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‘Hey,’ Ben says, and I look away from my screen to see he’s sending a link to our Twitter group chat. ‘Did you see this thread bashing the LSDCATS after your and Zayan’s interview?’
‘Oh, I have to see this,’ I reply, quickly pulling out my phone.
But instead of finding that thread, my gaze lands on another one.
@TheatreGeek: Yeah, @CallmeZarah, not that I’m hating on Farah and Zayan being together, but don’t you think it’s a little sus that @TheTragedies picked a white-passing actress for the lead when they talked about diversity? Is she even talented, or does she just look good next to Zayan?
My lungs constrict with panic. I take a tentative look at The Tragedies, heart thumping wildly against my ribs.
Did they read the same tweet? Do they feel the same way?
I never did audition for this lead role. Zayan and I all but demanded it. What if The Tragedies secretly feel the same way as this person, but won’t say anything about it?
I understand what the person posting is saying. I know how easy it is to choose me over someone who is obviously brown. I know I have privilege. Still, the words white-passing brand themselves on to my thoughts.
Two threads intertwine in my head, and both leave me feeling a certain type of sadness. Carving a sense of not belonging anywhere into me. I’m not light-skinned enough to be considered white, and not brown enough to be considered Pakistani – so where do I fit? Will I ever be enough for either side?
Breathlessness tightens my throat, my hands begin to shake and I force myself to turn away from the group – not wanting them to see how this one comment has left me feeling all unsteady and vulnerable.
‘Hey, Farah,’ David says. ‘You want to join us for dinner?’
I’m struggling to get breath into my lungs, so my reply comes out with a slight squeak. ‘Thanks, but I, uh, I have this group project to help with for uni. So, rain check?’
I don’t wait for his response, making my escape as quickly as I can, but not before I hear Gibitah’s wayward question. ‘We have a group project? But we have all the same classes …’
I rush out of the theatre doors, into the all-encompassing cold of London, and slam directly into someone. Hands grip my forearms, steadying the both of us from crashing on to the ground.
‘Woah,’ Zayan says. ‘Where are you off to?’
From the corner of my eye, I see the camera. We’re always being watched. This will be a great article for tomorrow. I place a smile on my lips; the mask has become so easy to put on now.
‘Flat,’ I reply, hoping that there’s no turmoil left on my face for Zayan to see. ‘How was the audition?’
My senses buzz with nerves as I wait for his reply, and his silence makes me pause. I search his expression. He’s hiding something. He doesn’t go entirely analytical or cold, but the corners of his mouth droop ever so slightly. He brightens a second later, shifting closer, so I tip my head back to look up at him. Warmth builds, cloyingly, between the two of us, and I know this is all for show, but I can’t help enjoying the feeling.
‘It went well,’ he says. ‘I think I’m going to get the part.’
He says it so simply, but I hear the hope running like an undercurrent in his tone. I, on the other hand, have none of his restraint, and I let an excited noise escape. He shakes his head in amusement, curls waving.
‘How was practice?’ he asks, finally letting go. ‘Did you do your final scene?’
‘Yeah, I did, actually. It was pretty good; I think I really nailed that poignancy in Heer’s death. Now I’ve just got to work on emoting all the anguish.’ I mask any hitches in my voice, in my expression. I even ignore the smallest, tiniest hint of jealousy I felt when Zayan said he was so sure about getting the role. His dreams are blossoming, and mine still feel like such a fantasy.
Zayan’s silence forces me to glance at him, and I’m unprepared for the pride in his eyes, glimmering in the brown of his irises.
‘What?’ I ask.
‘It’s nothing – it’s just amazing to see how much you’ve grown in terms of confidence with your craft. I mean, you’ve gone from asking me for my help to feeling confident enough to command the stage on your own. Don’t you feel more confident?’
I do feel self-assured on stage, but that’s because I, Farah, am hidden. How is that confidence? But answering that question, and going down that route, only promises me heartbreak. I don’t want to think about why my confidence feels as fake as my relationship with Zayan.
‘Farah?’ Zayan questions, pausing as we reach the station. ‘Is everything all right?’
‘Yeah … Yes, everything is all right. I’m just a little stressed,’ I reply, knowing that when you throw words like ‘stressed’ and ‘workload’ around, people tend to back off.
But Zayan’s hand comes up to brush a curl out of my face. For some reason, the thought of him touching my cheek, his fingertips brushing against the curve, feels like it will shatter me entirely.
‘Don’t,’ I choke out, and his hand stills in mid-air, confusion sprawling across his face. ‘You don’t have to pretend. The camera is gone.’
