Lahore. Less than five hundred kilmoters to the north. And yet, it might as well have been worlds away. Surely, she would never see Amir again. She searched his face, those lips that had brushed against hers, for a different answer, and blinked away tears. She wanted him safe, and yet, safety meant their separation. “Amir, please try to leave me a note to tell me when you go.” Her response failed to capture how she really felt about him, how deeply her heart would ache when he left.

“I will.” He took hold of her hands, squeezed them. His eyes lingered on her face. He touched her cheek. He then turned, lifted the basket of vegetables, and offered his hand to his sister. Laila looked back and waved. As they walked away, flower petals tumbled out of the basket. A few had already browned.

Deepa rushed back to Bala’s side.

“There you are. Don’t stay away that long again,” Bala sighed. She handed Deepa the paratha. “I’m to watch you at all times, I—” she stopped short. “Why are you so pale? Are you not feeling well?” She laid her hand across Deepa’s forehead.

Deepa removed Bala’s hand, wrapped it in her own. “No, I’m not. I’m just tired. Please, can we go home now?”

Bala nodded. She clutched Deepa’s hand, led her through the rest of the market, where at the curb, they boarded Sri’s rickshaw and headed home.

Late that night, Deepa laid on her bed and stared at the ceiling.

After her parents’ pre-sleep mumbling on the other side of the wall faded into light snores, she crawled out, opened her desk drawer, and removed a leather-bound notebook. Inside, Amir’s origami notes were folded flat. She arranged them on her desk. Five perfect sculptures made with the most perfect hands she’d ever seen.

She selected the six-pointed star, traced her thumb over its fragile, narrow letters. A word on each point, it read YOUR SHINE LIGHTS UP MY HEART.

Tonight, as she drifted off to sleep, she would focus on these words, not Poonam’s terrible things, not Amir’s stern warning at the market. India, Pakistan, Independence, the world around her was crumbling and shaping itself anew. She would purge her mind of the chaos, fill herself only with thoughts of him.

She pressed the star to her chest, curled up on her side in her bed, and let her eyes flutter shut.

CHAPTER FOUR

Deepa’s callus was bulbous and black, a lump of dough gone hard. She slid her thumb over the rough surface, the peeling edges. With every mark and dot, a blot of ink bled across her knuckle and nail. A writer of intention, her mother had once called her, a messy scribe.