NEHA
“Is Saleehah not home?” I asked Tariq as he led us downstairs.
New pictures were added to our photo wall, and there was hardly any space left now. I smiled upon seeing the one of Tariq when he was a toddler.
He turned left. Left? To the left was the drawing room.
“She is not, sadly,” he sighed. “We got into a fight.”
I stopped, grabbing his arm. “Why? What happened?”
He turned halfway to give me a look. “Don’t ask. Saleehah is just. . .”
“. . .Saleehah,” I finished for him.
A loop sided grin. “The best way to describe her. Tell me, little sister, how do you know exactly what to say what I can’t think of?” He started walking again.
We were definitely going in the drawing room.
“Hey! Why are we—“
I gasped. “What—oh my—“
“Neha, meet Feroze. He loves to cry for no reason,
