Both Nazifa and Syeda give us sympathetic looks but roll with the subject change, which I appreciate more than I can put into words. Talking about any of this at length always makes me want to curl into a ball.

“Apu has to finish up a project for school,” Nazifa says, nodding her head toward Syeda. “So I thought we could just watch a movie while we wait? Baba said dinner is around ten, so we have some time to kill.”

“What are you working on?” I ask, turning toward Syeda.

Syeda’s expression lights up. “We have to design an article of clothing for one of my classes using techniques from a different time period. I’ve been working on a line of hijabs using techniques from the 1920s. My professor thinks it’s a great idea, so I’m pretty sure I’ll get an A, but I still have to finish writing up my research paper for it.”

“That sounds amazing,” I say, my lips curving up. Just a few more months, and I’ll be in Syeda’s place, working on all kinds of film projects that I’m passionate about. “Can I see some of them?”

Syeda jumps to her feet with a grin. “Of course.”

When we leave the room, I feel like I can breathe easier, finally leaving behind any tendrils of the conversation about my parents.

Syeda leads me down the hall, and we pass a handful of aunties on the way, all of them cooing over how grown-up we are, as if we hadn’t seen them only two months prior. I let them ruffle my hair with a fond shake of my head, and Syeda bats them away without any real intent, laughing the entire time. When we finally get to Syeda’s room, there are clothes strung up all over the room, draped over the furniture and cheap mannequins. A line of hijabs is hung above Syeda’s desk and I immediately gravitate toward them, eyes wide. “These are beautiful.”

Syeda smiles. “This one is made from silk, this one from satin, this one from cashmere, this one—”

“I have absolutely no idea what the difference is, but keep talking anyway,” I say, reaching out to touch one of them, the fabric soft against my fingers. “I have no idea how you do it. I could never make something like this.”

Syeda snorts. “You stick to films, I’ll stick to fashion.”

I point finger guns at her. “Perfect.” I look back at the hijabs, considering them. “It’s so cool that you’re following your dreams. Mishti Auntie and Farhan Uncle must be so proud.”

She nudges me with a shoulder. “Give yourself some credit. It’ll be you soon enough. College is honestly amazing, Poppy. I know you’ll love it.”