...

Ibrahim Ahmad scanned the crowd in search of a face. It would have been easier if he knew exactly who he was looking for, but after hearing the description he had a feeling he'd know the moment his eyes landed on the guy.

Sure enough, amidst the crowd, he found a boy with brown eyes and messy hair laughing around with someone. Ibrahim stormed towards him. He tapped on the guy's shoulder and waited for him to turn around.

"Yes?" Aryan asked as he faced him.

Aryan Malik was not only a prick, but he looked like one too. His tie was so loose around his neck it seemed like it would come undone with a touch, his shirt was untucked and his pants weren't even the ones that were part of the uniform. The guy was just wearing casual jeans, the ends of which were tucked into his scruffy combat boots.

"Are you the guy that my sister asked for directions to her Physics class this morning?" his tone was casual and his posture was relaxed, yet Ibrahim's eyes were dead set on the guy. "The one who sent her the wrong way?"

Aryan, despite being a head shorter, didn't look the least bit intimidated. It seemed like trouble was something the kid was familiar with. He furrowed his eyebrows. "Dude, I don't even know your sister. I am sure you got the wrong guy."

Ibrahim knew there was a slight possibility that was the actual case. But the more he stared at that idiotic grin on his face, the more convinced he became this was the Aryan he was looking for, "Is that so?" Ibrahim folded his arms over his chest, making him seem even more intimidating if possible, and raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah." Aryan nodded, blinking innocently.

"So, you're telling me you're not the punk that found Dahlia lost in an empty corridor this morning and then sent her to the boys' room, knowing full that the hallway was empty and no one have heard her voice if something had happened?"

The mirth from Aryan's eyes disappeared quickly. He eyed the big guy, realizing soon he wasn't playing around, specially since it concerned his sister.

Aryan raised his hands and tried to pull off a charming smile that usually worked on the ladies. "You got me."

Too bad Ibrahim wasn't a lady. In fact, was raised a gentleman and always followed up to this reputation. He avoided resorting to violence and believed there wasn't anything that words couldn't solve. However, just the look on the punk's face lighted an anger in Ibrahim he didn't know he was capable of.

"Listen..." Ibrahim started as he raised one hand to lightly touch Aryan's shoulder, his voice turning hard.

"Hey man, I was just kidding," Aryan spoke up, losing the humor from his voice completely. "I didn't realize what I had done until you just dictated it to me."

Ibrahim watched him carefully, Aryan wasn't smiling anymore and he could sense sincerity in his voice. He let his hand drop to his side, deciding to believe the punk.

"I thought I was just pulling an innocent prank."

Ibrahim lowered his hand. "Stay away from her," he ordered, tone more gentle but still firm.

"That wouldn't be an issue."

The two boys nodded at each other once, sealing the understanding they reached. Ibrahim turned around and walked away again.

During lunch, Ibrahim found himself beside the bespectacled boy he met in Math class. Zakariya Azad seemed introverted and timid at first, but Ibrahim soon learned that first impressions could be deceiving. Once the boy opened up to someone, he could really talk.

As Zakariya went on and on about the faculties in detail, a guy slid his lunch tray next to him.

"Yo," he said, nodding at them. Then he locked eyes with Zakariya. I broke up with Diya again." His voice turned bitter. "That witch really knows how to make someone's life miserable."

"I'm pretty sure it's the other way around," Zakariya replied in a snide tone. Then he added, "Why are you still with her again?"

"Azad, my boy," he said, eyes turning wise. "The day you hit puberty is the day you'll understand. When I look at Diya..."

"For God's sake!" Zakariya cried, interjecting. Then he turned to Ibrahim. "That's Shahriar Kabir, or Shorty. We just learned to mute him in our heads," he told Ibrahim with irritation. "That's the only way you can put up with him."

Ibrahim's day got weirder the more time he spent with Shorty. He began to wonder why Zakariya was friends with this boy to begin with, then he realized they are both outcasts who had no one else to sit with.

The three separated ways after lunch as they all head for their classes respectively. Ibrahim went to his designated locker for the year, momentarily stopping to grab a few items before entering his next class. A couple lockers down, another figure halted.

Ibrahim glanced over his shoulder. The sight of Aryan Malik quickly descended annoyance on his face. They were the only ones in the hallway by now, the other guy hadn't acknowledged his presence yet.

"Do you always look like you're about to kill someone?" Aryan spoke, finally glancing at him.

"Nope, only around punks," he quipped.

"I feel for your sisters' boyfriends, man." Aryan shook his head sadly. "This morning I actually thought you were going to hit me."

Ibrahim's lips quirked up in a playful smile, taking the punk by utter surprise. "I am pretty good at it, aren't I? There are things you have to pick up when you have one too many sisters and a society full of jerks like you."

Aryan let out a chuckle. "You're not shy about your feelings, I like that."

"By the way, my sisters will only have husbands." With that, Ibrahim spun on his heels and headed towards his next classroom.

Soon, he heard soft thuds of boots behind him. He saw that the punk was walking alongside, hands inside his pocket, taking long strides.

Ibrahim soon arrived at his destination. He let out a breath of relief when he saw the teacher hadn't entered yet. He stepped in, and found the punk walking inside with sync.

Ibrahim veered to one of the seats towards the back of the class. Aryan took a seat ahead of Ibrahim, so they were seating diagonally from each other.

"It's a misconception amongst students that teachers can't see the last row least, whereas the truth is they pay most attention to the backbenchers." He turned around to look at Ibrahim, face smug. 'Rookie mistake," he added. "Always choose a seat in the middle."

"That wasn't my concern at all. I sat at the back so I can keep my eye on you." Ibrahim smirked. "So I can watch you, you know, like a guardian angel." The translation wasn't lost on either parties – let's see you try and mess with me and my sister again.

The teacher entered the classroom. Aryan just let out a chuckled as he straightened in his seat to face the front. It wasn't the first time he was being confronted by a girl's brother, he knew it wouldn't be the last either. But Ibrahim was by far the coolest.

Dahlia and Ibrahim were picked up from school by his mother, and then driven straight to their grandmother's.

Grandmother Nargis Khatun seldom moved from her house, and no one had the power to make her do so. Despite the incessant requests from her sons to come and live with them, the woman stubbornly made the entire family visit her instead.

They arrived at the destination shortly. What assaulted Ibrahim as soon as he stepped down was the perpetual honking and constant dull thuds from numerous construction sites in the neighbourhood. Nargis Khatun lived in the heart of the city. Once the prominent residential area, was now a hub for tall commercial buildings.

Upon stepping inside the house, the party was greeted by Lily Ahmad.

The girl stood by the door, arms folded casually over her chest and curly hair running wild down her shoulders. "The Boss Baby is in a mood," she muttered. This was Lily's current nickname for Nargis Khatun.

The cousins entered the house. "When is she not," Dahlia Ahmad muttered under her breath, her frown deepening.

Lily had nestled herself in one corner of the room. Her textbooks were stacked on one end of the table and some snacks on the other, her laptop laying in the middle. It seemed she had made herself at home. Of all the siblings, Lily spent time with their grandmother the most since her University was the closest. Though she constantly complained about Nargis' sharp tongue, Ibrahim knew the girl secretly enjoyed the challenge the elder women provided.

His youngest sister, on the other hand, had a much less tolerance for nonsense. Ibrahim watched as Dahlia freed her arms from her backpack and quietly fled towards the empty library of their late grandfather. Fearing another comment about her recently adorned hijab - the youngest Ahmad put as much distance between herself and Nargis as possible.

"At least grandma's friends are not here," Lily added with a chuckle. "That would have truly turned it into A Nightmare on Gulzar Street."

Without a repy, Ibrahim tip-toed towards the air-conditioned room down the hallway.

His sister's teased endlessly that their grandmother was biased towards him, and no one could deny the blatant truth. Nargis always served him the biggest portion of meals and the most Eidi. Being the favourite, and only, grandson, he was also the one who was best at handling her mood swings.

As he peered through the door, he found his grandmother's sharp eyes landing on him.

"Is that nuisance still here?" Nargis cried angrily.

She was sitting on her bed, with a thin quilt covering her lower legs. Her frail hands were placed on top of her lap, fingers gently interlaced. Placed amidst the floral bedsheets, as soft glow of light peered through the chiffon curtains, the elder women's voice rang like a sharp contrast against the ambiance of the room.

Ibrahim gently walked inside and sat on her bed. He was aware before asking that Nargis was inquiring about the whereabouts of her nurse. "Yes, Dadimaa," he responded with patience, knowing his answer would only provoke the woman further.

"Filthy beggar," she responded haughtily, lips falling into a tight line. "Thinks she can boss me around!"

Ibrahim simply rolled his eyes, used to his grandmother's offending remarks. As he heard Nargis go into one of her rants, he looked over her appearance.

Nargis, despite her sickness, was still dressed impeccably well. Nobody dared call her ill or frail. Her new saree was crisp and her bob hair was well combed. The pearls, a family heirloom, that she always had on her was neatly placed over her chest.

Some queens wore crowns on their heads to mark their power, but his grandmother preferred these more convenient and modern day friendly pearls to remind everyone her rule wasn't yet over.

Nargis glanced down at her necklace as she noticed her sole grandson's gaze on them.

"These will be yours someday," she told him, with what Ibrahim assumed was a glint of pride in her eyes. "Make sure to tie them around someone who's worthy of them, and not just a desperate wench who has nothing to offer but a pretty face!" She finished sharply.

Ibrahim leaned forward and lifted a vein-webbed hand of hers, clutching it tightly in his. "Nobody can wear them better than you, Dadimaa." He finished with a playful glint in his eyes and by pressing a kiss on the back of her hand. "Girls these days don't come with your... resilience."

For the first time since they arrived, Ibrahim saw a hint of smile on her face. " I see you have inherited your grandfather's charm." Nargis continued in her ever sharp tone, even though her eyes were swirling with affection now. "But thank the Lord that you look nothing like him. Ibrahim Ahmad the First was blessed in a lot of ways, but he was an ugly toad, that one," she said, shaking her head.

Ibrahim grinned at her.

"Hm." Nargis pressed her lips together but looked pleased. "Are you staying over tonight?"

He let out a sigh, the underlying desperation in her voice causing a strain in his heart. "I wish I could, Dadimaa. But you know I have school tomorrow. I have to go home."

She refused to look at him after that, and when her answers turned to single words delivered in a clipped tone, Ibrahim knew there was very little he could say without making the situation worse. Deciding it was best to leave the situation to neutralise it, Ibrahim got up from his seat.

I hate you, did I mention that? If I could talk to you, I'd tell you that I hate you and that you need to get off your high horse.

You're not all that.
...

It was around eight at night when Imran finally came to pick Malika up.

His trademark horn faintly honked through her bedroom. She was in the middle of getting dressed, mid way to zipping and buttoning her jeans up. Malika rolled her eyes at the sound. She peered through her white chiffon curtains and looked down.

He had parked near the lamp post just outside her neighbour's garden, his car partially hidden by the massive rose bush that grew on her mother's garden and extended to their neighbour's.

It was Imran's spot. He had chosen it when they were barely fifteen and Malika had to hide her boyfriend from her older brother.

Hiding was no longer necessary. Her mother wasn't home ever and her brother wasn't even in the country - but Imran still parked there out of habit.

Honking wasn't needed either, they both had cell phones now - but Imran still insisted on doing that as well because he was a grade-A douchebag-wanna-be.

Malika twirled in front of the mirror one last time. Her peach top brought out the pink in her cheeks and the flared jeans were perfect for a casual Sunday night outing. Satisfied with her look, Malika walked out with her hair swaying behind her.

They were quiet the entire ride, with only sharing snippets of conversation about football and school. They reached the bustling restaurant in about twenty minutes and hustled their way through the well-dressed kids. Malika turned heads as she walked between the tables, catching attention of plenty of men in the room. They maneuvered their way to his friends.

Soon the evening was turning into a drag. Imran was talking to his friends about things Malika wasn't interested in. The girls were discussing the same old gossip, purposely bringing up stories from when Malika wasn't a part of their group.

Malika took a good look at them. Umaira was wearing a pair of loose formal pants paired with a basic white shirt. Her hair was tied back in a sleek, elegant bun and her blazer was placed so casually on her delicate shoulders that it seemed she threw it on the last minute and magically tied the whole outfit together.

But Malika knew there was nothing casual about her look, every detail of that outfit was planned with care down to the color of her nail polish. After all, Malika had to bear through the excruciating process on their WhatsApp group chat, the one for the girls only.

Malika couldn't help but wonder, how, even after putting that much thought behind her appearance, Umaira ended up looking like a soccer mom in her mid-fourties ready for her Tuesday brunch.

Feeling her gaze, Umaira turned to meet her eyes. Her lips turned up in a prickly sweet smile.

She was never friends with Umaira or the girls, even back in the day when she actually wanted to be a part of this circle. Their social interactions were obligatory as the girls were friends with her boyfriend and Umaira's boyfriend was Imran's best friend.

"Care to share something?" she asked.

Malika resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "Not really," she replied.

Umaira's brown eyes, almost black, feigned curiosity. "You know, I feel like it's been a while since I caught up with you. What's up?"

"I'm not sure how that could be possible considering we hang out every single day."

Malika knew her retort would piss off the girl, but she couldn't bother to entertain the useless conversation. Malika disliked small talk almost as much as the girl's attempt to look like a desperate housewife. If it was someone else,  Umaira would have put her six feet down for the backhanded comment. However, she was as cautious of Malika and she was of the girl. So Umaira resorted to merely narrowing her eyes.

"Which year did you guys get together again?" Umaira asked casually, flitting her gaze towards Imran, squinting her eyes as if she was trying to recall something important. "We were in the tenth year, right?"

"No, we got together when we were in Year Nine," Imran asked, fondness appeared in his eyes as he looked at Malika. "I proposed to her with a bouquet of roses in the middle of a game," he said. "The girls in the crowd went crazy." He chuckled.

Her boyfriend's affection was lost on her. Malika had her eyes trained on the girl on the other side of the table. Umaira was nodding her head, feigning interest. But Malika knew better, the girl was only interested when there was drama involved.

"I thought you had a thing for Aryan that year?" Unaira asked her, landing her seemingly innocent eyes on Malika.

So there it was. Annoyance pooled in Malika's chest. She could feel Imran going tense beside her. She shot the girl a look, knowing Umaira had done this just to get her into trouble.

"It was a long time ago," she quickly came to her own defense. "And it was before I learned what a tool he is."

All the eyes around the table locked on them. Imran was silently throwing daggers at her.

Sensing the judgement in their gaze, Malika let out an empty laugh. "I just said he was cute," she started. "I didn't really have a 'crush' on him." she said, using air quotes around the word crush.

"He has been wearing the same pants since Year Nine," Natasha said, wrinkling nose.

Malika narrowed her eyes at the liar. "I clearly remember you mentioning how cute you find him even last week."

Natasha's jaw tightened for a split second as she gave Malika the glare of death. "Don't exaggerate," she gave her friends a glance and let out a laugh. "I only said he has a nice face, but that doesn't mean I don't find him appaling."

"Hey, wanna spilt dessert?" Umaira asked one of the girls, breaking the tension and ending that conversation then and there.

Natasha shot Umaira a grateful look for the distraction and the girls hunched together in a tighter circle, scooching further away from Malika.

She ignored them just as hard, trying not to succumb to the empty loneliness she felt in her stomach.

"Excuse me." She swiftly got up from her seat, barely sparing her classmates a glance as she strode in no specific direction.

Her heart was thumping against her chest rapidly, pumping anger and pain through her veins. Before she knew it, Malika was out of the restaurant and into the streets.