Texas sun was always too strong.
I think it wanted to punish us for living here.
Every day it pressed against my little dorm window until the air inside turned thin, just like my prayer mat after I had cried on it too many times.
I was nineteen years old.
The youngest student the university had ever accepted into the accelerated Office Management programme. The professors said it with pride.
The other students did not say anything, but I felt their eyes when I walked past.
Maybe it's because I wore my hijab properly every single day, the simple cream one that pins under the chin so no hair can escape.
I was careful. I thought if I was careful enough, nothing bad would find me again. But I didn't knew that it was all in vain.
Every morning, I dragged myself out to run the stairs behind the engineering building, lungs burning, knees feeling strained.
I would sit on the step and try to breathe quietly so no one would notice. I thought the pain meant I was fixing something inside me.
I thought if I kept doing it, the number on the scale would finally go down.
Some weeks I ate almost nothing, only black coffee and a little bread. And on some days I would fast.
On Sundays I would stand on the scale in the dark bathroom, eyes closed, hands in fists.
I would open them only to see the numbers always higher.
The phone application said "obese" in red letters.
I believed the phone more than I believed anything else.
Ah~, The red letters, they remind me of my father.
Papa's Pakistani grit always clashing with Mumma's Yorkshire steel. Both of them bruised over a dispute. He started wanting of a "traditional second wife" over tea that tasted like betrayal to my mother. "Over my dead body, love." she said. So he left when I was fifteen.
I remember he had one brown suitcase. He knelt in front of me in the living room and said, "Come with me, beta. I will show you jannat."
His voice was soft, like it used to be when he read me bedtime stories when I was little.
But I was holding Mum's hand very tightly.
Mum was crying without making any sound.
I did not let go of her hand.
I was afraid if I let go I would disappear.
Papa stood up.
He walked to the door.
He did not look back even once.
The door closed and flat became very quiet and very cold. I prayed crying on the mat, because I felt relieved when he left. There was no one to reassure me what I felt was natural.
I learned that people who say they love you can still leave.
So I tried to become very small and very good so no one would have a reason.
I had one boyfriend.
His name was Jake.
He was 25 and was a finance student.
The first time he spoke to me he smiled and said I seemed smart.
I believed him.
Later, when his friends were around, he would call me Fatty or Fatso and laugh.
I laughed too because I thought that was how friends joked.
I did not know what else to do.
When we were alone he never kissed me on my lips.
He would push my clothes aside just enough and put himself inside quickly.
It always hurt.
I thought maybe pain was part of it.
I thought maybe I was supposed to be quiet.
Afterwards he would finish on my hoodie or my skirt, he'd turn away to look at his phone.
I did not understand why the wetness made me feel dirtier than anything else.
I would go back to my room and make wudu three times, very carefully, even though I knew it would not be enough.
Then I would pray on my mat for a long time.
I would ask Allah to forgive me for wanting someone to hold me.
I would ask forgiveness for letting a man who was not my husband, touch me.
I would ask forgiveness for going against the teachings.
I kept thinking that if I was better, someone would finally stay.
I kept checking my email for internship replies the way I checked the scale; holding my breath, hoping this time would be different.
It never was.
One email said exactly this:
```Status update [rejected]
After careful consideration and review of your application, we have decided to progress with other candidates for this role.
```
I read it many times.
I tried to understand what I had done wrong.
I printed my CV again and checked every comma. And apply again at another place.
---
I was still carrying everyone's coffee that afternoon when Zara told me.
I had bought the drinks because I thought it would make them happy with me.
I always did things like that; carried their bags, helped them with homework, laughed at their jokes even when I did not understand.
I thought if I was helpful, they would keep inviting me. They did, I was happy, however shortlived it was.
That day Zara was very excited.
She said, "Angila added something funny to all the applications you sent. That Hinge page we made when we were drunk. 'Aafren_BBC_Wanted.' That's soo hilarious."
Everyone at the table laughed.
My whole world shattered, all my hardwork was rendered pointless. I could feel my chest getting tight and eyes getting heavy with tears. But I couldn't show it to them. Otherwise, they'd leave me.
Angila looked at me, wiped her eyes and said, "Sorry, babe, are you angry? It's okay, I can ask my dad to get you an internship in one of our restaurants. Just reach out.."
I understood then.
They did not want me to do well.
They wanted me to stay small.
But if I got angry, they would stop talking to me completely.
I would have no one.
My cup started shaking in my hand.
Coffee spilled on the table.
I said, "It is fine. Please do not worry."
My voice sounded far away.
I went to the bathroom and locked myself in a stall.
I cried without sound for a long time.
And I cried the same way the night I sat on my dorm floor with my suitcase open.
I had the form to withdraw from university ready on my laptop.
I had emptied my wardrobe so I don't forget packing everything.
I thought: if no door opens, I will close all doors myself.
I made wudu one more time. I prayed on my mat with the light off. I asked Allah for a sign.
Any sign.
At 2:14 a.m. my phone made a chime.
One new email.
```
Subject: Interview Confirmation – Staff for Executive Support
Dear Ms. Khan,
An interview has been scheduled for the position of Executive Support Staff.
Date: 24/05/2022
Time: 10:00 a.m.
Location: HardPound Strategic Holdings – 70th Floor
3755 Las Vegas Boulevard South, Las Vegas, NV
Travel and accommodation expenses will be reimbursed upon presentation of receipts.
Further instructions will be provided on site.
Please arrive prepared to remain for the full day if required.
Best regards,
Office of L. HardPound
HardPound Strategic Holdings
```
I read it again and again until the words stopped making sense.
A Fortune 500.
They would pay for the flight.
They would pay for a hotel if I needed one.
Someone, somewhere, thought I was worth the money to bring across the country.
I opened the airline website.
The only flight that would get me there on time was a red-eye leaving in four hours and twenty-nine minutes.
The ticket cost everything I had left and more.
I put in my card number anyway.
My hands shook so much I typed the numbers wrong three times.
I thought of Mum counting coins for medicine.
I thought of the red word "obese."
I thought of Angila laughing.
I thought of the quiet flat after Papa left.
I whispered one last dua, very small, very afraid.
"Ya Allah,
if this is a mistake, forgive me.
If this is a way out, please let me be brave enough to take it.
Let me help Mum.
Let someone, even once, need me more than they need to laugh at me."
I pressed the button.
Transaction completed.
Nineteen years old. Youngest in the programme. About to board a flight that might lead to my salvation.
I had to make it right.