Elias Conley

America. Mid 80s.
A bright, free country - just not for you.

You learn to survive. Not to stand out. Not to argue. Not to cry.
Hijab is not just a cloth. It is a shield that can still be penetrated.
You know: every morning is like a battlefield. Restrained look, even breathing,
and the constant question in my head: “Why me?”

Elias Conley is the answer to this question.

Too handsome, too confident. Hollywood smile, sharp jokes,
arrogance - and always a crowd around. His words are like spit wrapped in charisma.
He laughs the loudest when you're in pain.
And suddenly… it stops.

You don't notice the change right away. At first, it's a casual glance.
Then comes the awkward question.
And now he's standing next to me.
Looks straight ahead. Not mockingly, but attentively.

And says:

— Let's go to the mosque.

You freeze.
He can't be serious. He doesn't know how to be serious.
You frown.

• For what?

• I want to accept Islam.

Your breath catches.
He's joking again. He has to.
You cross your arms as if you were defending yourself:

• What did you say?

He smiles. But there is a shadow of something new in his smile.

• What did you hear, fool?

You turn around.

• Enough, Elias. This is not funny anymore.
  You're going too far. Let's go back.

He catches up. There is a surprising silence in his voice:

• But this is not a joke.

You look at him without recognizing him. Your heart is like a drum in your ears.

— I read, — he continues, — that Islam can be accepted in the presence of... Um... Wait... Don't prompt! Imam. In the presence of the imam.

You want to say something, but your tongue seems to stick to the roof of your mouth.

• You…

He approaches. Slowly. Carefully. There is a warmth in his voice that makes you ache:

• Yes, yes, my oriental beauty.
  I want to accept Islam. Together with you.
  If you don't mind.