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Description
Darya had been killed in winter, and per his family's request (though it almost killed him to do so), he returned home for the candle light vigil.  They stood in a freezing downpour, holding hands over the tenuous flames that marked the end of his sister's life.  There had been a memorial erected to her; it was vandalized often but his father took painstaking effort into fixing it.  It seemed empty.

His little sister, who wore pigtails throughout middle school even though the other girls made fun of her, was gone.  His baby sister, who would stamp her foot and scream until red faced when he mocked her by calling her "Darling Darya", was dead.  There was a headstone for her in a cemetery, but her ashes had long since been scattered.  Darling Darya, the artist, the fashionista.  She was dead and gone, nothing but memories and photos.  People murmured condolences while his parents wept.  Roshan held onto his shoulder, tears flowing freely.

Shahin didn't cry.  He had cried plenty the day her body was found.  He cried until it was no longer a release; he cried until crying itself seemed like an uncontrollable sickness that his sobs were a symptom of.  It took a year before he could mention her name without his throat constricting.  It took two for him to walk past a picture of her without tears pricking his eyes.

Now the sky cried for him.

He didn't tell Chaitte he was leaving for the memorial.  He couldn't bear to reveal that part of himself yet.  He was afraid she'd see the self loathing he felt.  Shahin was different.  He'd always be different.  He wasn't bread and butter American; he wasn't white and his hair wasn't blond.  Everyone noticed him for his height, his darkness, and his cracked-glass eye.  They mouthed things behind his back.  Arab.  Paki.  Terrorist.  Muslim.  Towel-head, sand-nigger...foreigner.  Shahin was an alien in his own country.  He didn't speak Arabic, he was atheist, and he had never been outside the United States.  The same strangeness he had was what killed his sister.

Maybe it was guilt by association.

Chaitte left a message on his phone the first day.  The second day, there were a couple more plus a couple of worried texts.  By the end of the first week, she was audibly upset in her messages.  By the middle of the second week, she was angry.  The professors knew of his absence but wouldn't tell her anything.  They accused her of being a jealous girlfriend.  Can you imagine that?  She demanded in an indignant tone.  By the end of that second week, as he was packing to return home, she had left only one message.

"If something happened to you, I'll just die, Shahin.  Please...for whatever we had...let me know.  If someone is listening to this...let me know.  If you're fine and just...whatever...I don't care.  It isn't fair Shahin...you don't let people that love you worry about you."

He boarded his plane.  He flew home.  He should have stayed another week, but the frantic pleading in Chaitte's voice changed his mind.

"You don't let people that love you worry about you."

"People that love you."

"Love you."

His mind circled in on those two words like a bird of prey.  Love you.  He saved the message and listened to it in flight until it was nothing but a loop of love you love you love you playing in Chaitte's broken voice.  He listened to it until his phone was dead.  Even then, he laid his head back on the cheap, foamy pillow they offered and listened to the faint ringing of her words in his ear.  She was there, even in the noise of the jet engines and people moving about the cabin.  Finally, he answered back, whispering as his plane touched the ground.

"I love you too."

Description
Darya had been killed in winter, and per his family's request (though it almost killed him to do so), he returned home for the candle light vigil.  They stood in a freezing downpour, holding hands over the tenuous flames that marked the end of his sister's life.  There had been a memorial erected to her; it was vandalized often but his father took painstaking effort into fixing it.  It seemed empty.

His little sister, who wore pigtails throughout middle school even though the other girls made fun of her, was gone.  His baby sister, who would stamp her foot and scream until red faced when he mocked her by calling her "Darling Darya", was dead.  There was a headstone for her in a cemetery, but her ashes had long since been scattered.  Darling Darya, the artist, the fashionista.  She was dead and gone, nothing but memories and photos.  People murmured condolences while his parents wept.  Roshan held onto his shoulder, tears flowing freely.

Shahin didn't cry.  He had cried plenty the day her body was found.  He cried until it was no longer a release; he cried until crying itself seemed like an uncontrollable sickness that his sobs were a symptom of.  It took a year before he could mention her name without his throat constricting.  It took two for him to walk past a picture of her without tears pricking his eyes.

Now the sky cried for him.

He didn't tell Chaitte he was leaving for the memorial.  He couldn't bear to reveal that part of himself yet.  He was afraid she'd see the self loathing he felt.  Shahin was different.  He'd always be different.  He wasn't bread and butter American; he wasn't white and his hair wasn't blond.  Everyone noticed him for his height, his darkness, and his cracked-glass eye.  They mouthed things behind his back.  Arab.  Paki.  Terrorist.  Muslim.  Towel-head, sand-nigger...foreigner.  Shahin was an alien in his own country.  He didn't speak Arabic, he was atheist, and he had never been outside the United States.  The same strangeness he had was what killed his sister.

Maybe it was guilt by association.

Chaitte left a message on his phone the first day.  The second day, there were a couple more plus a couple of worried texts.  By the end of the first week, she was audibly upset in her messages.  By the middle of the second week, she was angry.  The professors knew of his absence but wouldn't tell her anything.  They accused her of being a jealous girlfriend.  Can you imagine that?  She demanded in an indignant tone.  By the end of that second week, as he was packing to return home, she had left only one message.

"If something happened to you, I'll just die, Shahin.  Please...for whatever we had...let me know.  If someone is listening to this...let me know.  If you're fine and just...whatever...I don't care.  It isn't fair Shahin...you don't let people that love you worry about you."

He boarded his plane.  He flew home.  He should have stayed another week, but the frantic pleading in Chaitte's voice changed his mind.

"You don't let people that love you worry about you."

"People that love you."

"Love you."

His mind circled in on those two words like a bird of prey.  Love you.  He saved the message and listened to it in flight until it was nothing but a loop of love you love you love you playing in Chaitte's broken voice.  He listened to it until his phone was dead.  Even then, he laid his head back on the cheap, foamy pillow they offered and listened to the faint ringing of her words in his ear.  She was there, even in the noise of the jet engines and people moving about the cabin.  Finally, he answered back, whispering as his plane touched the ground.

"I love you too."