Click.
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A lone white bulb shone dimly on the ceiling of the bathroom, its weak light accentuating Bayan's eyebags and the jagged white scar crossing her cheek. Her eyes were half-open as she went through the motions, splashing cold water onto her face with familiarity. Quietly, she made sure the door closed without a sound. Her footsteps were soft, cat-like, as she padded toward her room and locked the door with the same cautious precision.
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"Assalamualaikum wa rahmatu Allah."
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Her back slouched inward, head bowed close to her chest as her lips moved continuously, reciting the after-prayer dhikr. The bedroom would have been pitch-black were it not for the small light coming from the window. Her back thanked her as she lay her head on the prayer mat, too tired to return to bed.
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Suddenly, the door creaked. Bayan's breath hitched. Panic snapped her upright-
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- but it was only her calico cat, Mshmsh, padding toward her sprawled form and sniffing her face. Her lips curved into a smile as she reached out to pat him.
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"Mshmoosha, you scared me," she whisper-yelled.
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She stroked Mshmsh's soft, multicolored fur while finishing her morning adhkar.
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"Subhanallah wa bi hamdih," she whispered, the words landed softer than she felt, and for a moment the world narrowed to her breath and the warm, comforting weight of Mshmsh curling against her palm. When, suddenly, he bit her, causing her to squeek. "Oh you menace!"
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Then she stood, opened the curtains, and began getting ready for college.
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..
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Behind her door, Bayan stood with one ear pressed to the grain of the wood, one hand flat against her chest as if it could steady the drumming of her heartbeat. Footsteps resounding in the house was a pattern she'd learned years ago: the careful tempo of his shoes down the hall meant he was leaving and the slow drag meant he was awake and pacing. Even the smallest creak sounded like thunder.
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In their home, silence ruled. Avoidance was common occurrence. Arguments were one-sided, and shouts were close friends.
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She let her shoulder rest against the door and closed her eyes. The digits on her clock blinked 7:00 a.m. like a mild accusation. A sharp breath escaped her.
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Her mind wandered to the reason her thoughts were so jumbled today.
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A month ago, Bayan had bought a niqab. On the outside, one might think it was an impulsive decision, but it had been a product of years of yearning. If her father ever saw it, everything would be exposed. Not just the fabric, but the way she had begun choosing God over his image of a "Perfect Ordinary Family." POF for short. She inwardly rolled her eyes.
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Bayan pressed her lips together, eyes wandering, thinking of the hundreds of ways this could go wrong. Mshmsh, who had been waiting at the window, padded over quietly and brushed her foot. The sound of the cat's purr filled her uneasy heart with comfort. Bayan crouched to stroke him, whispering Allahu Akbar under her breath and pulling the fragile rope of her courage taut.
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Allahu Akbar. A reminder that God is greater than fear, greater than fathers, greater than masks-seen or unseen. And He, Al-Latif, The Subtle, would make it easier.
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Down the hall was the clinking of cutlery - her father downstairs, moving through the morning with his usual precision. The man who built a company had also built a family that looked flawless from the outside. Appearances first, feelings later. His hands were calm when greeting clients, quick and cold when correcting "undignified" behavior at home.
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Holding her breath, she cracked her closet open and tucked the niqab into the sleeve of her sweater. Her hands trembled as she folded the black cloth. Before she could finish dressing, the front door slammed below, and his voice , low, clipped, the one he used when he meant business, cut through the air.
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"Bayan."
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Her feet took her to the stairs, despite the grimace that formed on her face. "Yes, Baba?" She decided on a mildly cheery lilt for today, trying to clear the air after the last time she was lectured for 'looking sad'.
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He was waiting for her at the stairwell, making her feel like she was late for some important meeting: suit jacket thrown on, tie loosened, the after-smell of cologne. His eyes skimmed her the way people check a room before guests arrive.
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"Your uncle is coming this afternoon," he said. "He's bringing his son. You'll be downstairs. Presentable. Understood?"
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Bayan nodded. She could've asked why. She could've said she didn't want to, but the niqab in her sleeve reminded her of consequences.
"Yes, Baba."
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His gaze paused on her long black skirt that she'd swapped with her usual pants. Her throat dried. He stepped closer, his hand gripping her shoulder.
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"College?" he asked.
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"College," she echoed.
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"Don't be late."
He turned and left, the front door clicking shut with a thud.
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When the house stilled again, she joined Mshmsh by the mirror. She smoothed her hijab until her heartbeat steadied, a nervous ritual she never outgrew. Then, at the last possible moment, she lifted the niqab and tied it across her face with practiced precision.
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Outside, the street hummed awake. Bayan inhaled the morning air and tasted relief. She had made a choice her father didn't know about. Protecting that choice would be another form of struggle.
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With Mshmsh trailing behind her, she locked her door, checked it twice, and stepped into the day.
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BEEPBEEPBEEPBEEP!!
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Omar's hand flailed in the dark like a dying fish.
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"Aughhhhh..."
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BEEPBEEPBEEPBEEP!!
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"Shhhhhh!"
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His palm hit something plastic. Then -
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CRASH—CLANG—BANG.
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Silence.
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A beat later, hurried footsteps slapped against the tile. The smell of boiling eggs drifted in, along with the unmistakable sound of a mother on the brink.
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"Omar!" Mrs. Noury burst in like a thunderstorm, galabeya bundled up in one hand, wooden spoon cocked in the other like a weapon of mass maternal destruction. "This is the third alarm clock this month, you lazy bum!"
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She didn't wait for permission, she kicked the door fully open and marched in.
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"Get up! GET UP!"
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Smack.
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Smack.
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"Ow, Mama! Five minutes. Just five!"
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Omar curled around his blanket as if it were the last warm thing on Earth. His voice was gravelly with sleep, breath sour, hair sticking up like an electrocuted hedge.
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"Ya Allah, Omar, you are my biggest test," she snapped, ripping the blanket from his fingers. "Did you even pray fajr? Or do I have to wake you up even when I don't have to pray?!"
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He grunted, rubbing his eyes with both hands as if trying to erase the entire morning.
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"Mama, for the love of God, let one day - ONE DAY - pass without a lecture."
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He half-stood, half-slid off the bed, stumbling toward the bathroom. His slippers slapped weakly against the floor - slip, slap, drag - like even they were disappointed in him.
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Mrs. Noury stood amidst the carnage of his room: socks that may or may not still be alive, piles of papers he swore he'd study "tomorrow," and three broken alarm carcasses in the trash.
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She pressed a trembling hand to her forehead.
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"Ya Allah... guide my son... and give me the patience not to strangle him."
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Then her eyes widened.
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"The eggs!"
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She bolted back to the kitchen in a panic.
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Inside the bathroom, Omar splashed cold water on his face and stared at his reflection. Droplets clung to his jaw, dripping into the collar of the shirt he'd slept in. He looked tired. Not physically - emotionally.
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He frowned at his own eyes and muttered to the mirror, barely audible:
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"...I didn't pray fajr."
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Guilt tugged at his ribs. It always did, every morning, right after he overslept and right before he convinced himself he'd "try harder tomorrow." Except, he doesn't try harder, he doesn't even try. His eyes burned...
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"Whatever," he muttered, turning off the tap. "Later. I'll... fix it later."
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He stepped out to find his mother glaring at the pot of water now foaming aggressively over the stove. She didn't look at him, but he felt the disappointment radiating from her back like heat. Another day begun in chaos. Another day he'd probably waste. Another day he promised, not out loud, but deeply, secretly - that he'd do better.
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Just... not this morning.
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With her niqab gently flowing in the morning breeze, Bayan stood on the pavement, waiting for her Uber. The sky was pale and soft, still waking up. Under the thin fabric, her lips moved quietly with dhikr, swiftly and unevenly, like beads falling from a necklace. But no matter how much she tried to anchor herself in remembrance, her mind kept circling back to her father's expression. The way his eyes paused on her skirt, sharp and assessing.
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He saw it.
He never misses anything.
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Her thumb pressed lightly into her palm. Would he really forbid her from wearing a skirt? From being more modest? Would he go that far?
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A car rolled up to the curb, humming to a stop. The suddenness of it jolted her thoughts into stillness.
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Bayan opened the door and murmured, "Assalamualaikum," before settling into the back seat. The door clicked shut, sealing her in with the lingering scent of cheap citrus air freshener and the quiet hum of the AC.
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She laid her head against the window, exhaling.
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Then she noticed it. The driver's gaze flicking to her in the rearview mirror.
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Again.
And again.
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Her stomach folded in on itself.
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Astaghfirullah, she scolded herself, tearing her gaze away from the mirror. Don't assume the worst. Maybe he's just thinking. Maybe he's not even looking at you.
But the unease and annoyance stayed. A familiar, unwelcome companion.
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The streets slipped by outside, a smear of color and motion. Downtown Cairo's old buildings pulled at her attention. Ornate balconies, carved shutters, chipped stone buildings - they looked alive, lived-in, altered by generations. She always admired them from inside cars, her eyes catching every small detail.
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A bump in the road made her blink out of her thoughts.
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Then the car jerked to a stop.
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"Ya Hajjah*," the driver snapped, thrusting his phone over his shoulder with the fare glaring back at her.
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*Hajjah - old lady
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Heat rushed to her face. She bit her lip, brows furrowed while fumbling with her bag.
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"Oh. Sorry, sorry. Here you go. Salam," she murmured, far too quickly, and slipped out of the car in a flustered blur.
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The door shut behind her with a hollow thud, leaving her alone on the bustling sidewalk, breath catching slightly under her niqab.
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Bayan lowered her gaze, steadied her breath, and stepped toward the campus gates. Another day, another struggle.
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