Lastly, her father. His wavy hair was parted to the side. Words appeared over his photo:Gone, but never forgotten.
The audience clapped. Hena kept her expression blank, willing her face not to betray her.
The video ended. The lights flipped back on. The wedding planner informed them the buffet lines were open for dinner. As Hena made her way toward her mother to see if she could fix her a plate, the lights abruptly turned off again. Against the same wall, a white screen appeared, with black text in a vintage typewriter font:
There’s more.
Laughter bubbled from the crowd—good-natured. Curious. Courtney was a few paces away from her. She frowned at Irum.
“I didn’t do this part,” she said. “Did you add something?”
Irum didn’t respond.
Another click.
There are people who make us. But there are also the people who break us.
Another click.
The Truth About Hena Mirza.
Hena’s breath caught.
There she was. Smiling into the camera. She was wearing the red veiled gown from her wedding day. These were professional photos she’d taken that morning. The caption beneath it:
Once upon a time, there was a girl named Hena.
The next photo.
And a boy named Nasir.
There he was. His hair brushed back. In his mehndi clothes—light gray, a white vest. What was happening? Why was this projecting on the screen? Her shoes felt made of lead. Why couldn’t she take a single step toward the projector to unplug this nightmare from the wall?
She tore her gaze from the screen and looked at Lulu, who stood equally frozen—her attention riveted to the footage.
Photos of Nasir and Hena flashed by. There they were at a Princeton college basketball game. A selfie from the Mumford & Sons concert during her junior year. At a Dolphins playoff game when they’d moved back to South Florida. There was a photo of them on the shoreline when he asked her to marry him—the ocean waves in the backdrop frozen in time. Her arms draped around his shoulders.
She’d scrubbed these photos from the internet when shedeleted her social media accounts three years ago. But here were those very pictures. Blasted on this screen for the world to see.
She had to shut this off.
She rushed to the projector. Yanked the plug from the wall.
Nothing happened.
Her heart pounded. She looked around frantically. The images were coming from somewhere…
There.
The stream of light projecting from a high window on the back wall. She was racing toward it when a hand roughly gripped her arm.
Irum.
“Don’t,” she said.
“Irum, you don’t understand. This is—”
“Let it play.” She fixed a glare on Hena, as though daring her to say another word. Something cold lodged in the pit of Hena’s stomach.
