Chapter 2

There were two things Ayaan Carter never said out loud.

One: He was in love with Lina.

Two: He hated himself for it.

He stood at the edge of the basketball court behind the masjid, watching the boys from youth group play with sweaty enthusiasm and loud jokes. He should’ve been out there with them—he used to be. The team captain, the funny guy, the older brother everyone looked up to. But now, every bounce of the ball just echoed the same thing inside his chest:

You are a hypocrite.

He was twenty years old. A pre-med student. Hafidh of the Qur'an. The “good son.”

And hopelessly in love with the girl who sat across from him every day at dinner—the girl who everyone thought was his sister.

Lina.

His Lina.

Even her name felt dangerous now. Like it would burn his mouth if he spoke it.

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He used to think love was something pure. The kind that made your heart feel warm. The kind you made du’a for at night. The kind that was halal.

But what he felt for Lina?

It was twisted in shame.

Laced in guilt.

And laced in something deeper, something he couldn’t name without blushing or breaking.

Because every time she smiled at him, it felt like drowning.

And every time she called him “Ayaan bhai”—like she'd done since she was six—it made him want to run.

Not from her.

From God.

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He walked home slowly that night, hoping the cold would numb him.

The house was dark when he entered, except for the kitchen light. Lina sat at the table, a mug of chai steaming in front of her, her face glowing with the soft golden hue of the bulb overhead.

She looked up.

And everything inside him cracked, like it always did when her eyes found his.

“You’re late,” she said quietly.

“I stayed after Isha,” he lied. Mostly.

She nodded, but he could tell she didn’t believe him. She never said it, but she knew something was off. Knew that ever since her smile started curving differently, he stopped looking at her for too long. Knew that every time she touched his arm, he flinched like it hurt.

Because it did.

“Want some chai?” she offered, gesturing to the kettle.

He shook his head. “No. I’m good.”

She stared at him for a beat too long. Then said softly, “Do you hate me now?”

The words hit him like a slap.

“What?” His voice cracked.

“You avoid me. You barely talk to me anymore. You act like I did something wrong.” Her hands were trembling slightly, though she tried to hide it behind her mug.

Ayaan took a step forward, then froze. He couldn’t be near her. Not right now.

“I don’t hate you,” he said, too harshly. “It’s me.”

She scoffed, hurt. “Right. It’s you. That’s what people say when they want to leave.”

“You think I want to leave?” he snapped, voice rising. “I wish I could leave! I wish I could erase everything in my head and just go back to being the brother you think I am.”

Her face paled.

The silence that followed felt like a wound opening between them.

“I never asked you to be my brother,” she whispered.

He looked at her. Really looked at her.

The girl he’d grown up with. The girl who used to chase him in the backyard with a garden hose. The girl who cried when he taught her how to ride a bike and she fell.

The girl who wasn’t his sister.

And the only person he’d ever truly loved.

“I know,” he said finally, voice hoarse. “But I did. I made myself believe it. Because it was easier than facing the truth.”

Her lips parted, like she was going to say something. But nothing came out.

So he turned and walked away.

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That night, he curled into sujood on his bedroom floor. Not for show. Not for peace.

But because his chest physically ached.

“Ya Allah,” he whispered, forehead pressed to the carpet. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t want to feel this. I didn’t ask for it. Please… take it away.”

But the only answer was the sound of his own heartbeat—broken, pounding, and still whispering her name.

Lina.

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The next day, he didn’t eat breakfast. Couldn’t.

Instead, he walked. For hours. Through side streets and down alleys he hadn’t seen since he was a kid.

His feet stopped at the old bookstore near the masjid. The place he used to go when he wanted to hide from the world. Inside, he found a worn copy of a book of Islamic poetry. He flipped it open.

A single line was underlined in red ink by some stranger:

“Sometimes the test is not in pain. It’s in forbidden sweetness.”

He shut the book and walked out without buying it.

Because he didn’t need it.

He already knew the taste of forbidden sweetness.

And it wore a hijab and lived down the hallway.

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End of Chapter Two

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