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."

"Is that what's hurting you or is it the comments about your iman (faith)?"

Naira froze, staring at her father with wide eyes.

"Come here," he whispered as he pulled her into his warm embrace, resting his chin on the top of head like he used to do when she was a child. His arms wrapped around her tightly, a safe cocoon that protected her from the world outside, his heartbeat a soothing rhythm to the chaotic turmoil she felt. "Your relationship with Allah has nothing to do with other people. It's between you and Allah. No one else is a part of it."

Tears began to leak from her eyes and onto his chest, a slow streak of pain following a path down her cheek as she inhaled a sharp breath. Her father continued to whisper calmly, his voice a gentle, swaying wind that caressed the nightmare away. In his arms, she felt safe.

Like nothing could ever hurt her as long as her father was near.

"People will say so many things about us, Naira. They will do everything in their power to tear you down, but don't let them shape who you are. You are not a disgraced Muslim. You are not shameless, and you are most certainly not a product of the media. Do you understand?"

She nodded, tears still falling. She didn't trust her voice.

Her father kissed her forehead, pulling back to brush her tears with the pad of his thumb, smiling down at her. "Don't cry," he murmured. "It's okay, I'm here."

Her lower lip trembled. "Why is it so hard, Dad?" she sniffled. "Why can't I do it right?"

"Life wasn't made to be easy, and this career is really rough," he said, a faraway look entering his eyes as if he were remembering the past. "I left the family business because I knew I wouldn't be satisfied. I grew up with people dictating my every decision, and I couldn't do it all over again."

"Should I leave too?"

His gaze snapped back to hers. "Do you want to?" he asked instead, voice cautious.

She shook her head.

"Then don't. The business wasn't for me, but that doesn't mean it's not for you. If you truly believe that you can make a difference, then go for it." He gripped her hand in his. "You have an ambition that I didn't, Naira, and In Shaa Allah (if God wills it), that ambition will take you far."

"And if it doesn't, Dad?" she questioned, voice shaking at the uncertainty that it carried. "What if I lose myself in the corruption or the media?"

"Hey," he said softly. "As long as you keep Allah in your heart and remember why you chose this career, then that will never happen. Remember your intention."

Naira didn't say anything as she leaned her head on her father's shoulder, feeling his arms engulf her again. Her cheeks were wet with a river of her fear, of the uncertainty of her untold future. Closing her eyes, she tried her best to focus on the slow breaths of her father as he stroked her hair lovingly, holding her tight.

The warmth from his touch, the soft velvet of his voice as he spoke to her in whispers, promising that a new dawn would approach, a new day for her to conquer, for her to chart a new path with her ambitions. She couldn't give up, no matter how much she wanted to cry her frustrations, she knew she had to keep trying.

As she sat in her father's embrace, a memory crawled from the webs and into the spotlight, the memory of when she was young, free of stress, safeguarded from the world beyond their home, and she remembered laughing with her father as they spoke about her dreams.

That dream was so close, yet so far. It was like a star in a galaxy of opportunities, a path marred by her tears and hardship, but Naira desperately sought to capture the star in the palm of her hands, to hold the impossible.

Her father was right. As long as she remembered Allah, she would be okay.

Because Allah's plan was greater than hers. And she would put her trust in Allah as she tried her best.

----

Man, I am having a really rough day. Feels like an emotional rollercoaster, so I guess we can all relate to Naira in some form.

Things may seem out of control, but it's only temporary. It's okay to cry, but don't forget that you have Allah.

Gotta love Nick for being an outstanding father. Ah, the nostalgia.

What do you think Rayan wanted to tell her?

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