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"There is no compulsion in religion." (Qur'an 2:256)

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On Friday, Zoya goes to Haroun's home.

It's a pretty, clean little apartment nestled into a homey-looking neighborhood. She's wearing the dress and earrings Haroun's mother gifted her and one of her best (Zameer Co., of course) dupattas. Upon ringing the doorbell, Zoya's heart hammers in her chest and an inexplicable, surprising fear rises in her. A mantra plays over and over in her head: Keep your damn attitude in check today.

Having this thought in the first place surprises her. Why does it matter so much what these people think of her?

Pressing her palm flat against her ribcage, she feels the quick, persistent heartbeats underneath.

"Stop it, Zoya Zameer," she murmurs, emphasizing her last name to remind herself of whose daughter she is.

The door opens and a pretty teenage girl adorned in a soft red dupatta stands in front of Zoya, locks of raven hair framing her face. A lovely aroma wafts from inside the house. Abruptly, Zoya remembers that she knows nothing of Haroun's family — how many siblings he has, what his parents are like.

"Salaam," she blurts out, hoping that her awkwardness isn't apparent to the girl.

The girl grins broadly. "Ms. Zoya! Salaam. We've been so excited to meet you." She reaches forward to embrace her and Zoya — too surprised by the gesture — is unable to shrink back from the touch. She stands awkwardly for a second, trying to quell the anxiety rising within her.

The girl doesn't seem fazed as she pulls back and beams. A sweet, playfully angry voice from inside the apartment says, "Invite her in, won't you, Aisha? Or will you just stand there all day? Allah, Allah. Have I not taught you manners?" The girl smiles sheepishly, stepping back for Zoya to come inside.

Zoya nods and smiles, reaching up to tuck her curls behind her ear out of habit. Her hands drop awkwardly to her side when she remembers that her hair is piled into a neat bun at the back of her head.

As the young girl — Aisha — closes the door behind her, Zoya hears her whisper, "She's even prettier in real life!"

Inside, she's greeted by an older woman who must be Haroun's mom, and a young woman around Zoya's age. Maybe younger. She sports a broad smile and has the most captivating brown eyes.

His mother's face is soft and fragile, gray streaks lining the black hair that peeks under her dupatta. Her features are quite simple yet one would be able to tell by looking at her that she had an exquisite face in her youth. Her forehead is dully lined, and her dark eyes lack shine, as if someone extracted the happiness from them. Looking at her immediately makes Zoya recognize where Haroun's softness comes from. This woman exudes warmth and valor.

Zoya is inexplicably drawn to her. "Salaam," she murmurs.

His mother smiles. "Wa 'Alaikum Salaam, Ms. Zoya."

"Just Zoya," she corrects, smiling. "Aap mujhe Zoya bulaa sakti hai. This is for you." She holds out the gift bag she bought at the last minute, recalling how her father would always take treats to a new home.

His mother smiles and reaches forward to hug Zoya, who holds her breath. It'll just take a second.

Yet Zoya is surprised to discover that she doesn't feel any sense of suffocation or anxiety when this woman embraces her.

"We do not know what words to use to thank you, Zoya," the woman says. "Allah has put you in our lives for a reason. You have been such a great help." She gestures to the gift bag. "And honestly, you didn't have to bring this. You have already done so much for us."

Zoya is appalled by these words. She giggles nervously, flattered. "No, no. It's no big deal. I just gave Haroun what he deserved." She looks around. "Speaking of him, where is he?"

Something clatters in the kitchen and a moment later, Haroun steps out. He's holding a salad bowl — which he places on the table — and approaches Zoya. He ducks his head. "Salaam, Ms. Zoya."

It seems as if the atmosphere in the room shifts. The heat pressing down on Zoya feels so thick that she pauses for a second, simply staring at Haroun. Something about his homey appearance causes her legs to feel like jelly, and she is abruptly afraid they will give way and lose function. "Salaam," she replies a moment too late, hoping no one notices.

"Did you find our place okay?"

She nods, still slightly breathless.

"Please, come sit!" His mother ushers Zoya into the living room. It's a small space, but somehow the bursts of color such as the vases of vibrant flowers and the bright, tranquil paintings on the walls make the apartment seem lighter, happier.

Like a home.

"Naima, your chicken is ready." Haroun tells his sister. The older one lets out a frantic gasp and rushes into the kitchen. Aisha follows Zoya and her mother into the living room.

Where is his father? Zoya wonders.

"What would you like to drink? Water? Juice?"

"Water is fine, thank you," Zoya replies. Aisha disappears into the kitchen, leaving Zoya alone with Haroun's mother.

It's been a long time since she's been in the presence of elders outside of work, so Zoya Zameer struggles to find words. But the woman's calming presence dispels all of her fears and anxious thoughts.

"How are you, Zoya?"

"Alhamdulillah, and you?"

"Alhamdulillah. We have much to thank you for. May Allah bless you."

Zoya is flustered by the woman's sincerity. "Really, auntie, it was nothing. Haroun deserved it. He's a hard worker." She absentmindedly reaches up to twirl a curl, hand dropping awkwardly in her lap a second later.

The woman smiles. "Haroun tells us you're a really hard worker."

Zoya's eyes widen. Haroun talks about me at home? She chuckles. "Oh, that's so kind of him."

After Aisha arrives with cold water for Zoya, the three of them engage in easy conversation until Naima calls them to the dinner table. Zoya doesn't ask about Haroun's father.

The table is set with the most extravagant and artfully placed dishes. Biryani, loaded fries, samosas, roast chicken, Chinese noodles, and so much more. Zoya squeals. "Oh my God!" They all laugh. "No, really, this is amazing. Thank you guys so much!" She remembers the line her father always used to say: "You didn't have to do — "

"Oh, no, none of that." Aisha shakes her head and gestures for Zoya to sit down.

The five of them talk over food, which the mother, Naima, and Haroun collectively made. Haroun is mostly quiet but occasionally chuckles at something someone says and Zoya's eyes shoot to him, drinking in the scene.

She learns that Naima is in her second year of college, making her around four to five years younger than Zoya, while Aisha is in her junior year of high school. Both girls work part time as well as continue their studies, which takes Zoya by surprise. Their faces and happy-go-lucky attitudes don't betray any hint of the burden placed on their shoulders at such young ages.

"Naima's looking into getting married soon," Haroun's mother comments casually. Zoya's ears perk at this. She looks over at a smiling Naima.

"Really? Interesting," is all Zoya can seem to say.

"She isn't interested in anyone," Aisha laughs. "Nada. Zilch. Zero. But she wants to get married."

"Well, Naima, that's really great of you. That you have no one in mind, no expectations. Makes it a little easier to get used to a marriage once it happens." Zoya's voice comes out unintentionally bitter. "If I could give you any sort of advice, I would say not to get married at all, but" — she laughs — "I understand people have different desires and aims in life."

Haroun's mother smiles at Zoya. "You seem to be talking from experience."

Haroun coughs on his drink and Aisha pats his back. He glances briefly at Zoya before looking away.

So he hasn't told anyone. Zoya's heart hammers rapidly in her chest and she has to stop the smile from spreading onto her face.

"Are you alright?" she asks. Haroun nods.

Zoya turns back to his mother. Something about the softness in the older woman's eyes prods her to say, "Uh, yes. I was married."

"Was?" Naima asks quizzically. Her aura exudes gentleness like her mother's, just as the meaning of her name implies. Comfort, tranquility. None of the carefree, bubbly nature of her sister. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be so blunt," she quickly adds.

"No, no, it's fine. Yes, I was married. And divorced. Not a lot of people know."

For a brief moment, there is a charged silence in the room during which the four family members exchange quick glances before turning back to Zoya.

Naima doesn't say anything, and Aisha murmurs, "I'm so sorry."

Haroun's mother clucks her tongue. "Aisha, don't say that." She looks at Zoya. "Zoya, beta, whatever happened, happened for your own good."

Zoya stares into the eyes of this calm, resolute woman who is so accepting of her. Of Zoya Zameer, whose life is rudely displayed and scrutinized under glaring — seldom true — headlines, inviting people to make the worst assumptions. This woman, who hasn't asked her a single thing about her personal life and has only complimented and thanked her.

Zoya smiles. "It did. Besides, I don't think there are many men left on this earth who possess ghairat, anyway." She shrugs and the two sisters share a look. Zoya raises her eyes and points to Haroun. "One of the exceptions is your son, Auntie. I have never seen a more respectful man," she compliments. Haroun reddens slightly and his mother beams.

They spend another hour simply talking. Zoya is enjoying being around his family so much that — to her surprise — she finds herself not wanting to leave.

She makes her way to the bathroom a little while later and passes by the master bedroom. Her eyes flick to the lamp on the bedside table, its light spreading in a soft halo around the room.

Zoya freezes in her spot.

Her legs become immobile, heart rate speeding up. She shakes her head to dispel the memories trying to resurface but fails miserably as a particularly horrifying one rushes over her head and pulls her under.

"Please, I can't."

"What do you mean, you can't?" His voice is a soft, soft purr.

Zoya wipes the tears beginning to stream down her face. "I'm not ready."

He steps forward and presses his fingers sharply into her shoulder. "Are you defying me?" he murmurs softly, voice low.

She shakes her head weakly, wincing. "No, I'm just telling you that I'm not — "

He reaches forward and loosens her nightgown. It falls open and cascades down her shoulders, lying in a silky heap on the floor. Such a pretty, pretty purple color.

Zoya wraps her arms around herself, feeling exposed and distraught. "Please, I — "

He leans down to Zoya's ear slowly and she flinches. "This is my God-given right, do you understand, Zoya? Allah gave me this right." His voice is still soft, seemingly romantic. To outside ears it would seem like a seductive purr.

When she doesn't answer, he repeats the question. But his voice rises several octaves this time. Zoya covers her ears.

"Are you ignoring me?" he asks quietly. For a moment, it seems like a harmless, curious question.

Abruptly, he steps closer and Zoya — panicked — jerks back quickly. Her back hits the lamp on the bedside table and the beads decorating the umbrella pierce through her skin, slicing it open.

She lets out a yelp. "Please, Farh — "

"Come on, Zoya." His voice is dangerously soft, a threatening purr. He leans down, attempting a gentle expression. His fists are clenched, and he gestures to the king-sized bed. "Come on."

And then he becomes more characteristic, more pressing. Zoya winces as the force of his words hits her, her entire body trembling at the memory of last time's scars.

She obliges silently and he unbuttons his shirt.

"Ms. Zoya?"

With a gasp, Zoya's eyes fly open. She's collapsed against the wall and Haroun is kneeling at a distance from her with a worried expression on his face. She breathes harshly, shoving some escapee curls away from her face.

"Are you alright?" His voice is laced with concern. He turns around and calls out, "Naima, bring me some water, please."

"I'm fine," Zoya huffs out, standing up. He follows suit and she almost collapses forward onto him but grabs the door handle for support.

"You don't seem fine, Ms. Zoya," he says. Worry lines crease his forehead. "Are you sure you're — "

"I said I'm fine," Zoya snaps. Then, appalled at her own abrasiveness towards him, she turns around. "I'll leave now."

Naima arrives with a water bottle and hands it to Haroun. Her eyes dart between the two of them. "Is everything okay, bhai?"

He hesitates before quietly saying, "Yes, everything's fine."

Zoya turns around and flashes Naima a smile, throwing her hair behind her shoulders in classic Zoya Zameer fashion.

Her hands are still shaking.

"Yes, meri jaan, everything's okay. I get a bit claustrophobic sometimes, so your worrywart of a brother freaked out."

Naima looks concerned. "Oh, no. Then you should definitely drink this water. And come outside in the living room. I'll open the windows. So sorry about that."

The three of them make their way outside, and Zoya begins to insist that she must make it home as it's getting late. They invite her to stay longer but she declines, thanking them profusely and trying but failing to resist the gift box Naima places in her hands.

"Your parents must be worried," Haroun's mother says. Zoya flinches at the mention of parents and catches Haroun throwing her a quick glance.

His mother seems to have realized something and places a hand against her forehead quickly. Instead of elaborating, however, she continues with, "Haroun? Girls? Drop Zoya off to her car, please."

"No, Auntie, there's really no need to — "

She shakes her head firmly. "It's dark outside." She leans forward and kisses Zoya's forehead, and it takes Zoya a moment to remember how to breathe again. She smiles at the woman and exits with Haroun and his sisters.

They make small talk until Zoya reaches her car. Aisha excitedly requests Zoya to visit again and Zoya thanks her and makes the same offer.

However, the difference is that Zoya's offer is far from genuine. It's been too long since she's had people in her house. She can't imagine ever having guests again.

As Zoya pulls out of the parking space, she waves to the three figures becoming smaller and smaller in her rearview mirror. Letting out a breath she didn't realize she was holding, she takes one last peek at Haroun Suleiman.

He's leading his sisters back to their apartment, arms wrapped securely around their shoulders.

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