AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“I love you, too,” I say, and I hang up the phone, switching it to airplane mode and then tucking it in the compartment in front of me.
The Jerk has been silent this entire time. Suddenly, he opens his mouth. “You know, it’s not polite to talk about people in another language,” he says in completely flawless Urdu.
My stomach sinks. Urdu? Did he just speak Urdu? Slowly, I look at him. “I’m sorry?” I say in English.
“Just because I appear white doesn’t mean I don’t know what you’re saying,” he goes on. He doesn’t even break his focus from his screen; he continues to type away. “You assumed I didn’t know how to speak Urdu, so you said whatever you wanted about me. You also assumed I’m not Muslim or Pakistani, but I am.” He drags his attention away from his screen long enough to flash me a look of disapproval. “I’m half-Pakistani, and you shouldn’t judge people based on their outward appearance.”
My face reddens. I don’t know what else to say, but thankfully my teacher instincts kick in and the words come out reflexively. “Oh, sorry,” I mumble.
He narrows his eyes at me, then looks back to his screen at the same time as I face the seat in front of me. Silence creeps around us.
Great, just what I needed. Awkward tension between me and the person I have to sit beside for the next fourteen hours.
The Jerk balances his laptop on his knees. He unlocks the screen to some sort of document, and I catch a glimpse of a name at the top. I can only see his first name, though; another window covers up the rest. Sarfaraz.
The Jerk—Sarfaraz—pauses, and the lines in his forehead crease as he stares at me. “Can I help you?”
I quickly look away. I hear him huff next to me, but I don’t dare move my head. In fact, I’d live very happily if I never saw this guy ever again. Dr. Khan is going to be really annoyed when she ends up having to give me yet another lecture about how awkward interactions with strangers don’t define my life.
I buckle myself in properly, then tap my fingers against my knees while the flight attendant instructs us on what to do in case of an emergency and the captain’s voice comes through the overhead speakers.
Sarfaraz watches my finger-tapping and huffs loudly, shaking his head. He stops, reaches into his pocket, and produces a pair of AirPods. He sticks one in each ear and resumes his work.
“Okay, passengers,” the captain declares. “Please prepare for takeoff.”
Sarfaraz’s fingers freeze on the keyboard. His breath hitches, and he slowly closes the lid of his laptop. He squeezes his eyes shut, his hands holding tightly onto his computer. His shoulders noticeably tense, the muscles going taut under his shirt. He clenches his teeth, causing the sharp line of his jaw to become more prominent.
I frown at his reaction, but I look away, reaching for my phone. I searched up the dua’a for flying and copied it to my notes app last night so I’d have it ready. I open the app and recite the prayer under my breath. I peek at Sarfaraz out of the corner of my eye, and he’s still tense.
Without thinking, I lean forward—not enough for him to notice—and blow the remnants of my prayer on him. It’s a thing you can do when praying for yourself; lightly breathing your prayer on someone else, especially someone in distress, can help them, too. I usually don’t do it for regular people, but he’s a fellow Muslim and he’s clearly anxious and...he’s alone.
Still, I cross my arms over my chest and lean as far away from him as I can. The plane slowly begins to lurch forward, and with every movement, Sarfaraz flinches beside me.
After some time, the plane glides through the air, and the seat belt light flickers off. I keep my belt on, though. I feel more secure with it.
Next to me, Sarfaraz lets out a long breath, wiping at the sheen of sweat on his forehead. My chest prickles. I want to open my mouth, offer words of comfort, but it’d be weird if I did that for a stranger. I tell myself it’s my teacher instinct and it has nothing to do with how scared his annoyingly cute face looks.
Unfortunately, Jinnah International isn’t the type of airline to have in-flight entertainment, so I had to bring my own. I pull out my iPad, where I loaded up some movies and TV shows on Netflix last night. I plug my headphones in, select Humsafar, and settle in.
6
Maya’s Law #6:
Trips are never smooth sailing.
After the opening credits, it becomes clear it’s going to be incredibly difficult to focus on the series, and it’s because of my seat neighbor.
For one, Sarfaraz types very obnoxiously on his computer. It’s like the pitter-patter of rainfall, which is normally very calming, but he goes at warp speed, his fingers dancing across the keyboard like he’s trying to break some sort of world record. I check to see if it’s bothering the guy on the other side of Sarfaraz, but he has his eye mask on and appears totally dead to the world. At least, I hope he just appears dead.
Another thing: he’s taking up most of the armrest. I know there isn’t exactly a rule about who gets the armrest when you have to share with someone, but he has more of his arm on it. It brushes against mine every now and then, and I pull my arm away while fixing him with an annoyed stare. And every time, he offers me a confused look before going back to his annoying typing.
After a while, Fawad Khan’s antics loses my attention, so I shut the iPad off. I thumb through the book I brought along, but I don’t feel like reading, either. Finally, I cave, reach into my backpack and produce an eye mask. I don’t know if I’ll be able to sleep, but I can at least pretend to so no one bothers me. I stick my earphones in, play some soft, classical pieces on my phone, pull my mask on, and rest my head against the seat.
I don’t know how long I stay like that; all I know is I don’t sleep. I always have a hard time sleeping, but on a plane it’s virtually impossible. I try anyway, in some vain attempt to be proven wrong, but nothing happens.
I groan and sit up, pulling the mask off my face and stashing it back in the backpack at my feet. I place my elbow on the left armrest and prop my chin on top of my fist. I look around at the others on the plane. Most people are asleep, others chat with the travelers around them. Watching the people around me converse so easily strikes a pang in my chest. I’m not on a plane with my mother, or my sister, or even a friend. I’m here by myself, with only my thoughts to keep me occupied.
A familiar feeling of loneliness crawls through my veins, creeps into my chest, and settles there. My throat dries. Okay, I need to do something. I need to talk to someone before I start crying on this plane. I survey the area around me, but the person in the aisle seat nearest to me is asleep, and I can’t try to talk to the people in front of me—I feel more secure while wearing my belt for the whole flight, and I’d have to take it off to scoot close enough to be able to talk to them. I peek around the side of my seat to see who’s sitting behind me, but it’s a row of aunties discussing Pakistani politics, and that’s a conversation I know I don’t want any part of.
