A sink filled with dishes is the reminder that you ate well. Warm food and cold food, but good food that meant your hands stayed warm and you did everything you wanted.
A basket full of items is the evidence that you’ve been doing better. You ate the food in your fridge and you used the ingredients in the cupboard and you decided you needed snacks.
A room that needs sorting each morning is the proof that you have been living a life. Papers strewn across the table mean you didn’t immediately give in and the supplies on the floor mean you haven’t lost yourself in the whirlwind yet.
A bag full of laundry shows that you haven’t been stagnant. The lack of outfits in the wardrobe mean that you have worn them out and about as you ran errands, went to places and lived your life.
A camera roll full of photos and videos that so need to be sorted through means you are still full of love and brightness. It is a beautiful thing, to have memories worth capturing and making permanent.
A rejection email is nothing more than a sign of a leap of faith. It will sting and you will be sad but you will recover because you tried and two years ago, you wouldn’t have even done that without a gun to your head.
A to do list longer than you think you have time for is an indication that you are living a life you weren’t always able to. It may be a lot, but it is not more than you can handle.
A chore is still a chore and it will always be a chore. But it is also a mark of a life well-lived and a life full of love. A life that is cherished and bright and beautiful.
And it is boring and it is normal and it is full of silly little routines but it was once thought impossible and now it is yours and there is nothing more to say.
these chores are the mark of a life that is soft and cherished
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happy third anniversary, the heartbreaker's handbook!
10.07.25
it’s been three years since thh was published, and a lot of things have changed since then. thh was published after my a-levels, and on the third anniversary, i am five days away from graduating with my degree. there haven’t been bonus stories this year, but i’ve been thoroughly enjoying throwing tristan and camilla into various situations and dragging the rest of their castmates down with them. more on that later.
this year, there are twenty-three bonus scenes. they’ll be dropping later. and to keep with the tradition of alternative universes and the anniversary, one of the many situations i put tristan and camilla will be shared. it’s one of my personal favourites.
there’s also going to be a series of letters, written between the characters, that they never sent. there’s something to be said about all the things they are able to say, just because they don’t have to actually say them.
i still hold thh dear to my heart. i don’t think anything i ever do will mean as much to me as actually becoming a published author. when i look back on the book, some of it cringes me out. but the majority of it makes me proud. i wrote all of it from the heart, and i didn’t give up on it. even when i wanted to. part of why i never gave up was because of the people who knew me. you are the reason we have a book. and to my friends who are the reason we have a show, i love you.
The Guide and The Light are a series of comedic, romantic and soft short stories detailing the representation Muslims want but are never allowed to have. We all deserve to see ourselves fall in love and keep that love. We all deserve to have our beliefs respected and celebrated, instead of treated like a joke or insulted.
It’s about giving my community what they want and turning conversations that shouldn’t have happened in public into something we can all smile at. I hope you enjoy. (Also yes, this is a lot more than a month later since the previous episode, is anyone surprised? Updates are now sporadic e.g. they will come when the episode after is finished)
read on wattpad instead! | rewatch previous episode | play next episode | view full series
EPISODE FOUR: THE TROUBLE WITH NICKNAMES
SYNOPSIS: IT'S BEEN SAID THAT SOMETIMES, THE MEDIA ENCOURAGES PEOPLE TO DO SILLY THINGS. TRYING TO GIVE YOUR NEW SPOUSE A NICKNAME WHEN YOU CANNOT KEEP A STRAIGHT FACE WHILST CALLING THEM WIFEY OR LOVERBOY MAY FALL INTO THIS CATEGORY, BUT YAHYA AND NOOR ARE DETERMINED TO DO IT!
It starts, as most things tend to, with Yahya and Noor watching a show together. Noor has her feet resting on Yahya’s lap. She keeps adjusting the way her head is positioned. Yahya knows it would be more comfortable if it was resting on his shoulder. That’s how she falls asleep the easiest.
“You can sit in my lap if you want,” he blurts out.
She blinks a few times. “Huh?”
“You don’t need to. But you don’t look that comfortable. And if you’re in my lap, you can rest your head on my shoulder.”
Noor thinks about it for a second, and then Yahya can feel her hair brushing his neck.
He picks up the remote and rewinds twenty seconds.
“Little star,” the person on screen says.
“Nicknames are cute,” Noor comments.
Yahya stops the drama and switches it to an English cartoon to give them some background noise.
“Would you like a nickname?” Yahya asks.
She shrugs. “It could be nice. But I only want one if you have one,” she says.
“I’d expect nothing less,” he replies. “So, what do you want to be called? Buttercup? Sugar muffin? Love?”
Noor starts laughing. “No, no. None of those. They’re all awful. It’s like if I suddenly started calling you macho man.”
Yahya choked on air. “That is the worst thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Right!”
“I don’t even want to know how you ended up hearing that name,” he says.
She shrugs. “Things happen when you and your uni friends stay up too late.” Before she can expand more, she’s yawning into his shoulder.
Yahya laughs. “I think it’s time for bed.”
She shakes her head. “But I’m comfortable here. Don’t want to move.”
An idea comes into his mind. He knows he can do it. If he can’t, they’ll let it go. It won’t be shameful. Nothing is shameful with Noor, it’s just things they tried that didn’t work out the way they were supposed to. So as she shifts closer, her eyes closed and her breathing starting to slow, Yahya moves the hand that was originally playing with hers. Noor makes a sound of protest. Yahya shushes her gently and slides it under her legs, standing.
Noor’s hands immediately loop themselves around the back of his neck as she screams. Yahya lowers his arms so he can hold her more comfortably, but she shakes her head and turns to hide her face. For a moment, he’s worried she’s actually scared, but then he sees the faint colour in her cheeks and he knows she’s just flustered by the fact that she likes it.
“What are you doing?” She asks, head buried in his neck.
“You didn’t want to move,” Yahya says, as though it’s all the explanation in the world that’s needed.
Noor giggles, a soft and light sound. Yahya is still learning how she laughs. Sometimes, it is a loud and obvious thing. That’s when something is funny. Other times, it is a short thing- only half there. That’s when it’s not funny, but she refuses to rock the boat too hard. And recently, it has been a soft and light thing. That’s when Yahya has done something to disarm her. When he’s flirted back and she hasn’t quite known how to cope.
“Well, then carry me to bed,” she tells him.
“Whatever my princess wants,” he teases, both because it’s the natural nickname and because he has a sneaking suspicion that-
“Do not ever call me that again,” Noor says, but she doesn’t ask to be put down so Yahya just laughs and does as she asks.
They fall asleep the way they always do. With Yahya’s arm slung around Noor’s shoulder, her head nestled into the crook of his neck. Her hair smells like cherry blossoms. It’s the last thing Yahya smells before sleep takes him.
His alarm goes off for Fajr. Noor stirs, but he runs a hand over her head and gently pulls the duvet back over her. It’s getting colder, which means the prayer times are getting later. He knows he won’t sleep, but he wants to be cosy, so he gets back into bed and reads until Noor’s alarm goes off for work. He turns his own- set for ten minutes later- off.
She mumbles a Salam. He responds in kind.
An idea pops into his mind. “How did you sleep baby?” He asks.
She shakes her head. “Absolutely detested that one.”
“I had a feeling you would. Answer the question!”
“Good, I guess. Weird dream though. Remember that book I used to love as a teen? I was asked to be in the adaptation, but then I had to pick five celebrities I wanted to make appearances but it took me too long so they kicked me out,” she says.
“That is weird. I don’t actually remember my dream,” he tells her.
She shrugs, still a little too tired for real conversation. She kisses his cheek before she gets out of bed.
He gets started on breakfast whilst she showers. When she comes into the dining room, dressed for work, her hair is still loose.
“I’m probably going to need to change the bedding tonight,” she says. “So dinner may be delayed.”
“If you go to the bathroom, let me know if it does. I think I’ll be back before you today, I can do it. And I can make dinner. You just wash your hair.”
“Are you sure? You would’ve changed it on Saturday. And you cooked last time- we’re supposed to take it in turns.”
“We do take it in turns. But I don’t want you washing your hair and then cooking, and I also don’t want you to delay it,” Yahya explains.
She smiles. “You’re the bestest ever.”
He shrugs, and ducks his head, knowing it’s futile when Noor coos at his cuteness.
Whilst she double-checks that everything is where it should be in her bag, he goes to change. He comes down as she’s putting her shoes on.
“Be safe,” he says, as he always does.
She kisses his cheek. “I will. You too. See you tonight, sweetheart!”
He’s left stunned by the nickname. He regains his bearings as the door slams shut. After closing the porch door to keep the warmth in, he grabs his phone.
Let’s not stick with sweetheart.
She replies a few minutes later.
It sounded awful.
I realised.
As soon as I said it.
Have you made it to the station?
She responds with a selfie. She’s standing on the platform, smiling and with a thumbs-up.
You look beautiful.
Thank you.
I’m glad you appreciate.
Someone saw me and gave me the most unimpressed look.
Now pay up.
He rolls his eyes affectionately and responds with his own selfie.
Thank you.
Looking very cute!
You’re the sweetest.
And then he leaves himself.
As expected, the kids are obsessed with hearing about the honeymoon and everything that has happened since. Although Yahya is a private person who doesn’t enjoy the spotlight and would prefer to keep the details of his outside life contained to outside school, he indulges them because it is Noor. After they have done their work.
He ends up getting home before Noor. She had messaged earlier saying their bedding needed changing. He gets out her fresh towels, then puts everything in the washing machine, ready for her to switch on after she’d washed her hair and put the clothes she’d worn to work in. He starts to make dinner when he hears her key in the lock.
It has become one of his favourite sounds.
“Honey I’m home!” She says.
When he opens the kitchen door, she doesn’t look impressed with herself.
“I was going to say. Abhorrent. How was work?” He asks.
“You can’t just go around saying abhorrent. The same. How are the kids?”
Yahya smiles softly. “They’re good. Wanted to know all about you. Also, yes I can.”
“That’s cute. Like you- I said it first!”
He sighs. “I suppose I have to let you beat me every once in a while.”
She grins. “Right, I’m going to wash my hair.”
Whilst Yahya checks his phone to double-check how long the chicken needs, he’s struck by a moment of inspiration.
Noor comes racing down the stairs, her hair still slightly damp. Yahya had heard the hairdryer going for several minutes, so he doesn’t say anything. She won’t get ill, and the curls will keep for a few days.
“Beautiful flower,” he tells her.
She starts laughing. The proper laugh. The real one. He knows it’s not meant to be mean, but he feels his cheeks go warm.
“Did you google nicknames for your wife?” She asks.
He wants to ask her why she would know that, but he’s not quite sure it’s a story he wants to hear in that very moment so he just shrugs.
She wraps her arms around his waist. “You’re so sweet for that.”
Noor goes to set the table. It’s just the placemats and the glasses, so Yahya is a little confused by what’s taking her so long.
He gets his answer a few minutes later when the kitchen door opens. She leans against the fridge.
“Hi loverboy,” she says, and the words have barely left her mouth before they’re both laughing.
He comes over, a hand to her waist enough to shift her ever so slightly, just so he can get the salad out of the fridge. Whilst he doesn’t want it warm, he also doesn’t want it straight from the fridge levels of cold.
“Did you also google nicknames for your husband?” He asks.
She nods.
“I’m not sure I like that it’s boy,” Yahya says.
“Loverman,” Noor teases.
“Oh no. That’s worse.”
“So much worse!”
It’s a comfortable meal. She tells him about the strange things that happened at the law firm, as well as the details of some of the cases she’s involved in researching. A lot of it goes over Yahya’s head, but he’s learnt that she doesn’t necessarily need him to understand. She needs him to take an interest. And he finds it fascinating. Not because he cares about the law- he does, but not in that way. Because she’s invested. He tells her about the things the kids said and the mistakes they made with their titrations. He also confesses that he also hates how precise one needs to be. And then he makes her swear that she will never tell them that if she happens to ever meet them.
“Do you want me to dry or wipe down?” Yahya asks. He cooked, so Noor wouldn’t dream of making him wash up.
“Wipe please. The stuff can dry and get put away tomorrow I think,” she said.
He smiles. “Okay, wifey.”
Noor’s face twists into something Yahya never wants to see again. “Oh god no. As much as I like being your wife, I think I hate wifey.”
“Yeah. As soon as I said it, it felt wrong. Why is this so hard?”
“Let’s just take a break. We’ve got the rest of our lives to work it out.”
It’s a lovely thought.
“I like that,” Yahya says, ducking his head so Noor can’t see how that single statement had his cheeks rising with colour.
“I know you do.” There’s a pause, as though she’s contemplating what to say next. “Cutiepie.”
Yahya pretends he’s going to fling the cloth at her.
He realises a few days later that they haven’t actually been on a date. They’ve been spending time together and existing in the same space, and they’re doing perfectly, but he’s been busy with marking the first set of tests and she’s been helping the new trainee solicitors, so anything more has just simply not been feasible.
So he makes the plans. He tells Noor the day before, having double-checked throughout the week that she had nothing else going on- that he was taking her out. She’s kind enough to pretend to be surprised.
When she comes back from work, a lot earlier than he was expecting, his surprise shows on his face.
“I left early. My actual work was done, so the only thing I would have been doing was supervising the newbies. Someone else can do it,” she says.
It’s something he’s always reminded her about. “Yes, they can.”
“What time did you want to leave?” She asks.
“Seven?”
“Perfect. I’m going to go make myself pretty for you.”
He knows it’s meant as a joke. And if not a joke, then it’s a learned habit from her youth. But she’s helping him unlearn certain things society taught him. He can do the same. “You know I always think you’re beautiful. With or without make-up. It’s in your eyes and your smile and the way you treat me.”
He’s never been good at choosing the right words, and all he can do is hope he’s not said something that’s going to make her think he’s acting like she’s wrong for the way she chooses to present herself.
But she smiles. “I know you do. I- with work it’s different. But when I wear make-up outside of it, it’s because it’s fun. And I think it’ll look nice. I know that if you took me on a date to a fancy restaurant and I didn’t wear any make-up, you wouldn’t be ashamed. Neither would I. But it’s been so long since I got to wear make-up for fun and I want to. You don’t need to worry.”
The thing about Noor is that she always knows what Yahya needs to hear. He pulls her in for a hug, his lips pressing a gentle kiss to the top of her head before he lets her go and get ready.
He’s going through one of the boxes of stuff that is in the spare room to find a particular pair of shoes when she comes in.
“Ta-da!” She says.
He turns, and his face breaks into a wide smile. He’s wearing a formal shirt and trousers because he doesn’t know how to wear anything else, but Noor has pulled one of the shalwar kameez she was given for the wedding out. It’s simple, and it may not have been a big deal for anyone else, but it is for them.
She notices him smiling and twirls until she stumbles slightly. And just as he always will, he steadies her.
“You look more than beautiful, my light.” The words come out without him meaning to let them slip. “I don’t- it’s never meant as a form of ownership. Because I don’t own you. Nobody does. I said it because you’re so bright it’s blinding sometimes. And because you let yourself be mine. In a way that is wonderful because it’s your choice.”
“Yahya. I know. I want you to call me that for the rest of our lives.”
“I will. I promise. So, shall we, my light?” He holds his arm out, and the date goes perfectly. Or, as perfect as life can be.
Her sadness comes from the fact that she doesn’t have something to call him. But like they both know, they have the rest of their times together to find something that fits.
It comes.
Noor’s sat in his lap. She feels comfortable there. Safe and warm and cherished.
Her head rests on his chest. Through the thin fabric of his shirt, she can hear his heartbeat. It’s steady and certain. Something feels different though. Not strange and not wrong. But different. When she brings her hand to her own chest, she realises what it is.
“Your heartbeat is synced with mine,” she tells him, looking away from the screen and into his eyes.
“Huh?” Yahya sounds confused.
Noor smiles. “Your heartbeat. It’s synced with mine.”
“That’s cool,” he says.
“It’s because you need to know mine really well. Since you’re the keeper of my heart,” she jokes. And it really was meant to just be a teasing remark. But Yahya bites his lip in an attempt to stop a full smile from breaking out across his face, and his cheeks go slightly warm.
And Noor knows.
“My heart,” she whispers. “That’s it.”
Yahya nods. He tilts her chin up to kiss her. “My light.”
Their heartrates stop syncing as Noor’s starts racing.
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i put together a bouquet.
it is filled with white flowers.
the irony of this is not lost on me.
white is supposed to bring peace.
but the lives that are gone stain everything red with injustice.
i pick out a coffin.
it is closed.
the irony of this is not lost on me.
graves are supposed to be the final resting place.
but even these are not safe from the destruction caused by monsters.
i select a date.
it is set.
the irony of this is not lost on me.
time does not slip through our fingers the way we may think it does.
but there is no guarantee that anyone will get to see that tomorrow.
i choose some food to serve.
it is the thing almost forgotten.
the irony of this is not lost on me.
food is a given, now and always, whether it is boring or new.
but that does not mean it is going to be edible or even for humans.
i try and write a eulogy.
it is a few minutes long.
the irony of this is not lost on me.
nobody can put the life of someone gone into words that are sufficient.
but there is not even a life to describe because it was taken before it began.
i invite people to attend.
it ends up being millions.
the irony of this is not lost on me.
more people come to mourn than do not.
but they do not know who, only that it was wrong and preventable.
i try to plan a funeral.
it ends up feeling like dying.
the irony of this is not lost on me.
not everything can feel like something.
but at least we get to say it is like instead of it is.
i am planning a funeral. i think it feels like dying.
they say that if you're raised with an angry man in your house, there will always be an angry man in your house.
what about an angry woman?
what if the first rage you knew came from the first love you had?
what happens when it is your mother who has all the anger and everyone says from the moment you're old enough to have your own being, that you are just like her?
the angry man in your house- not your home, never your home- means there are harsh words on the tip of your tongue.
the angry woman means there are mean taunts under your skin.
the angry man means you are angry.
the angry woman means you are broken.
the angry man does not know quite where to hit because he was never that attentive.
the angry woman knows exactly what to say to make you cower. and she knows exactly what to do to earn momentary forgiveness.
if there is an angry man in your house, you grow up and you search for him.
you do not search for an angry woman.
you become her.
if there is nothing like a mother's love, then there is also nothing like a mother's rage
do i tell her i love her and then list all the ways i hate her or do i list all her mistakes and then remind her that i love her despite them (not because, never because)?
do i tell her she must be beautiful because i am beautiful and i came from her or do i tell her i cannot be beautiful because if i am nothing more than the spitting image of her?
do i tell her it is okay that the pain didn’t skip me because i felt it so it will not touch her grandchildren or do i tell her that she should have seen the ghosts in my eyes?
where would i end?
i cannot write to my father.
what language would i use aside from the one that only ever cursed him?
do i tell him that it is fine he does not know the simple details of my life because he is not the exception or do i tell him that there were simple questions with simple answers and he should have asked?
do i tell him how i am sorry i am not a daughter he can ever be truly proud of but i will do my best to be something or do i tell him he is responsible for who i am so my shame should be his shame?
do i tell him about the way i take every question with an ounce of suspicion because it must mean something more or do i tell him about the way i tell my friends when he does the good thing?
how would i share?
i cannot write to my sister.
when would be the moment?
do i tell her that she took my chance to be my own person from me without realising or do i tell her that everything i am is because she was someone else first?
do i tell her that i seethe with anger as i adjust my life to fit around hers the way the earth orbits around the sun or do i tell her it does not matter because being a sibling is swings and roundabouts?
do i tell her that the things she says are insults to everyone, acceptable only because of the blood we share or do i tell her that i suppose it is better that she trusts us enough to be furious?
why would i start?
i cannot write to them.
so i write about them.
perhaps it is the same.
they end up being loved and slandered in the same sentence either way.
i can write everything and anything but words to the ones who raised me
