When the Moon Is Low by Nadia Hashimi

could have told her about our private conversations and the empty promises her fiancé had made to me, but I bit my tongue. It was the noble thing to do, I told myself.
    For weeks, I watched the couple come and go. KokoGul beamed and busied herself with the wedding arrangements. There were manybusy afternoons spent with Bibi Shireen. They were just as taken with each other as the new bride and groom were. I kept my feelings to myself after that day. KokoGul excused my behavior after the shirnee, uninterested in exploring the matter further. She said nothing to my father about the dress I’d shredded.
    I ran into Hameed in the courtyard once. He was waiting for Najiba, who’d run into the house to get a scarf. It was fall and the chill of the night air carried into the early morning. The house door slammed behind me. Hameed turned, his boyish smile evaporating at the sight of me. I could see the tension in his legs and arms. Every fiber of his body wanted to escape, our courtyard suddenly feeling like a small cage. He might as well have been inches from my face.
    He muttered a faint greeting and turned to the side, his hands disappearing deep into his pockets.
    I hesitated, wanting to retreat with the basket of wet clothes and return to the house, but the look on his face gave me strength. His eyes looked away in shame and his shoulders were pulled together, as if he were trying to fold himself in half.
    “ Salaam, ” I said loudly and clearly. My voice surprised me. Hameed winced.
    I walked past him slowly, aware of each breath and counting the steps between us. I made my way to the side of the house, still visible to him, where I began to hang the damp laundry from a clothesline. I snapped the moisture from each piece before draping it over the rope. It would be hours before anything would dry in the brisk air.
    I could see Hameed fidget from the corner of my eye.
    I wanted to hate him.
    “Fereiba . . .” His voice was nothing more than a whisper.
    My back was turned to him. I closed my eyes. Two drops of water fell from my father’s damp shirt and landed on my toes.
    “These things are family matters. Nothing was ever really in my hands.”
    I listened.
    “And now I just want you to be happy. For the sake of the families, let’s put it behind us.”
    His tone was dismissive. My shame boiled into indignation.
    “Put what behind us?” I snapped.
    “Do you really want to be this way? You know I didn’t mean to cause you any trouble.”
    “I don’t know anything about you. Najiba knows even less.”
    He huffed in frustration. I turned around and met his narrowed eyes.
    “You know if you say anything, it would look very bad for you,” he seethed.
    “If I say anything? Is that what worries you? I have no interest in spoiling my sister’s life,” I said, though it was a half-truth. “I pity her for winding up with a boy who pretends to hang his heart from a tree.”
    “You’ve no idea what you’re saying.”
    “Don’t I?”
    He cast a quick glance over his shoulder and took two steps toward me.
    “I told my mother to ask for the hand of the eldest daughter next door. Don’t think I wasn’t surprised when she came back having engaged me to Najiba. Anything I said after that would have brought shame on both our families.”
    I stared at him blankly. There are truths and lies and there are things in between, murky waters where light gets bent and broken. I did not know his face well enough to decide if he meant those words. I could not read the movements of his lips or the shadows behind his eyes. Did he want me to understand or did he want me to believe? And if I believed, would that be enough to change the rest of our story?
    Najiba emerged with one of Sultana’s scarves knotted at her neck. Her face broke out in a smile. She was no longer the bashful girl with eyes glued to the floor. She’d grown comfortable around Hameed andcould walk at his side without feeling indecent. I could see the thrill on