Lovebirds

twelve

Red Knights was trending on social media. Their fans reposting snippets of the livestream, the most popular being the new choreographed dance routine to their newest song. There was bubbling anticipation for an upcoming music video, many young women fantasizing about the older style of their videos as international heartthrobs. Even the meme community got a kick out of the stream.

However, publicity was a two sided coin. Sure, there was the gleaming positivity of Naira's reformation of the band, putting more emphasis on the heart of their songs rather than the look. She wanted to free the artistic expression that Red Knights inhibited long ago, yet not everyone saw the change as profound.

In fact, once people saw Naira's name listed as the Red Knights' manager, the hate, the rumors, and the insults spread like a wildfire, burning through pages upon pages of speculation, twisted tales morphing into a narrative about Naira. There was a leak photo of Rayan and Naira's video call before the event started, and his fangirls were going wild with anger.

What type of Muslim manages a boy band?

How shameless does she think she is? A manager isn't supposed to flirt with clients. Bring back the old manager!

Her ideas are fucking trash. No one wants to see this.

An absolute disgrace to American Muslims.

Naira sighed deeply, her fingers swiping from tweet after tweet, news article after news article, post after post. Although there were a series of posts dedicated to praising her new approach and position, the positivity was clouded by the storm that came with fame. The ink that spilled from the foreboding gloom only amplified the heavy heart that rested within, and a part of her wondered faraway from reality.

For once, she wasn't stressed about her ambitions.

Now, she wondered if all it was worth it, if she really was a disgrace to Muslims. The thought alone caused an acute pain to stab through her like needles prickling under her skin, body too enervated, too exhausted to fight back. The flame flickered within until she was left with a cold, slithering feeling, one that engulfed her before she could react.

"Naira, may I come in?" asked a soft, fatherly voice.

She quickly wiped her eyes for any tear marks, straightening. "Yeah, Dad."

Her father's figure appeared in her dimly lit room, his ocean-blue gaze softening at the sight of her, and he walked towards her, the bed sinking. Naira pulled her covers closer to her body as if they could protect her from the backlash she was facing online. Her phone buzzed again, most likely from Rayan, but she couldn't bear to hear a guilt-stricken apology.

It wasn't his fault.

It wasn't hers either. So, why does it feel so awful?

"Sometimes it helps to talk about it," her father probed.

She hated feeling this way, hated feeling like she did something wrong by choosing to advance in her career options. The way social media portrayed her was as a woman who forgot her roots when all Naira wanted to do was put emphasis on her background, to show the world that a Muslim woman was capable of more than just a marriage pawn.

"I know why you left this business behind, Dad," she said on a whisper, eyes meeting her father's cerulean ones, seeing her disheveled reflection in his eyes, watching as his lips pulled into a sad smile. She clutched her blanket in a tighter grip. "I don't know how I thought I'd be safe from backlash when even you weren't."

"But you aren't me."

She humorlessly laughed. "And it seems like my name is being shredded apart before I could even establish myself."