He treaded on a path of destruction, lost among a sea of souls, and then he was drowning in her perfection.

Mariam never expected much from life. She lived through the tragedy of losing her beloved, loved in silent fear of love, lived only to please Allah. Through her perfect mask, she created a viral YouTube channel, one that followed Muslim fashion and streaming games, two giant platforms. She didn't expect it to be popular, nor did she except a secret admirer.

A man of few words and the brother of her best friend leads her to a path of desire and decorum as the two play a game of cat and mouse. Little did Mariam know that two imperfect people were more than capable of being perfect together.

Amaar

There were a lot of mysteries that I had yet to solve in life, but the most peculiar one was why my esteemed brother-in-law begged me to take him to eat spicy ramen when he knew that he could not handle the burning roar in his mouth nor could he handle the fire breathing smoke that came with each slurp.

His green eyes watered, breath coming in short pants. "Why... did you not tell me... that I could die like... this?" he struggled through the pain.

I pursued my lips. "Well, someone wanted to take an unnecessary risk."

Subhan was my little sister's husband. We weren't too far apart in age since Amna, my sister, was only three years younger than I, but her life was much more ahead than mine. At a young age, she married the man she loved and they quickly started their lives together. It would be any day now for my nephew to be born, hence why Subhan insisted on challenging himself with food before his baby came.

I found it amusing.

Subhan glared at me, bright, evergreen eyes narrowing at my remark. "I can't help that I was fed peppers from the day I was born. Cut the white guy some slack, man," he said, gulping a glass of water. He squeezed his eyes for a moment, blinking through the haze of spices. "Why do I feel like I made it worse?"

"You're supposed to drink milk if something is too spicy."

"How was I supposed to know?"

"Common sense."

Subhan frowned, though there was a light still hidden in his eyes, a sign of jest. "Why are you so mean to me, Amaar? Be nice to your nephew's father."

I raised a brow. "He isn't even born yet."

"Yet is the key word here," he grinned.

Leaning against my seat, I gave him a long look, wondering how such a goofball and egotistical man managed to gain my little sister's approval. There were often times when I thought marriage would be too constricting for Amina, too distracting from her life goals.

However, Subhan proved time and time again how he would do anything for his wife, how he would sacrifice his own life for hers, how he would follow blindly behind her if it meant that she would stay by his side forever. Not to mention that his company would allow an escape from my perfunctory life.

"Are you really changing jobs?" I asked.

Subhan nodded, stirring his bowl of ramen. "Yeah. Amina wants to be closer to your parents while the baby is born. I don't want to keep her away from them because of my job. Also, with the arrival of a baby, we'll be way more busy than usual. Having your parents help would be a giant blessing," he admitted, inhaling deeply as he stared at his fork. "Let's try this again."

I chuckled to myself. "You're going to regret this, man. If you couldn't handle the spice the first time, you can't handle it the second time."

"Shut up. I'm doing it anyway."

"May Allah have mercy."

Subhan converted to Islam a couple years ago, which was before he married Amina. I was glad that he found the light to Islam on his own rather than allowing love to consume his rationality. He was the complete opposite of me much like my sister. Maybe that was why they fit so perfectly.

A part of me wished to be where they were in their lives, wished to have the bubbling excitement of a new family, of a wife and kids. A darkness clouded over me, sinister whispers reminding how unfit I was for such a life, how useless I would be to another person.

I was never too close to my parents, and that shame continued to follow me in my adult life. I hurt them in ways I never should have. I was that rebel, annoying, smart mouthed son that no one wanted, but my parents continued to stay by my side. Helping Amina achieve her dreams was my only chance at redemption.

It was the least I could do.

But after all was said and all was done, I still hurt my family. Knowing that I did cause shame and resentment to course through my body, for guilt to overpower my senses, for darkness to engulf me in its cold embrace.

Allah, forgive me. I lost my path in the past, but please don't let me lose it again.

I hated myself for how I disrespected and pained my family. I hated myself for the scars I left them. I hated myself for the harsh tones I used. Now, I couldn't even face them without tears in my eyes.

Subhan's spluttering for water broke my thoughts. "Amaar..." he strained to say as his face swelled with redness.

"I told you so," I said, pouring him another glass. "Subhan, this is only going to make it worse."

"Shh, I... need it."

I rolled my eyes. "So stubborn," I muttered under my breath. Why am I not surprised?

Subhan chugged the entire glass, sticking out his tongue like a dog as if it would help. "You're one to talk," he teased, a slow smile on his lips. "Your entire family is stubborn like hell."

"Your point?"

He shook his head, waving a hand at the thought. "Forget about it. Are you going to work next week?" he asked, worry and concern lacing his voice. I knew he was talking about if I'd move out again.

I shrugged. "I don't know yet."

A brief silence ensued between us, a touchy subject weighing heavier than I expected like a delicate balance of responsibilities rested on my shoulders. As the tension stretched, my mind felt numb, uncertainty the thin line that dictated my decision.

I'd gotten multiple job openings for cyber security, so finding a job wouldn't be difficult for me, especially with how the technology field grew in my hometown with each passing day. I could be ahead of the competition with my experience at my current job as a cyber security technician for a friend's father at his profound business.

I wasn't sure if I was ready to continue living with my parents. I stayed with them whenever I visited, but I barely conversed with them unless they initiated or I had too. Every time I looked into my father's eyes, I knew he was upset and hurt by my actions, that he feared for the man I might become, that he wished I would speak to him.

I couldn't. Something was stopping me.

Every time I saw my mother's frail form continue working for Amina and I, continue her daycare, continue her struggles for our well-being, I wanted to erase it all. I wanted to save her from the tedious life she lived, but again the words always melted on my tongue.

How could I stay with them after the pain I caused?

I mixed with the wrong crowd, and I verbally attacked my parents during difficult times of their lives because of my own frustrations. I had no right, yet I did so anyway.

The bustling of the restaurant filled with empty cavities of our time, strange voices mingling with others, laughter infiltrating the dimmed lights of a Chinese restaurant. Subhan and I sat across from each other, but neither of us made eye contact. Although the room rustled with joy and excitement around us, our voices were mute, our lips sewed shut.

The levity vanished like smoke.

"I think you should," whispered Subhan so lowly that I didn't hear him. He lifted his eyes, a mass of emerald sparkling with his determination. "You've made some mistakes, but it's time to be the captain of your ship. Take control of your life again, and stay with us."

"Subhan-"

"Your parents need you, Amaar," he cut off. Amina needs you. Do you really think the stress of a baby and trying to get into medical school isn't driving her crazy?"

I winced at the mention of her. He knew that my little sister held a part of my heart. She always did ever since the first day my parents brought her home from the hospital. Knowing about her heartache, about the turn her life now took hammered the coldness from my heart.

Yet the frigid glaciers were too strong, the currents too violent to let me steer through my conflicting emotions. Amina was married to a great Muslim man, one who could provide for her every need, one who cherished her deeply. It hurt, but I knew she was better off with Subhan than to spend time worrying about me.

"She has you," I said, smiling sadly at him. "She doesn't need her big brother like she used to."

Subhan chuckled to himself, resting his arms on the table. "If that was true, then Allah wouldn't have made you two siblings."

I tilted my head at him, confused.

"You're wrong, Amaar. There will never be a time when she doesn't need her older brother," said Subhan softly, meeting my gaze fiercely. "You have a bond with your family that I will never have. You're tied to them, and even if I'm their son-in-law or her husband, there are some comforts, some quirks that only you know. You are still a part of their lives, so please make them a part of yours."

"I'll think about it."

Subhan sighed, choosing to say nothing.

Honestly, what could he say? Here he was, a guy that everyone adored for his charismatic approach to life and the smiles he infected everyone with, and here I was in my quiet state, my reserved nature, my inability to voice out my heart. In that regard, he was a brighter star in Amina's galaxy than I ever would be.

Sure, she needed me. Siblings always needed each other, but those needs would be replaced by someone else. Maybe I pushed people away too often, or maybe I preferred my solitude, but that emptiness still resided deep in my heart, that burning pain still rang like bells.

My heart felt heavy. Stay with my family, I thought. They want me to stay, but for what?

Mariam

There was once a time where I believed that the beauty of life would not happen near me. That was until Amina's water broke, and I ended up being the unfortunate soul tasked with the job of keeping her sane till her husband arrived.

Where the hell is that bastard?

"Mariam, call... Subhan... please," pleaded Amina, breaths as weak as her ability to correlate her sentences. She was in labor for a couple hours now, but her tolerance to the pain kept the discomfort at bay. "Please."

I stared down at my disheveled friend in her hospital gown, round belly swollen, and cheeks flushed with physical stress.

"I'll try again, hold on," I promised, stepping out of the room.

The door shut behind me, nurses frantically running between the halls with more and more pregnant women. All at different points of their labor. Some walked around with their partners while others lacked the strength to when the pain encompassed them.

"Pick up, Subhan. Come on," I muttered to myself as my fingers shook trying to find his number in her contacts. The phone began to ring, and my prayers grew more urgent.

Allah, let him answer. Don't let Amina go through this pain without the support of her husband by her side.

Amina's groan of throbbing pain echoed into my ear, the sound rumbling in waves through the closed door, a testament to the struggle she was going through in order to give life to a newborn. I almost winced on her behalf.

"Assalamualaikum, sweetheart. Sorry that I've been-"

"Where the hell have you been?" I seethed, not even bothering to correct him.

He paused. "Wait a second. You're not my wife."

"No shit, Sherlock. Your wife is in labor!" I exclaimed, which earned me a few amused looks in my direction from the doctors and nurses. My cheeks burned in embarrassment. "Hurry up."

"She's in labor?" he yelled. "Amaar, we need to go."

Amaar is there?

There was some shuffling on the phone as Subhan panicked. A deeper, more calm voice spoke in a low tone to him. The ballast in my stomach seemed to grow in anticipation, my mind tuned to the voice that haunted my sleep at night, the man whose quiet demeanor knocked on the walls of my mind, shattering the frames with his voice, his cold eyes that grew warm with his friends.

My best friend's brother. It should be a crime to have a voice like that, a voice that makes a girl weak at the knees, the kind that makes a girl forget everything but the man before her.

"Mariam?" asked Amaar on the line. "You still there?"

I broke out of my daze. "Yeah. I'm still here."

"Send me the location of the hospital. How long has she been in labor?"

"About two or three hours. It took us a while to get here," I admitted. "I've been calling, but Subhan hasn't picked up until now."

"Amaar! My wife needs me, hurry up!" yelled Subhan from a distance, his voice far from his phone, panic coating his words. "Oh Allah, my wife is going to murder me if I'm not there soon."

"Hang on," said Amaar. "Mariam, keep her company till we get there."

"It's not like I've been doing that this whole time or anything," I remarked sarcastically. "I'll pray for Subhan's survival."

Amaar didn't even bother to dignity me with a response, which was casual of him. He simply hung up the phone.

Sighing, I walked back into Amina's hospital room, not believing how engrossed in this birth I was. Although her contractions were far apart, pain still lingered every now and then, and when the pain whisked her mind away, her body suffered at its clutching hands. Hearing her slow, labored breaths as she struggled time and time again caused my own chest to constrict.

I wished I could help, but this was a birth. There wasn't much for me to do other than whisper encouraging words to her.

Hearing my footsteps, she opened her eyes. "Did he answer?" she asked, so quiet I almost didn't hear her.

I nodded. "Amaar and Subhan are on their way. I called your parents earlier, so they should be here too."

"Thank... you."

Smiling, I held her trembling hands. "No need to thank me for doing my job as your friend. You just focus on pushing that baby out," I joked.

She laughed tiredly. "That won't be for another couple of hours."

"Even better," I grinned. "You have a couple more hours of daydreaming until the little guy is born."

"I don't think you understand how..." she winced for a couple seconds, squeezing her eyes shut. "That one hurt."

"Yeah, I think they're supposed to."

"Mariam, really?"

I winked playfully at her. "Hey, you're the soon-to-be doctor here, In Shaa Allah (if God wills it) of course, but still."

Instead of continuing our banter, Amina smiled at me, grateful to have my lighthearted jokes to distract her. We had gone through a lot thought out our time in college from crazy teachers to late night assignments to family drama to our pending futures. There were many lows and many highs.

I never had a friend who cared for me as a sister. I never had a friend whose smile managed to make my whole day brighter. Amina had a special way with people, her gentle nature broke the coldest of hearts, expelled the darkest evils.

She was perfect, flawless almost.

A looming cloud of doubt hung over my head, the storm thundering its insults until sinister words echoed through out my mind, an ongoing glare to the events of my life that stripped that innocence from me.

My smiles never felt genuine anymore. My heart never felt satisfied with all that I accomplished.

Yet, the more time I spent with Amina and Subhan, the more I started to believe in a happily ever after like their's, the more I started to believe in their hope and in Islam. Allah could cure the darkest of hearts. Allah could heal my fragmented one and piece it back together.

I had to keep trying.

* * * *

Awkward was the only word to describe this situation.

Amina's mother and Subhan were in the room with her, the final hours of labor finally approaching after a long, tiring day. There was the occasional scream or exhausted groan, but those would subside after a while. Behind those doors, I had no idea what was going on except that my friend was in pain and her husband was in sheer panic mode trying to comfort his wife.

Subhan even fainted at one point. This man, I thought, shaking my head. If I didn't know any better, I'd say he was the one giving birth.

But that surprisingly wasn't the awkward part.

Amaar sat across from me in the waiting room, his head resting back against the chair, eyes shut and lips mumbling soft, quiet verses to himself. He didn't acknowledge my presence, let alone spared me any glance.

Since the first day I met Amaar when I studied with Amina, he intrigued me. For some reason, his personality lured me closer to my impending doom like a siren's call but reversed. Instead of the man falling into the depths of his desire, it was me, but what I felt wasn't just desire.

I didn't know what it was, but I knew he would never feel the same, and whatever this fantasy I had was a fairytale I created in my grief, a rebound of sorts. I found love once, and I lost it within an instant.

I stared down the hall, wide, white doors beckoning the start to a new life, a newborn, mothers graciously holding their babies, eyes welling with tears. The corridor seemed to stretch on like time passing for eternity, a journey to the unknown. There was a bittersweet sense of joy, the calm after a storm.

Meanwhile, my body felt ignited. Flames scorched my skin, and discomfort reigned as I tried to formulate the right words. I didn't want to seem desperate for his attention, but I couldn't take his deafening silence.

All I heard were the hushed voices of nurses, the soft hurried footsteps of doctors and assistants making their rounds to the women in the delivery room, the constant of their laptops and pagers, and all the panicked family members who urged their loved one to continue through the struggle.

It was chaos. There was no other word to describe a hospital, except chaos. It held the fate of those alive and dead, carried the new and the old, witnessed their birth and their demise.

The only peace surrounded the aura around Amaar. Silence stretched between us, and I suffocated in his presence, in his quiet resolve.

My eyes traced across his features, followed the length of his lashes, chased the waves of his hair, the swept, bed-head look he wore with ease.

What do I say? Would he even talk to me?

I bit my lip, drowning under my ambivalent emotions. I was never one to freak out when talking to anyone, but this was different. Amaar wasn't just anyone. He was someone special, yet I was nothing to him except a friend of his sister. I was just another girl to pass his eye.

I cleared my throat. "So?" I drawled, leaning back against my seat. "Are you worried?"

Amaar opened his eyes, narrowing them. "I don't need to be," he said. "She's strong, and her husband is there."

"That doesn't mean you can't worry."

He shrugged, a faraway look in his dark, mysterious eyes. Looking into them lured me away from the world that I knew because in his abyss, there was more than just loneliness lingering, there was an unimaginable pain, one that I could relate to. There was regret lining his eyes, a memory that dictated his life.

I understood it like a foreign language on my tongue, but Amaar would never see that in me. He never noticed me. He never would.

"You don't talk much, do you?" I cut into the silence once more.

His brows furrowed. "Not quite sure what that has to do with anything."

"I mean, instead of worrying our asses off, we could make do with small talk."

He frowned. "That seems unnecessary."

Sighing, I crossed my arms, leaning back against my seat. Of course there was no breaking his walls. He was as hard-headed, stubborn, and a stoic man of hulk as usual. Without another word, I dug into my purse to play on my phone. Although my heart broke with how easily he dismissed me, I had to admire his grip on his own emotions.

He was distressed about his little sister, but he'd never let it show.

"Mariam," his voice spoke, "thank you."

I gazed up from my phone, arching a brow. "For what? I did nothing, except sit in this chair."

A ghost of a smile feathered his lips, gentle and slow. "No, you were there for Amina."

Ah, back to the sister, I see.

I pushed down the bubble of disappointment that rose in my chest. "Yeah," I tightly smiled. "I'm glad I can help in whatever way I can."

He flashed a grateful smile my way before returning to his previous state of silence and thought, eyes closed, and lips murmuring verses under his breath, a defense mechanism of his that I noticed. Amaar's mind was in a faraway land, his thoughts focused entirely on the well-being of his sister.

There was no space in his heart for someone as broken as me. My smile was a mask, one that even he couldn't see through. I came too late into his line of sight.

Mariam

Stepping into my new apartment room, I muttered a 'Bismillah' (in the name of Allah) as I walked in.

Cardboard boxes lined against the wall, idle and as lifeless as the rest of the cold, foreboding new place. A small couch was at the corner, an abandoned table on the opposite side, and then a narrow hallway that led into the bathroom and the small gaming room I set up. My bedroom was adjacent to them.

Sighing, I slipped off my shoes, flicking a switch on to illuminate the taunting darkness.

Here I was, a couple states away from home. My parents were skeptical at first, but in Canada, their words fell to deaf ears. In a Muslim household, it didn't matter how old the child was, the parents' words were absolute. There was no loophole, no trick, no scheme around.

Moving out took a lot of fighting, diagrams, logistics, and prayers before I even started packing my luggage, let alone moving out on my own.

I knew my parents'friends would gossip about my departure. I knew they would spread vicious rumors, yet they didn't know me. They didn't understand the lingering pain that town left me, the suffocating hold the past held on my life. It took me five years to realize that I needed an escape.

My parents understood, and they believed in me after a long while. No parent wanted to see their child live in misery from tormented memories. No matter how much they loved their child and wanted to protect them from harm, the pain of watching that same child suffer would be too much to bear.

I looked around the seemingly empty room. Although it looked cheap and worn down, a couple of stitches and care would turn the room into something straight out of a magazine.

Except that's tomorrow's problem, I thought. Right now, I got a video to film.

* * * *

"Assalamualaikum to my Muslim fans, and a cheerful hello to my non-Muslim followers," I smiled into the camera, mic in front of my camera screen and the flickering screen of the loading page for the new game I was reviewing.

A cartoon-like, orange cat scowled from my screen, a band of similar fellows behind him. All were dressed like characters from the middle ages, armor and weaponry a glistening silver among the hues of vibrant green, three-dimensional landscapes awakening above the map.

The game was childish and sophomoric in appearance, but the concept behind it and the graphics were a lot more advanced than people gave it credit for.

I was a bit biased though.

My eyes flickered to the camera again, a pearly smile masked across my lips, hiding the worries and stress of my regular life as I portrayed the easy-going persona I was known for having. My followers didn't know me personally. They didn't know my life nor did they know my past and inhibitions.

Although some spent hours watching my videos that ranged from amateur self-care tips to vlogs to rants to gaming, they only saw the parts of me that I wished for them. They only saw the painted features of a mask, the decorations of perfection, and the illusion of being whisked into a life that seemed too perfect to be real.

There were no shadows, no shards. There were only smiles and laughter. There was only joy, not a single hint of sadness lacing any of my words. I was successful Alhamdolillah (thanks to Allah), yet there was still a dark voice whispering all the mistakes, all the short-comings I had.

Focus, I told myself. You have fans. You need to focus.

"I know I've been kind of missing in action this week, but like I swear my reason is justified so put the pitchforks away and tone down the whining," I lightly chuckled. "I just moved into my new apartment. Maybe I'll do a tour of it when it's actually presentable. If I showed you my new place as it is now, my mom would probably whip me if she saw."

The small video box was at the corner of the screen, a common design for YouTubers that gamed. My brothers were the one who taught me a bit about editing and programming, but I was still a novice at it. Since I was on my own now, I resorted to basic, simple methods of editing.

"Anyway," I smiled. "Let's get into Cat Quest. You guys don't understand how much I squealed when I saw how cute the animations were for this. Literally as I was downloading the game, I stared at the little orange cat the whole damn time. I mean, look at him! He has a freaking hat!"

The 'new game' button flashed across the screen, white letter flickering as I moved my mouse to hover over it. Clicking it, storybook letters usurped the screen of black as if I was reading a fairy tale.

Except this game wasn't about princesses or crazy step-mothers.

Dark, intimidating music played in the background as a creepy, faceless wizard came out of nowhere in the game taunting the cute, orange cat.

And then the wizard took my character's sister. Talk about a bummer.

"Hey!" I exclaimed just like the chat bubble. "This bastard of a wizard just took my sibling. What did she do wrong? We are just a bunch of orphan cats, wizard dude."

A cute bubble that resembled a floating Pokemon started following my character, telling me he was my ally and that we had to chase after the wizard to save my sister.

"Oh, you don't say," I sarcastically remarked, pressing the enter button. "So, let me get this straight. I'm taking my cat nap, and an evil wizard that I don't know at all comes out of nowhere threatening to destroy the cat world and proceeds to kidnap my beloved sister?" I paused for a moment, tapping my chin. "Yeah, this is the plot of every kid's show I ever saw. No wonder my sense of humor is so twisted."

I clicked again for the next part of the story line. My character was thrown into a head-on combat within the first two minutes of the game. There were enemies surrounding me, and the evil wizard sat in the corner of my screen, taunting and mocking me.

My fingers hovered over the attack keys of my desktop, spamming my abilities as more and more adorable but deadly minions surrounded me. The blue bubbles that hovered over my character's shoulder was my only guide. Funny how he thought teaching me combat while fighting was the smartest choice, but to each their own.

"Why must all cute things cause me such pain?" I whined, almost smashing my keyboard. "It's like the cuter the character, the more damage it does to me, and this is only the tutorial!"

Finally, I managed to escape their crummy clutches, and the chase was on again.

As the time passed, the worries and stress of my life dissipated into the thick atmosphere around me, tension emitting from my body and melting as the game possessed my state of mind.

The thrill of exploration, of strategies, of the unknown, of another game took over my senses. In video games, developers created each one with a purpose, developed a puzzle for people like me to figure out.

Granted, Cat Quest wasn't much of a puzzle, but it was immensely entertaining.

The tutorial was over, and my character was on a quest to find his sister with the handy blue bubble.

"What's this blue thing's name?" I asked aloud. My brows furrowed when it started yelling at me. "Whoa, man. I'm the one doing the fighting. You're just a personification of my thoughts."

As I went through the game, I started talking in the video as if I was talking to my friends, treating the camera like another person. In a way, the camera was the eye that reached thousands of others. Little things, little quirks would resonate with them, making my followers feel more at home, feel comforted during their dark days.

I wasn't the most popular Muslim on the Internet, and I might never be excessively popular. I was known for my commentary, my sarcasm, my rants, my vlogs. Well, not really those vlogs since that was a once in a lifetime type of deal.

I didn't have all the time in the world for that. Also, who would want to sit there and watch my daily life like a total creep? The gates to privacy were always closed in regards with me. The internet only saw what I wanted them to see, not what I saw in myself.

Sadness crept behind me like a looming darkness threatening to shatter my existence with its force, violent and hostile. There were so many imperfections that laced my heart, a shredded embroidery across my soul, beautiful but tortured.

It wasn't crazy.

It wasn't mental.

It was a bittersweet longing for more, for the lives my friends were leading, for a future that wasn't so unpredictable like my path currently was.

Not now, Mariam, I told myself.

Once again, I forced my smile to widen, public scrutiny clawing inside me. "Anyway, I think it's time for me to cut this video. Your girl has some serious unpacking to do, and if I play anymore, then I might be sucked into the vortex of cat puns and evil wizards," I laughed. "See you guys next time. If you haven't subscribed to it, what's wrong with you? I'm totally the best YouTuber around, so do yourself a favor and subscribe!"

With the press of a button, the video ended as quickly as my tranquility did. Tears welled in my eyes, and I never felt more alone in such a small space. My chest constricted along with the shallow breaths that escaped my dry lips.

Why am I crying? Why do I feel so alone?

Perhaps I was crazy.