Trigger Warning: Suicidal Ideation, Descriptions of suicide, Brief Discussions of Self harm

Cake

“Yeah, Layla.” Wazila confirmed to Lovette. 

“How is she?” Amil cut in. 

Wazila looked between the two of them, frowning. 

“She’s fine.” She said and turned towards her computer, hoping they would stop engaging her. 

“So, what are the two of you doing this weekend?” Amil pressed. 

“Nothing fun.” Wazila responded without looking away from the screen. 

“Well, I’m headed to the kitchen to add some creamer to my coffee. Would you like to join me and tell me about these non- fun plans?”

“Uh, not particularly.” Wazila didn’t mean to be rude, but her mouth was moving faster than her mind. “I mean, not right now. I should probably finish… this.” She gestured at her computer even though the screen was blank. 

“I’m the boss and I say to take a coffee break.” Lovette interjected. 

“I have coffee.” As if to make a point, Wazila reached for her coffee cup slowly and swirled the liquid so Lovette could see. 

“It would have gone cold.” Lovette offered. 

“In the one minute since I’ve been sitting down?” Wazila countered. 

“For God's sake Wazila, just come with me!” Amil raised his voice suddenly. 

Wazila’s frown deepened. She caught the glares that Lovette was sending him and felt her upset give way to confusion. As they approached the kitchen Wazila heard whispers and subsequent hushing, as if a crowd was gathering. A yellow balloon was thrown in her face the moment she rounded the corner to step into the kitchen. 

“Happy birthday!” The horde of her coworkers shouted in unison. As she approached them, one of her colleagues (her name started with an A but Wazila didn’t remember anything else) stepped forward with a circular cake and a bright smile. ‘Wazila’s 34th’ was inscribed on the cream-coloured cake with red writing. Wazila looked back at Amil who offered her one of his rare smiles. 

“Angela baked it.” He said, maintaining his grin. 

Wazila, still dumbfounded, looked from Amil to Angela to the cake with increasing levels of bewilderment. Finally, she reached forward for it, holding it away from her body as she grabbed it. 

“Thank you, Angela.” She muttered eventually. 

“Make a wish.” Lovette said, materialising beside Wazila seemingly out of nowhere. 

Wazila looked at the sea of eager faces in front of her and mustered up the biggest smile that she could manage amidst her confusion. She blew out all ten candles on the cake with one big exhale. As people gathered around her in the kitchen, taking turns to hug her and wish her a happy birthday, Wazila retreated to a familiar place in her mind. In the way some people could un-focus their eyes, she could shift her whole life off centre. Every time she felt overwhelmed, she could pretend in an instant that she wasn’t who she was. It was Amil that broke the trance. For a moment the two of them stood in silence, facing one another. The rest of the staff members had cleared out and Wazila had assigned herself the duty of cutting and plating what remained of the cake. 

“How does it taste?” He asked her, gesturing at the slice on the dish in front of her. 

She looked at him and everything around her sharpened momentarily. As quickly as it had come about, the feeling passed, and she averted her eyes from him. 

“I don’t have a sweet tooth really.” She shrugged. 

“Try some, you might like it.” He insisted. 

She frowned and pushed the plate towards him.

“No thank you. You can have it if you want.”

“I don’t want it,” he pushed the plate back at her, “I just want you to eat it.”

“Why?” Wazila grew suspicious. “Is there something in it or-”

“People made it.” Amil cut her off. 

“As one does with…cakes.” Wazila responded slowly, confused all over again.

“Yes. Angela sacrificed a lot of time and energy and baking ingredients. It’s unfair that you would just throw it away without ever trying it.”

“Okay?”

“And when did you decide you didn’t have a sweet tooth? When you were a teenager? When you were in your 20s? Don’t you think it's possible to change your mind?”

“Um, maybe?”

“I just can’t understand why you drink all your coffee black-”

“I don’t always-”

“And why you don’t add sugar to your tea.”

“How do you know-”

“And why you chew paracetamol instead of taking it with water or juice.”

“I like the-”

“Bitterness.” Amil completed for her. “And you never want to give anything sweet a chance.”

“I’m sorry, did you help Angela bake the cake or something?”

“Layla reached out to me, Wazila.”

Wazila’s hand which before had been hovering over the knife, reached and tightened over the handle in one swift motion. Her heartbeat, infamous for its lacklustre beating, suddenly felt like it was drumming against her chest. 

“Saying-” Wazila cleared her throat, hating how small and fragile her voice came out. “Saying what?” She repeated, this time with a louder voice. 

In contrast, Amil lowered his.  

“You know what, Wazila.”

“I’m fine.” Wazila responded reflexively. 

“Oh really?”

Suddenly, Wazila was the angriest she had ever been at Amil. Possibly anybody. Just like he had moments ago, he pulled her out of a trance and sharpened her vision again. But this time felt entirely different. Everything about him felt more vivid, defects included. She could see him and the discoloured patch of skin that ran from his ear to his nose. She studied how his frame drowned in the too-large suit he wore. And his words no longer felt pure in the way that honesty is pure, they just felt cruel. She suddenly felt the urge to cry. 

One day, Amil had called her sweetheart in an offhand way. She had dropped off a stack of papers on his desk and without looking up he had said 

“Thank you, sweetheart.”

And when Wazila had stayed frozen on the spot for a full minute he had looked up at her with a raised eyebrow and had shooed her away with his left hand. But he hadn’t taken the words back. She clung on to those four syllables for weeks. She moulded herself around them. She fed herself three meals everyday instead of the caffeine and water she would normally run on. She slept for 5 hours instead of 2. She didn’t cut herself or burn herself or throw herself down the stairs. In the weeks that she was his sweetheart, she couldn’t harm herself. She’d always understood that she mattered, but she understood it in the same way she understood that atoms could split apart. Or that time freezes in a black hole. Or that everything falls at the same speed. It was all theory to her. Amil’s words made her feel like she was someone worth protecting. That she was real. That she actually mattered. 

But standing across from him now, the magic fully unravelled. He was just another person who didn’t love her. And that in itself was bearable, because she was an easy person not to love. But for a few moments she had stood in the sun. She had let herself absorb the rays from his words and believe momentarily that she was that. Something with a heart. Something sweet. It would have been a good way to go. Now she would die knowing that in her 34 years alive she had never managed to be anybody’s sweetheart. 

“Wazila, what are you still doing here?” Lovette semi-shouted as she stepped into the kitchen. 

“Cutting.” Wazila pointed from the knife to the cake stand. 

“I mean in the office!”

“Uh, earning an honest living?”

“It’s your birthday, Wazila. Go home.”

“No, I’d rather not.”

“Amil, keep her here, I’m going to get my car keys.” Lovette pointed her manicured index finger at him. He nodded deftly as a response. “Stay put.” She turned her finger towards Wazila. 

“You’re not fine, Wazila.” He said once Lovette had left the kitchen. 

“You don’t care, Amil.” She mocked his tone. 

He frowned and raised his hand to his chin as if she had hit him there. 

“I don’t know what my sister said to you-”

“She said you were going to kill yourself!” He whispered and shouted simultaneously. 

She burst into laughter before she could stop herself.

“Oh, is that all?”

He looked at her incredulously. 

“Is that...?!” He turned his head from one side to the other rapidly, as if looking for an audience who had heard what he had just heard. Is that all? Wazila did you hear me?” 

“Yes, Amil, I heard you. I’ve heard all ten words you’ve ever said to me. I have literally spent months -” she felt her voice rising and took a deep breath. “Yes, I heard you.” She said in a measured tone.

“And?”

“And I’m sorry that you suddenly feel guilty.”

“Me? You should feel guilty, you’ve committed a sin!”

“If I had committed the sin I wouldn’t be here right now, would I?” Wazila found her voice rising again. “Also, Amil, you drink. And everyone knows you and Angela are having an affair and she’s married. And… you’re cruel. And there’s nothing holy about that.” 

“We have a duty-”

“To ourselves.”

“To everyone.” He countered quickly.

“I don’t owe you anything, Amil.” She turned away from him so he would know the conversation was over. “Least of all my life.” 

Despite her turning around she heard him shuffling behind her. Suddenly he was in front of her. 

“If you won’t do it out of duty, then do me a favour.” He pleaded.

“I won’t stay alive for you.”

“I wasn’t asking that. I was…” He exhaled quietly. “I’m sorry.”

For a moment they stood in silence. 

“Come again?” Wazila said eventually. 

“I’m apologising. I don’t know if I can change your mind, but I don’t want you to go to heaven or… wherever you end up, with ill feelings towards me. I know I haven’t always been good. You’re right. I’ve been cruel. And for that, I’m sorry.” He hung his head low. 

“Oh, then in that case, I don’t forgive you.” 

“Sorry?” Amil asked. 

“Don’t say it again. I don’t forgive you.”

Amil’s mouth was still hanging ajar when Lovette walked back into the kitchen. She looked between the two of them but didn’t say anything. In the end it was Wazila that broke the silence. 

“I’m ready.”

“Alright then, let’s go.” Lovette waved her over. “Bye Amil.”

“Goodbye, Amil.” Wazila echoed. 

In the car Lovette rolled both their windows down, even though only hot air blew into the car. One radio host or the other was reading through the terms and conditions of their latest contest and Wazila leaned her head against the car seat, closing her eyes and attempting to drown out both the noise from inside and outside the car. 

“Are you falling asleep?” Lovette asked. 

“If only.” 

They drove a few more minutes in silence before Wazila spoke up again.

“How did you know I didn’t bring my car in today?”

“I checked for it in the parking lot and it wasn’t there.”

“What if I had brought in my car today?”

“I would have gotten someone to flatten your tire.” Lovette responded without skipping a beat. 

“Well, you thought of everything.” Wazila half laughed. “I assume you were behind the birthday cake as well?”

“And the cupcakes.” 

“What cupcakes?”

“The ones waiting for you at home.”

“How did you…” Wazila started then stopped. “Never mind. I have a feeling I don’t want to know.”

“Your sister.” Lovette answered anyway.

“Like I said, I don’t want to know.”

“She reached out to me.”

“Alright.”

“Wazila,”

Wazila held her breath. She found herself in the familiar position of waiting to hear the worst. 

“Why didn’t you tell me it was your birthday?”

She exhaled.

“Well, if you spoke to my sister and she said what I think she said, then you’ll know it's because I didn't really plan to make it to this birthday.”

“Angela would have been crushed if there was no one to eat her cake.”

“It was a bit on the dry side.”

“The rest of the office liked it. They love birthdays. It gives them an excuse to break up their workday.”

“They don’t need an excuse. Have you ever seen the office on a Friday? Nothing gets done.”

“And” Lovette carried on like she hadn’t spoken, “I needed some fresh air. This drive is helping.” 

“There are ways to get fresh air without driving an employee home because it’s their birthday.”

“My favourite employee.” Lovette emphasised.

“You shouldn’t play favourites.” Wazila said, but there was no real conviction in her voice.

“I can’t help it. You are my favourite. And considering the fact that you gave everybody cake and got the boss out of the office on a Friday, I suspect you are a lot of people’s favourite right now.”

“They’ll move on.”

“No they won’t, Wazila!” Lovette stopped the car suddenly. She parked haphazardly on the side of the road and unbuckled her seatbelt so she could face Wazila completely. “Angela will miss having someone to bake for. Amil will miss his coffee. I-” Lovette’s voice broke. “I will miss you.”

“I’m not-”

“Clock in on Monday Wazila. Can you promise that? Just till Monday. I’ll fix your chair. I’ve been procrastinating it forever I know.”

“Lovette-”

“And I know the microwave in the kitchen is broken too. It’s because people never turn it off after use.”

“Lovette, listen-”

“God don’t get me started on the printers. That one I’m not really procrastinating. I’m secretly attached to them. When I first moved for the job, it was the exact same printers that were there. On my third day my boss gave me something to print for her and the whole thing came out blotted and somehow also faded? It was confusing. When I presented her the papers, I thought she was going to sack me on the spot, but she just laughed. She said that she had dealt with the brokenness for so long that she knew how to work around it. She could still make out the words. And I thought the printers were a lost cause. They’re not. Tell me what to fix, Wazila. Tell me how to make your life better, tell me how to make sense of everything that’s ever stained you. Because I will do it. I’ll deal with the chair. And the microwave. I’ll get rid of the printers if you ask me to. If everyone else does it, I won’t. I won’t move on. So tell me that you’ll stay, please. And if you can’t promise me that, then promise me Monday. Wazila, please, clock in on Monday.” 

Wazila always found it ridiculous and unnecessary when she’d watch a movie with her sister or her father and an older character would break into a parable or a riddle or a long-winded story that held the moral essence of the entire film. But right then she couldn’t think of anything to tell Lovette except for the time when she was a child and she had banged on her father’s door with all the strength in her fists and he refused to open it. He kept telling her to stay there that he was coming, but that no matter what she should stay on that side of the door. He told her that she should keep her sister out too. So that day her and Layla had waited outside his door for what felt like hours. They had taken turns making up games, laughing, and pretending like they didn’t hear the sound of something abruptly and loudly dropping. Even when it had been hours, days in fact, Wazila didn’t dare open the door. Every time she got close, she swore she could catch her father’s voice telling her to stay on the other side. She thought she had outsmarted him by scaling the wall and climbing through the window instead. She had even convinced Layla to come with her. But as Wazila stood in his bedroom watching his body hang from the ceiling fan, she didn’t feel very clever, she felt… Well, she wasn’t sure what she felt until she watched Layla climb through the same window. As they stared at each other it occurred to Wazila that she was fond of her father. She admired him immensely. He was her favourite person in the entire universe, and he always would be. But she didn’t love him. 

Looking at Layla then she saw all the questions she had mirrored back at her. Their eyes pooled at the same time. When they stepped close enough to the body, they both reached for his left leg. She didn’t understand a lot of things in the months that followed, but she understood that her father was dead, and she and Layla were alive. She understood that Layla climbed into her bed every night and held her while she wept. She understood that Layla found most of the pieces of her father’s favourite glass cup and put it back together again. It was ugly and un-usable, but it was a testament to love’s ability to always create something new. Or at least love’s ability to inspire relentless trying. She understood Layla’s singing voice, even though it was terrible and consistently off pitch. She didn’t understand Layla’s prayers in Arabic, but she understood that she was praying for the two of them. Wazila had always thought that her father was the centre of the universe and the singular thing holding her together. But he was dead, and she was still there. So, she understood that the truth was and remains- Layla is the sun. She knew her sister was the first person that loved her because her sister was the first person to be hurt by her. Whenever Wazila replayed the day of the window in her head, she wished she had lied to Layla about what she was doing. She wished she had never let her shadow her. She wished that if Layla had insisted on coming along, that she’d pushed her down the wall. 

Wazila could have done it herself. Stood the chair upright, cut away the rope, and brought down her father’s body. She didn’t need her sister to see that, and to feel that. And she didn’t want that for Lovette either. She wanted to grab her boss by the shoulders and shake her and scream 

“Don’t follow me!”

Because Wazila had spent her whole life in her father’s bedroom and rooms like it. Rooms with North-facing windows, sparse furniture, and death. She had spent all 34 years of living telling everyone who loved her to stay on the other side of the door. Then there was Lovette, stubbornly trying to scale the wall and climb in through the window. But Wazila wouldn’t let her. No matter what she would not let Lovette into that room. Because she knew what it was to be trapped somewhere. It isn’t stagnant like people claim it is. There are constant waves. Waves of clawing at your own skin with anything you can find, trying to get to the bone, hoping that underneath all that flesh and blood there is something worth saving. It is waves of crying into your own open wounds, stinging yourself over and over, and weeping more because each new tear is uniquely unbearable. It is waves of wanting. Trying to lacerate the door, the window, the ceiling, the floor, any escape route. It is waves of knowledge. She understood that she might peek into the gap between the door and the floor, she could sit by the window and steal passing rays of the sun, she could go through all the motions of leaving the room- the healing, the loving, the growing. But ultimately, she would always return to the space that felt most like home. Why would she ever let Lovette into a place like that?

She leaned forward and kissed Lovette’s cheek. Once, then thrice in rapid succession. When she leaned away there were tears gathering in both their eyes. 

“Thank you for the cupcakes, Lovette. I’ll see you on Monday.” She said and climbed out of the car. 

Lovette honked at her. She was smiling but the tears that had gathered were now streaming down her face. 

“Do you know your right eye twitches when you lie, Wazila?”

“Yes, it does. My sister has told me before.”

“Say hi to her for me.”

“I will.” She started walking away then turned around suddenly when Lovette started to honk at her again.

“What?” Wazila shouted over the traffic. 

“Happy birthday, sweetheart!”

Layla had eaten three out of the twelve cupcakes by the time Wazila arrived at home. 

“I thought you didn’t like vanilla.” Wazila said as she looked at the wrappers littered around her sister. 

“I don’t like vanilla ice cream.” 

“Or vanilla scents.”

“Well, I’m not smelling the cupcakes, am I?”

“I mean, you are practically inhaling it.” 

Layla eyed her up and down. 

“What’s remaining there?” Wazila asked. Her sister shrugged as a response and lifted another cupcake to her mouth. 

“Stop eating my present!” Wazila snatched the cupcake away. Layla snatched it back just as fiercely. 

“It’s me that they gave it to.” 

“Layla, abeg, I don’t have energy to fight you.” Wazila tried to reach for the cupcake again. This time Layla slapped her hand away. 

Wazila, infuriated, slapped her hand back. In a flash Layla was making a fist and aiming it towards Wazila’s jaw. Wazila dodged it and twisted Layla’s arm behind her back. Layla wrestled out of her grip and aimed a kick at her legs. When Wazila buckled she kicked her again, aiming for her stomach this time around. 

“Oh my God!” Wazila cried out as the kick connected. 

“Oh, now you know God?”

“Layla, what the hell is wrong with you?!”

“You are eating my cupcakes!” Layla responded. 

Wazila sat up, wrapping both hands around her midriff. 

“What are you talking about?”

“I’ve put your own in the fridge. These are mine.” She said, pointing at the cardboard that held the cupcakes. “Do you know who got them for me?”

Wazila, confused and still in pain, could only shrug. 

“Lovette.” Layla answered. “Do you know why she got them for me?”

Wazila shrugged again. 

“Open your mouth and stop shaking your shoulders like you’re possessed.”

“Layla, for god’s sake-”

“It’s a consolation present.” Layla answered. “When I called your boss and told her that you were going to…” She cleared her throat. “I called Lovette and told her that it was serious this time, that you were actually going to go. She wasted almost one hour of my life talking about what we can do. That should she give you a raise? Should she post you to a different city? Should she take you to her doctor? There’s nothing she didn’t say. She even said that we should celebrate your birthday, that that one will cheer you up.” Layla settled back onto the chair, lifting the cupcakes onto her lap. “I told her that it's not today that your craze started. If it was a birthday party that would help you, you would have been saved 20 birthdays ago. I told her that if it was by money, you would have stopped decorating your skin with razor blades when you were in uni. Remember? You had that your bake sale business and I used to send you half of my pay cheque on top of that. I told her that it's not your job, it’s not your city, it’s not God, it’s not love, it's not money, and it’s definitely not a fucking birthday party that’s going to save your life.” Layla licked the icing off her fourth cupcake. “So, this is for me, to console me for having a sister that made my life miserable. And to comfort me when she leaves the world and makes my life even more miserable.” 

“Did you just say fucking?” Wazila tried to joke. When Layla didn’t laugh, she reached for her sister’s leg and shook it. “So, is that why you kicked my stomach?” 

“I should kill you.” Layla responded almost immediately. 

“You should.” Wazila conceded. “You should.” She repeated. “I don’t… I don’t want to make your life miserable.”

“That’s your business.” It was Layla’s turn to shrug. 

“Surely my life is worth more than 12 cupcakes.” Wazila attempted to draw out laughter from Layla again, but her sister didn’t so much as smile. 

“Maybe not. They’re very delicious.”

“At least let me make you a better consolation present.”

“If you like.” Layla said without facing her. 

Wazila strolled into the kitchen with a limp, still reeling from Layla’s kick. 

“Is there any chocolate one there?”

“No.” Layla said after unwrapping her fifth cupcake.

“Okay. I have some cocoa. Let me make you some.”

“I’ve already eaten too many cupcakes.”

“Then I’ll make you a full cake.” Wazila countered. “And you don’t have to eat it today.”

Layla eyed her up and down as a response.

In the kitchen Wazila threw butter, eggs, flour, cocoa powder, and milk into a large glass bowl. She began to whisk it slowly as Layla finally turned to scrutinise her. 

“You’re doing rubbish there.” Her sister commented. She stood up and started making her way to the counter. “You forgot baking soda and vanilla extract.” She pushed Wazila away with her hip. “See yourself, you didn’t even add enough milk. The whole thing will come out dry.”

Wazila rolled her eyes at her sister.

“If you like, let your eyes fall out. Go and bring me milk, jare!” 

Wazila seceded and tipped the milk into a cup. She began pouring it in slowly, only to have the glass snatched away by Laya who grabbed it and pulled it roughly against the side of the glass bowl. The cup took its time breaking. It started with one long crack down its middle before scattering into fragments that spilled onto the floor, across the counter, and into the cake batter. 

“Shit.” Wazila cursed. 

“It’s okay.” Layla soothed. “Bring a broom, and a small spoon.” 

As Wazila swept around the floor and counter, Layla pulled out small shards from the batter. 

“Let me start again.” Wazila reached for the bowl to throw it into the bin.

“No, we can still use it.” Layla insisted. 

“So we can chew glass?”

“You are impatient!” Layla snapped. “And you constantly want to just throw things away. Just wait. I can get everything out.”

“Let me.” Wazila tried to coax, but Layla pushed her away again, this time with her hands. She turned around suddenly but it wasn’t fast enough for Wazila to miss the tears pooling in her eyes. Wazila propped up the broom by the counter and slowly made her way back to the bowl. She lifted the whisk from where Layla had left it on the countertop and began stirring the batter again. 

“You know I meant it when I wrote that I want to make your life easier.”

“Abeg.” Layla waved her away without looking up. Her words came out gravely and her nose sounded congested. 

“I do.” Wazila insisted. “I know how difficult I make it sometimes.”

“Sometimes?”

They both laughed even though there was no real joy behind it. Wazila was still happy to hear the sound. 

“Do you know you had a spelling mistake in your letter?” Layla said after a moment. “You misspelt save as safe.”

“Well,” Wazila exhaled, “those things are hard to write. And I was… rushing.”

“Dear Layla, I left you ice cream and rice.” Layla mocked. 

Wazila shoved her shoulder.

“Excuse me! I put my heart and my soul into that. Do you think you could write a better one?” Wazila was still half joking. 

“Of course I can. Is it not just to say “Dear Wazila, I am sorry.” Layla matched Wazila’s light-hearted tone. “Dear Wazila, I have decided to make your life easier by leaving it. Because I feel like it. Because our dad died. Because my colleague with ugly clothes and temper issues won’t marry me. Because we don’t have a mother either and we don’t even know if she’s dead, so it really is just the two of us in the whole world who understand each other, but I’m still going to abandon you.” 

Wazila reached to open the window, suddenly feeling like there was not enough air in the room. Layla was smiling but her next set of words came out spiked. 

“Dear Wazila, I am going to skim through every time that we laughed together. I am going to conveniently forget that you are not always happy either. That you don’t always stand in the sun.” Layla wiped away her tears and locked eyes with Wazila. “Do you know that seeing you is a whole week affair? I have to go to the market for the ingredients, I have to cook them, I have to plate them, I have to drive two hours to your house. And that’s the least time-consuming part. I have your food ready days before. Do you know what takes the most time? Waiting. I have to hold my breath from Wednesday to Saturday morning. Or Thursday to Saturday morning. I have to hope that when I reach your door there’s still someone on the other side of it that’s actually going to put a dent in what I’ve made. Then I ring your doorbell and you open your door with that stupid smile, and I forget and forgive the fact that I’ve not been breathing for three days, and I do it all over again the next week. Why do I do that?”

“I don’t know.” Wazila said quietly. 

“I don’t know either, Wazila. I think it’s because you’re funny.”

“I’m funny?”

“You are.” Layla sighed. “You are also a good cook, so at least I always eat something before I leave your house. And you always have a stupid story about one new person that you’re supposedly in love with. Though, you haven’t told me one in a while. Please don’t tell me that you’re going to die, and Ahmed is the last person you ever loved?”

“It’s Amil,” after some contemplation she added “and no, he’s not.”

“You know a lot of random things. Like about physics and food.” Layla continued as if there had been no interruption. “So at least I’m smarter for having spent time with you. And-” Layla’s voice hitched, “you remind me of dad. There’s this new girl in my office and we were talking about weddings, and I was telling her about dad and not having anyone to walk me down the aisle. She said ‘sorry’ but she said it in a very… I don’t know. She didn’t pause before she said sorry, because losing your dad at 9 is the sort of thing you’re supposed to be over when you’re 37. A lot of people think like that. A lot of people move on. I think I became like that a little bit. But dad wasn’t like that at all, he could sit in his feelings forever. You are not like that either. And I’m sorry if anyone has ever mocked you for it. A lot of people promise forever, but you and dad are the only ones I’ve ever seen that actually understand what it means. If this is my last visit, then… then thank you. Thank you for loving him until the day you died. It’s kind and it's brave, even though it doesn’t change anything. I don’t know if I have that same level of strength, but if I can find it then I promise to love you the same way- until the day that I die.”

They sat in silence as the cake baked in the oven. Occasionally Wazila would reach for Layla’s leg and Layla would interlink their hands. She would only pull away to wipe the tears that kept streaming down her face. When the oven timer went off, neither of them moved. 

“That’s my cue to be going.”

“Have a slice with me at least.”

“The last supper? Wazila, we’re Muslims.”

They smiled at each other, and it seemed to glue them in place. For several moments, they sat there, smiling and unmoving with intertwined hands. 

When she couldn't avoid movement any longer, Wazila took her time pulling the cake out of the oven, grabbing plates, and balancing two thick slices on top of them. She took even more time to walk back to where Layla sat. 

“It’s a bit burned, I'm sorry.” She said as she settled down. 

“I knew I should just have eaten the cupcakes.” Layla sighed. 

“But I tried my very best, if that matters.”

“Did you?”

Wazila shrugged. 

“Or maybe I didn’t.” She cleared her throat, suddenly feeling like she might cry. “It was no fault of the… ingredients. The ingredients were perfect.”

“Were they?” Layla asked noncommittally, raising the plate to her nose. 

“Yes, they were. They were confusing to navigate at first. I didn’t think that even with all the right instructions I could ever make anything beautiful on purpose. But you,” she shook her head “the ingredients are too good for anything I could ever give the world. They are too pure. They have something in them that makes them good. And kind. And forgiving.” Wazila let the tears flow freely. “Thank you for forgiving me. Because I really am sorry.”

When Layla didn’t respond, Wazila stood up to start clearing up the wrappers Layla had left laying around. She was kneeling to pick up a wrapper when she heard Layla cry out loudly. She turned around and dropped everything she held. She watched, frozen in place, as her sister pulled a small shard of glass out of her gums. It was covered in blood and her sister’s mouth too was quickly filling with it. Wazila began making her way to the kitchen in search of water and salt, but Layla grabbed her hand and pulled her onto her lap. They held each other for several minutes before Wazila untangled herself slowly. 

“Is it still paining you?” She asked her sister. 

“Yes, but I’ll be alright.”

“I told you to let me make a new cake batter.”

“It’s okay, the glass gave it flavour.”

Wazila giggled softly and her sister laughed along with her. 

“Other than that, though, how did it taste?”

Layla pulled Wazila even further into her arms and buried her face into the crook of her sister’s neck. She ran her palms down Wazila’s arm slowly.

“It was delicious.”