I’d not thought this through.

Please don’t call my mother was all I’d had, my sole functioning brain cell screaming out a single directive.

I’d not thought about who they might call instead.

My father was in the hospital. Shayda was not listed as one of my emergency contacts. But I still remember the form Zahra’s dad had to fill out the day he came to get me, just three months ago.

Zahra’s parents were in my file.

I stood stock-still in my ex–best friend’s bedroom and stared at myself in her mirror, the mirror above her dresser, the one she’d had for as long as I’d known her. I took in my strange, ghostly appearance, the blush-colored silk scarf tied loosely at my throat, half-fallen off my head. My dark hair was coming loose, my normally pale skin now pink with heat, with the flush of fresh sleep. My eyes were the bright, strange green of a person on drugs.

I looked slow, soft, newly cooked.

It was how I felt, too.

Zahra must’ve known I was here. Zahra—who’d accused me of being a calculating opportunist, who’d warned me to stay the hell away from her family—had to have known that I’d been asleep in her beautiful, soft bed, and she had to have hated it, hated me for it, for forcing her to play nice at what was no doubt her parents’ behest. The thought made me suddenly sick. I didn’t know whether it was even possible to escape the mortification of such a scene. I thought it might inhale me.

I glanced at the clock on the wall and was comforted, for a moment, by the knowledge that Zahra was in class at the community college right now. It was Wednesday night, the night I, too, was supposed to be in class at the community college. This was the third time I’d missed my multivariable calculus class, which meant that even with perfect scores, my best possible grade had now dropped to a C.

The realization struck me like a blow.

I’d never gotten a C in anything before. Worse, that C was contingent upon flawless work in all other areas. But I’d already missed three days; I’d already missed homework, would struggle to catch up for exams. I’d more than likely end up with a D, which was considered failing. I’d have to retake the class. I didn’t even know if they’d let me retake the class.

I stared at a single thing as my heart raced: a plush pink teddy bear perched in an armchair beside Zahra’s bed. I stared at its big glass eyes, at the tiny red heart stitched onto its white belly. I did not own any stuffed animals. My father had gotten rid of mine when I was twelve; he’d taken my childhood things to Goodwill while I was at school. When I’d cried, he’d told me it was time to grow up.

Zahra would have all that I only ever dreamed of: the necessary love and stability to survive this life with grace, and the parental support required to be the dutiful, promising student I’d tried and failed to be.

I took a ragged breath. Clasped my shaking hands.

I had another hour before Zahra’s class ended, and I thought I might escape before then, find somewhere to kill time until I could walk home at my normal hour, pretend everything was as it should be.

I stepped into the adjoining bathroom, apologizing to Zahra’s ghost as I borrowed her toothpaste, finger-brushed my teeth, rinsed my mouth. I splashed cold water on my face, but my cheeks would not cool. I looked overheated to the extreme, my lips brighter, redder than usual, everything hot to the touch.

I shivered, suddenly.

I readjusted my scarf, tried to contain my slippery straight hair, but I’d lost a couple of the bobby pins that held my longer bangs in place, and dark strands kept coming loose. I stared, longingly, at some of Zahra’s hair clips, and tried to decide whether it would be truly reprehensible to take them without her permission. I picked them up. Weighed them in my hands. We had such a long, storied history that I didn’t think she’d begrudge me something so small.

But then I remembered, with a sinking sensation, that she’d been unwilling to offer me even a ride in the pouring rain. We’d both been headed to the same destination—her, in a warm, dry car; me, caught in a deluge without an umbrella.

I dropped the pins back on her counter.

When I turned around, I collided with a wall of heat.

I knew, I knew, I’d known he might be here but I’d not allowed myself to think about it, could not bring myself to process the possibility of so much humiliation. This was not how I wanted to see Ali again. Not like this, not trapped inside his sister’s bedroom after a delirious collapse, not saved by his parents because I had no one of my own to call. I knew how I presented, could see how his family must see me, with pity, with pity and charity, an aching sadness in their eyes that tore me in half.

This was not what I wanted.

My heart pounded dangerously as I looked up at him. He wasn’t supposed to be here. It broke the rules of basic propriety for him to have entered his sister’s bedroom while I slept. I was a guest in his home, a guest who’d not given him permission to enter, and we both knew it. I didn’t need to say it. I could tell by the frightened look on his face that he knew he’d taken a risk, one that might end in disaster.

“Hey,” he said. He took a deep breath, gave it back.

He had the darkest eyes. Thick, inky lashes. There was a depth in his gaze, a collapsed star that beckoned, tempted me to peer inside, lose myself, and if not there—here, in the elegant lines of his face, in the sharpness of his jaw, in his smooth, dusky skin. There was so much to appreciate, so much for the eyes to enjoy.

But I, I could not stop staring at his mouth.

“Hi,” I whispered.

“Hi,” he said.

“You really shouldn’t be here.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I just—” He cut himself off. Did not continue.

I nodded for no reason. I stared at my socked feet, wondered who’d removed my shoes.

“I called you,” he said quietly. “Last night.” He laughed, then. Sighed. Turned away.

“I lost my phone.”

He looked up. “Oh.”

When I said nothing he exhaled, pushed a hand through his hair. It was a nervous habit, something he did a lot. I’d watched him do it for years, and I watched him do it now. I’d often wondered what it would feel like to touch him like that. His hair looked so soft.

“Shadi,” he said. “What’s going on?”

I dragged my eyes back to his face. “What do you mean?”

He froze at that, froze with something like anger. “What do you mean, what do I mean? You collapsed at school.”

“Right. Yeah. Yes,” I said. My heart was suddenly pounding again.

“Shadi.”

I met his eyes. I saw the effort he was making to breathe, could see his chest moving, even out of focus. He was struggling to contain his frustration.

“What happened? The school told my parents you’d begged them not to call your own mom. Is that true?”

“Yes,” I whispered.

“Why?”

I shook my head, looked away, bit my lip too hard. I was desperate to confess, to say nothing. I didn’t know what to do; I only knew what my parents would want me to do, which was to protect their secrets, to protect their pain from public viewing.

So I said nothing. I stared at his chest and said nothing.

“You’ve been asleep here for the last four hours,” he said quietly. “And no one knows what’s going on.”