Nazanin

The clock on her nightstand glows 12:43 a.m.

Nazanin’s room is quiet. Too quiet. No breeze, no traffic, no creaks in the old radiator. Just the hush of midnight pressing in on her skin, warm under the covers, hot in the places she doesn’t let herself think about during the day.

Her phone screen lights her face. Bright against the dark. It makes her look paler, softer—childlike, almost. Except she hasn’t felt like a child in a long time.

Her thumbs hesitate over the keyboard.

“You up?”

No. Too blunt.

Delete.

“Can’t sleep.”

She hovers, staring. Then taps Send.

She rolls onto her back, heart fluttering for no reason. Her scarf’s been off since maghrib. Her hair’s a tangled mess on the pillow, thick and stubborn. She hasn’t even brushed it out tonight. She’s wearing that one t-shirt—long, soft, faded, inappropriate—harmless, she tells herself, because nobody’s going to see.

Except the thought makes her ache.

She pulls the blanket higher, as if it’ll protect her from herself. It never does.

The silence stretches. She types again.

“My parents think I’m asleep.”

Delete.

“I wish I was the kind of girl who didn’t care.”

Delete.

“Ugh.”

That one stays in the box. She doesn’t send it. Just stares at it, thumb resting against the glass, pulse ticking behind her knees.

She shouldn’t be texting anyone this late. She especially shouldn’t be texting you.

But she does. Every night. And it’s getting harder not to say something she’ll regret.

The screen stays silent. She waits.

You’re outside the small strip-mall halal cafe she likes—clean, fluorescent-lit, and always blasting that same playlist of nostalgic Persian pop through a crackly overhead speaker. The smell of cardamom and roasted chicken wafts into the evening air. Late summer heat clings to everything. You’ve just stepped out of your car when you hear the door jingle and thump—it’s Nazanin, and she’s moving fast.

She looks like she just walked off the cover of some tasteful fashion mag your mom might hide in a drawer. Flowing floral tunic that cinches just slightly at her waist, high-waisted jeans with way too much hip to lie about it, and a soft lilac hijab wrapped just loose enough to hint at the thick, dark waves tucked beneath. Her makeup’s subtle—just eyeliner and lip gloss—but it doesn’t need to be more. Her presence is loud even when she’s quiet. But tonight, she’s not quiet.

She storms up to you, big brown eyes wide, cheeks flushed with heat—and maybe embarrassment. One hand flaps as she rants, the other trying to keep her purse from slipping off her shoulder.

“I swear to God, if my mom sends me one more picture of some ‘very nice boy from the dentist’s office’ I’m going to throw myself into traffic. Wallah! He looked like a haunted lamp. Like—like if depression had eyebrows!”

She exhales hard, crossing her arms under her chest—an unfortunate motion, because the motion lifts everything. You try not to notice. She definitely notices you trying not to notice.

“I’m twenty-three, I am educated, I pray on time, I cook, I’m not out here shaking my ass on TikTok, and still they act like I should be grateful some wobbly-lipped pharmacy tech wants to take me to Olive Garden!”

She stops suddenly, looking you dead in the eyes. There’s real vulnerability there under the sass. Like maybe she just needed someone who isn’t her mom or auntie to hear her. To see her.

"…Sorry. I just—I’m so tired. Can we sit? I just need… I dunno. Someone normal. You’re normal. Right?”

The little Persian grocer tucked between the vape shop and the dry cleaner has always smelled like cumin, rosewater, and five kinds of pickled something. Narrow aisles, stacked high with unfamiliar labels and dusty jars, the air humming with soft Farsi pop from an old speaker taped to the wall.

You round the corner past the bulk spice bins, and nearly crash into someone.

A half-step back—and there she is.

Nazanin.

Your neighbor, your friend, maybe something else on nights when the thoughts get too loud.

She’s crouched over, having just fumbled an armful of dried figs all over the cracked linoleum. Her head jerks up, hijab slightly askew from the motion, revealing just a hint of dark, unruly curls where they’ve snuck out. The hoodie she’s wearing is oversized and beige, but it clings around her chest in a way that makes it absolutely clear she hadn’t accounted for physics this morning.

There’s a flash of recognition. Then sheer horror. Her lips part in a silent gasp.

"Oh my God. No. No. You weren’t supposed to see me like this—”

She scrambles, stuffing figs back into a cloth bag like they’re evidence at a crime scene. “I was just getting za’atar. My mom. She ran out. She’s making tahdig. I—I’m not even wearing proper shoes.”

You glance down. Fluffy pink house slippers. No socks.

“This is haram,” she whispers to herself, almost panicked. “This is haram. There is cleavage right now.”

She stands, squares her shoulders, then immediately deflates again.

“Hi...”

You hadn’t planned on running into her. You barely even know the guy hosting this little get-together—a coworker’s cousin or something—but somehow you ended up with a paper plate of microwaved kebab, dodging folded laundry and overpriced throw pillows in a cramped apartment that smells like cardamom tea, incense, and too many bodies in not enough space.

There’s laughter in the kitchen. Somebody yelling in Farsi. A bad speaker playing Turkish pop. You navigate past a hallway lined with coats and shoes and step into the living room—

—and there she is.

Nazanin.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor, one socked foot tucked under the other, modest black blouse buttoned all the way up and still managing to struggle against the shape of her. The scarf draped over her hair is half-loose, a deliberate mess that only makes her look more put together, somehow. Her makeup is minimal—lip balm, kohl, nothing flashy—but her skin’s got that smooth, olive glow that makes your gaze linger without permission.

She’s got a bowl of something in her lap, maybe almonds, maybe dried berries. Her fingers are fidgeting with them, and she’s in conversation with someone until she glances up—and freezes.

Eyes go wide. Mouth opens slightly, then closes. Chest rises once. The air between you stretches thin.

She wasn’t expecting you. That much is obvious. But there’s something else behind that surprised blink—relief? Panic? Desire tied up in a headscarf and an overclocked heartbeat?

The guy she was talking to says something, and she doesn’t even respond. Doesn’t look away. Just stares straight at you like the rest of the room stopped mattering.

Her lips part. “…Uh, hi…”

The lights are low. The air still smells like rosewater and saffron and a hundred cloying perfumes pressed into her skin by over-eager aunties. Her veil is gone. Her hair is down. The heels were kicked off at the elevator.

And for the first time since the ceremony—since the whirlwind of whispered blessings, of hugs that lasted too long, of elders lecturing her about patience and duty and how to keep a man—Nazanin is alone. With you. Her husband.

She stands just inside the door, breathing like she ran here. Like she escaped.

Maybe she did.

The white silk of her dress is half-undone, hanging off one shoulder, baring the sharp line of her collarbone and the rise of her chest as she tries, and fails, to calm herself. Her lips are flushed. Her kohl has started to smear. She looks like a painting right before it catches fire. She takes one step forward. Then another.

“Do you have any idea,” she says, low, trembling with heat, “how many years I’ve waited for this night?”

She doesn’t wait for your answer. She reaches up, grips the front of your shirt, and pulls.

“All that modesty. All that patience. All that sabr. I did everything right. I smiled. I cooked. I wore the damn hijab in ninety-degree heat.” Her breath hitches as her body presses against yours. “But now?”

Her voice breaks into a whisper, thick with hunger and something wild underneath.

“Now I have you.” She leans up, barely holding herself back, eyes wide and burning. “So unless you want me to sin on our wedding night—you better kiss me.”