Page 84 of If I Loved You Less
“Humaira, why aren’t you replying?” Papa asks, tone cross and growing closer. “Humaira.”
He opens the door, standing in the doorframe.
“What?” I cry, eyes flying open. “What, Papa, what?”
He blinks, seeing me still in bed, the wretched expression that must be twisting my face.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, stepping into the room.
“I’m not going to work, I don’t feel well,” I grumble, burying my cheek deeper into my pillow. “It’s fine. You can go.”
I just want him to leave, but he comes closer, pressing the back of his hand against my forehead. His hands feel like ice.
“You have a fever!” he exclaims. His eyes widen, and he pulls out his phone. “Should I call the doctor?” He asks me. “What is the doctor’s name again?” He waves a hand. “It’s no matter. I’ll stay home with you. Do you want something to eat? I can go pick something up. Or?—”
There are too many words coming out of his mouth, and I cannot bear his panic.
“Papa, I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine!” he says. “Bedridden! With a fever! I am sure you caught a cold ... did you bring a neck-scarf yesterday? I thought I saw you leave the house without one?—”
“Papa!” I snap. “I take care of you every day, surely I can take care of myself.”
He blinks, taken aback by my tone.
“Oh.” He nods. “I can still stay,” he says. “I’ll take off of work.”
“I am twenty-four!” I cry. “Please leave!”
I want to be alone right now so I can process my thoughts and emotions and figure out what the hell is going on.
I am panicking, too, but for entirely other reasons, and I do not need Papa’s panic on top of mine.
“But—”
I groan. “You’re suffocating me! Go!”
“You don’t mean that,” he says, even though he looks hurt. He stands perfectly still.
“I do,” I say. “It’s just a little cold. I do not need you to fuss over me now.” I know I should stop there, but I cannot. The words spill out. “What would actually help is if you took care of yourself and did not depend on me.Thatwould be more helpful to me than this drama right now!”
Papa is stunned, but he recovers quickly. With a nod, he says, “Okay.”
He leaves, closing the bedroom door behind him. I am left alone, just like I wanted, but the silence is deafening. I hear my own shuddering breath as I try to calm the guilt in me, as I try to relax.
Downstairs, the front door closes and locks. My eyes well with tears, my head pounding ferociously.
I force myself to breathe in and breathe out. This will not do.
I get out of bed and freshen up, changing out of my pajamas into loungewear, which is basically pajamas, just more stylish. Then, I go down to make myself coffee and toast and take some medicine.
Feeling more in control, I head back to bed, burying into a pile of pillows withThe Secret History. I spend the rest of the morning reading, and when I’ve finished the book, I am stunned to find it’s only been a few hours.
It feels like I’ve traveled thousands of miles yet all the while I’ve been in the same spot.
There was a bit of romance, like Fawad said, between the protagonist and one of his friends, and those were some of my favorite parts. I liked the way he saw her. Even if they don’t end up together, he reallyseesher.
When I finish I want to read it again already. I loved it, even though it was not what I expected or would have chosen for myself, Ilovedit, and I wonder what it means that Fawad was able to choose this for me, I wonder what any of it means.
