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A silence had fallen that was somehow worse than the many prolonged silences they'd had in that little house. June said nothing. Aisha felt her eyes on her, her stare burning a hole through her head. The gaze had felt like something pleading, something hot and pained. Aisha stared at the fried fish and willed herself far away from here. She willed it so hard she imagined she couldn't feel the stare anymore. They sat silently at the table until the plates were empty; then June washed the dishes and went upstairs.

An hour later, they watched the shockingly pink suitcase trundle down their footpath, June's bright pink highlighted head bent low but steady, leading it away.

There was a wound in Aisha that opened up steadily with every visible step her sister took away from her. She had lost people, but those people hadn't wanted to go. June had chosen to leave. She had chosen to disappear from their lives without a trace, and she had chosen not to come back.

"I think I'd better go," said Walter. "Ma's expecting me."

"Bye, Walter," Esah said distractedly, flapping her fingers at him. "Be safe."

Esah loved Walter, in the way that most everyone who met Walter loved Walter: wholeheartedly and slightly surprised about it, like they hadn't realized they'd started when they had, but now they wouldn't want it any other way.

"Bye, Auntie," Walter said politely. He waved back and scritched Fleabag's chin, used the other sink to run the tap and wash his hands, and let Aisha walk him out the door.

* * *

Aisha knew exactly when and how she'd begun to love Walter. There was no suddenness about it, no tide coming in. One night Walter had called her out of the blue, and they'd talked till dawn. Talked about what they were reading in class, but also about his parents, her mak, his fondness for trashy reality television, her favorite Tolkien novel. She told him about the time she'd fallen heavily from the monkey bars in kindergarten and gone crying to her big sister. He told her about the time his mother had forgotten about him in the Sunday market and he'd sat there among the produce until she came back and gathered him up in her arms. She told him that she wanted to go out into the world and see every place she could and that she always felt incredibly guilty about that desire. He told her that he wanted to be a writer and a mathematician and a marine biologist, that the world seemed so full of things he could do but there always seemed so little time to do them.

She'd put down the phone and said to herself:

"Well, then."

And it wasn't even that she thought he was perfect. It had been two years. She knew he ate with his mouth open and was indecisive beyond words. She knew he was determined to wear his holey sneakers until they fell apart in the street one day and he sometimes took his parents for granted. She knew he could be spoiled and snappish and as stubborn as she was, and she loved all of this fiercely and on purpose. From that first call it had always been his voice, warm like her most-loved armchair, warm like new laundry, warm like the Sunday morning kitchen with her mother baking, humming, alive.

* * *

"Tomorrow?" asked Aisha.

"Tomorrow," Walter said, bending down to nuzzle softly at her cheek, the sensation light and slightly ticklish. It made Aisha want to lean into the touch and pull back at the same time, overwhelmed with the visceral surge of yearning. Lifting his head after a moment, Walter poked affectionately at her neck, her jaw, her stomach, faster and faster until she was giggling and swatting at him.

"You're a child," she informed him. "This is what children do."

"It's going to be okay," Walter said in reply, putting his arms around her. He did not treat her like she was fragile, because she wasn't. He squeezed until the worry, for a moment, leeched away in a trickle: slowly but so very thoroughly. It was Walter's way: certain he could do impossible things like make all her problems disappear if he set his mind to it. He wasn't wrong. Walter, Aisha was certain, would have been no match for the world, given time. He would have written and counted and deep-sea dived, and then he would have been hungry for more.

When he pulled away, Aisha could still feel the lingering sensation on her skin: the nudge of his nose, the brief brush of his lips.

"I love you," Walter said, careless with it. He flashed a sweet, easy smile at her. "After lunch. Three."

"All right," Aisha said. "Okay."