true, but I didn’t want to go over everything that happened during horse riding. 

We keep talking, wandering across the sections of the aisle and trying to forget everything that happened. Move forward with no hard feelings. After taking a round of the whole library, we’re back near the tapestry, gazing at the verses. Malik is there too, reciting the Quran at one of the tables. 

Aarif steps forward, “Did you read it?”

He motions towards the tapestry, but the shuttle is still swooping across my thoughts.

I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to forget about it. Either he was trying to hide how he felt about it, or it wasn’t as big of a deal to him. It’s hard not to bring up, but it doesn’t feel right without trying to make it right. 

“Do you need to get the materials again for the shuttle? I can cover it.” Aarif’s eyes slant towards me. He swipes his hand through the air. 

“Forget about it, I’m glad I don’t have to deal with it anymore to be honest.” 

“Don’t you need one for the engineering project?” There’s a difference in his face when I bring up engineering compared to Art. He shrugs, hands in pockets. 

“You know, I think it was meant to break.” I don’t get what he’s saying, but his eyes are pinned on the wall again, scanning the numbers below. Then, it makes sense. 

“I’m going to talk to my parents—and pray istikhara.” The number referred to the hadith about this specific prayer: Istikhara. It was super important—and usually was done before making any life-changing, game-plan situations. To be honest, I hadn’t really done it or knew how to do it. 

Aarif gestures towards the tapestry, pointing towards the number. 

“I thought you were looking at it. I didn’t realise it was here until I decided to come back after it broke.” The way he words it sounds too forgiving. 

It broke, not, you broke it. 

Still, I’m glad he’s taking the right steps towards what he wants. “Well, I’ve got your back if you need me to talk to them too. Show them that phoenix.” It was probably one of the best illustrations he’s done. I’ve watched him go through sketchbooks filled with janky, unrendered pieces to the most epic ones. Aarif reaches for his bag again, pulling out the sketchbook and gestures towards me. As he flips all the pages, brief sketches and colour pops through until it lands on the last page.

He places it down, smoothing out the page. 

“I don’t know how to explain it…I get they want the best for me.” The red tones are coloured in brighter. Something is different than I’d seen it last. 

At the bottom rose petals scatter. Embers and bursts of flames. I don’t speak, letting him shift through his thoughts. “They left Bosnia a long time ago. It was a hard time back then but they didn’t really talk much about it.” 

It made sense now, all the pressure but it was from a place of love. 

“You’ve got real talent. Show them what you’re made of, they’ll come around.” I hope I pick the right words to encourage him but the spark in him is enough to tell me he’s ready. 

“Well, thanks for breaking it. I owe you.” 

My shoulders feel light as we face the wall again. 

“You should do istikhara too. Trust.” 

All I can think about it is the weird dream, and the pain running through my shoulder snakes through again when he brings it up. A comfortable silence fills the space, and a wave of exhaustion makes me limp in the chair from how long this day has been.

“I don’t really remember how to do it.” Aarif pulls up his phone, showing the screen to me. 

“Basically, you just perform two rakaats and make the niyyah for istikhara.” He slid his thumb down a long page of information. “Let go of any thoughts. Don’t hold onto anything you want. It’s all trusting in Allah.” I nod, picking up my phone as the screen lights up from his message. 

“Gotta be cool with whatever happens. I get it.” As he continues explaining, it feels better not to pick something immediately. 

From the corner of my eye I spot Malik, approaching us and waves his hand up. “Assalamualaikum guys.” He drags a chair, adding to our table. 

“Waalaikumsalam, we saw you reading earlier, didn’t wanna disturb you.” Aarif says. “You picked your preferences?” 

Malik takes his time to answer, slowly nodding. “I guess so, I’m looking into doing Literature. My main focus is poetry.” No doubt Malik would get into his course, his words were made to be heard by everyone and we all knew it. We all talk for a bit longer—our dreams about the future and where we’ll be once we’ve all moved ahead. 

“I heard you guys talking about istikhara?” Malik says, retracing back to our conversation. 

“Yeah, this guy needed a bit of help.” Aarif says, directing his finger towards me. 

“Mhmm, you know I like to think of it this way—there’s a comfort in putting your best foot forward. Allah knows your intentions and he’s the best of all planners. So don’t fret.” His words ease me, letting me contemplate. He sits straighter in his chair, facing me. 

“Yaseen, there’s something very peaceful knowing that something has been written under your name. If it’s yours, nobody can take it away from you because Allah willed it.” Aarif and I intently listen, and he’s right.

It’s calming to know that our path has already been written. 

All you need to do is have trust, and that’s pretty neat.