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@TheJudge24: This is literally so disgusting. This girl is doing a disservice to Pakistan with her inappropriate antics.
@DannyMohib: Seriously?? What is wrong with girls these days?? Posing with boys on the street? SOMEONE CONTACT HER PARENTS.
@ZoyaKhan: Dude, is she even desi??? She looks like a tanned white girl. BROWN-FISHING!!
Dread lines my stomach, just as my frustration wakes. There’s not one negative comment directed towards Zayan. Everyone’s either harping on about how wonderfully adorable we look, screaming ‘OTP, OTP, OTP’, or calling me every awful name under the sun.
My fingers fly as I type out my own tweet, setting the story straight. I’m not dating Zayan Amin. I was ripping my dupatta free. I have zero interest in him.
I’m in the middle of deciding how many exclamations I should add when there’s a knock at the front door. Irritation cuts through my stress, and while I’m still staring down at my phone, another knock rings out. My eyes shut in frustration, and I drop my phone on to the counter with a clatter.
Expecting it to be one of my flatmates who’s left their keys at home, I swing the door open without bothering to check the peephole, deciding it’s best to deal with my friends’ disbelief and wrath straight on.
But it’s not them. And it’s not The Tragedies.
Zayan Amin stands in my doorway.
He’s no longer wearing a baseball cap – his wavy dark-brown hair is free to curl in a very rakish, princely manner. He’s also dressed differently; he’s now wearing a soft-looking mint-green sweater with the sleeves pushed up, showcasing his tanned forearms, and a pair of worn-in blue jeans.
We stare at one another in complete silence. His hands hang awkwardly by his sides before he stuffs them into his pockets, an almost bashful smile gracing his lips.
‘So,’ he says, all buttery and smooth. ‘Any chance you’ll let me in?’
‘How did you find my address?’ I ask, hands gripping the door frame. I’m thirty seconds away from slamming the door in Zayan’s handsome face.
His mouth lifts with a slight, secretive curve. ‘Where there’s a will, there’s a way.’ At my silence, his grin dims. He clears his throat uncomfortably, and a more serious note enters his voice. ‘My agent – the one who reached out to you, Lacey Parker – knows how to find people. I’m not really sure how she found you, but she did.’
What does that even mean? Did she stalk me or something?
He must see the alarm written plainly on my face because he hurries on. ‘I’ll make sure she doesn’t give your address to anyone else.’
‘Why would you ask for my address?’ I say, outraged.
His stance turns defensive, his shoulders hunching upwards. ‘I tried contacting you all day. I messaged you on Twitter, Instagram – I even went as far as to send you a message on Facebook messenger, but you didn’t reply. So I had to take extreme measures.’
I close the door halfway, so my head is hidden from his line of vision, and I look down at my phone. Amid a hundred notifications, I find him.
ZayanAmin wants to send you a message.
I open the door again. ‘All right – still doesn’t mean you should go full Liam Neeson on me.’
‘You’re right,’ he concedes, but from the restrained look in his eyes, I think he wouldn’t mind arguing his point. His voice turns sugar-sweet, placating, like it did back in the cafe. Once again, I’m impressed by the quick way he can revert to a new tone. ‘I’m really sorry about that. I shouldn’t have invaded your privacy. Speaking of, I do really need to discuss something with you. And I don’t mind doing it in your hallway, it’s just … I think this is about to become a three-person conversation.’
‘Huh?’ I reply eloquently. Zayan points to his right discreetly, and as I step out of my doorway to look I catch the back of my neighbour’s head just as her door shuts. I sigh resignedly. I swear I live in the nosiest block of flats. ‘Fine. You can come in.’
I don’t wait for Zayan’s response as I make my way back into the flat, but I hear his footsteps following me. He closes the door, and I’m about to tell him that he needs to take his shoes off, but he’s automatically doing it anyway.
After toeing off his expensive trainers, he stands awkwardly in my hallway – looking less like a celebrity, and more like your average eighteen-year-old boy. I glance at his feet to see that he’s wearing socks with tiny samosas on them.
His gaze follows mine, and his grin widens. He rocks on his heels, unashamed, confidence rolling off him in waves. ‘They’re a gift. From a friend.’
I battle to withhold my smile. Zayan Amin wears socks with samosas on them. Who’d have thought?
I decide the kitchen is the best place to converse – I get to pretend that he’s interrupted me cooking and should feel bad for doing so. I move towards the stove first, keeping my back to Zayan, making sure my chai has brewed and not bubbled over.
‘Oh, you’re making chai. You wouldn’t have an extra cup, would you?’
I whip round to see he’s made himself comfortable on one of the chairs that was previously tucked under the kitchen island. His elbows rest on the wooden top, hands laced in front of him. He doesn’t look out of place at all. It’s like he’s taken scissors to my life, created a Zayan-shaped hole in it and stitched himself seamlessly into the gap.
