I sat near the window, my hands clenched into fists on the desk, sleeves pulled tightly over my wrists, as if hiding the truth of where I belonged.

We had just moved - mid-year, no less - from a quiet, dusty town just outside Tehran to the north, where the streets were wider, the air thinner, and the people shinier. The new school was a strange beast.

It sat like a borderland between two worlds: one side filled with old village homes shaded by walnut trees and kebab joints; the other, modern apartment buildings and girls in crisp uniforms with manicured nails and imported lip glosses. Their laughter came easily. Mine stayed trapped in my throat.

I had been placed in what the school called, without shame, the "lazy class." The girls were loud, their notebooks filled with doodles instead of equations, and their stares sharp enough to cut skin. Every day, I swallowed my tears on the half-hour walk downhill from school, watching the blurred city smear across my glasses like bruises.

Then one day, during our theology class, the teacher told a story.

She was kind, different from the rigid, scolding women I’d known before. There was a softness in her voice, a warmth that made me uncomfortable. As if kindness itself were a betrayal.

She told us about a former student - "a difficult girl," she said, smiling faintly. The girl refused to pray because she loved wearing nail polish. "She told me," the teacher said, "that it was too much work to remove it five times a day. So she just… stopped praying."

The class giggled. Some rolled their eyes.

But the teacher raised her hand gently. "And I told her," she continued, "you can pray with it on. It’s okay. What matters most is the connection. The intention. The prayer itself."

I stared at her, stunned. My ears rang with disbelief.

You can pray with it on?

What about the rules? What about wudu? What about purity? What about everything?

Wudu, the ritual washing before prayer, was more than a routine—it was a quiet preparation of the body for presence, a soft submission before the sacred.

First came the water cupped in the right hand, splashed gently across the face, rinsing away the dust of the day. Then the right arm, washed from fingertips to elbow with the left hand, followed by the left arm, now cleansed by the right. With the dampness still clinging to the fingers, a single stroke passed over the crown of the head. Then, the feet: the right foot wiped with the right hand, the left with the left, each touch grounding the body in ritual.

It carried rules - strict, unwavering - every surface had to be bare, every movement precise. Even a thin coat of nail polish could break the possible connection between you and God.

I remembered my old school, where a chipped nail polish or an untied scarf could earn you a warning. Where we washed our arms to the elbow, wiped our foreheads with cold fingers, and feared God like we feared our mothers' wrath.

There, we learned that to be a Mosalman meant obedience. No questions. No excuses. There were no shortcuts, no "it's okay." You followed the rules, or you didn’t belong.

So why did this girl get to skip the rules? Just because she was difficult?

It felt like betrayal. Like the world was suddenly uneven, tilted in favor of those who dared to bend it.

I didn’t know then what I understand now - that the teacher wasn’t breaking the rules to favor one girl. She was making room. She believed prayer was a door, not a lock. And if nail polish stood between a girl and God, then so be it—let the polish stay.

But back then, at seventeen, all I saw was injustice. I saw a girl excused from duty while the rest of us bore it like a burden. I saw freedom handed out, not earned.

And maybe, secretly, I envied her. Her defiance. Her shiny nails. Her belief that she mattered enough to bend the rules.

Outside, a boy held out a glass brimming with freshly peeled white walnuts, soaked in salty water, glowing like ivory in the sun. A taste of late spring in Tehran. And inside that room, I sat in a quiet flame between two worlds - one that taught me to obey, and another that dared me to question.

How much I wanted to be like that girl.

She shouldn’t be here. Not again.

The piercer - young, tattooed, effortless - finishes up with another customer. Some guy getting a piercing in a place Neve doesn’t want to think about. She watches the piercer’s hands, steady and sure, as they work.

"You look like you just killed someone," he says without looking up.

Neve snorts. "Not yet."

He smirks, tossing his gloves. "You ready?"

She hesitates. Then nods.

She tilts her head, exposing the side of her nose. This is going to be the fourth one on this side. The piercer preps his tools, but she’s already somewhere else.

An empty mall. Echoing footsteps. Then - crash. A sickening, heavy sound.

She turned. Saw the old man sprawled at the bottom of the escalator. Blood. His hand twitching. People running. Her date moving fast, dropping his bag, kneeling beside him.

And her?

Neve gripped her backpack and walked away. No - ran.

Her heart hammers now, just like it did then. The piercer clamps her skin, bringing her back. "Deep breath," he says.

She inhales. Holds it.

Exhales.

The needle slides through. A sharp sting - quick, clean, nothing unbearable. She’s used to this.

But this time, it feels different.

Does she want it to hurt? Just a little. A reminder that she’s here, that she didn’t disappear down that escalator with the old man.

The piercer fastens the jewelry. A tiny silver hoop, cool against her skin. "All done," he says.

Neve nods, swallowing.

Then her phone buzzes.

She knows before she looks.

Hey. Hope you’re okay. Want to meet up?

Her stomach twists.

Neve stares at the message. Her thumb hovers over the screen.

The piercer watches her through the mirror. “Ex?”

She shakes her head. “Date.”

“Already ghosting him?” He snaps off his gloves, tossing them in the bin.

Neve exhales, rubbing the new piercing. “He abandoned me first.”

The piercer raises a brow. “Oh?”

She hesitates. The words feel childish in her mouth, but they come anyway. “There was this - thing. An old guy fell. It was bad. And he just… ran to help.”

The piercer folds his arms, waiting.

Neve swallows. “I mean, he left me standing there. So I left too.”

A beat of silence.

Then, the piercer lets out a low whistle. “That’s fucked up, girl.”

She scowls. “Thanks.”

“No, I mean you. That’s fucked up.” He leans against the counter. “You’re mad at him for not making you his priority while an old man was bleeding out?”

Neve grips her phone. “I - I don’t know. Maybe.”

The piercer tilts his head, studying her. His voice is softer now. “Or maybe you ran because you saw someone else collapse, and it scared the shit out of you.”

Neve blinks. Her throat tightens.

She doesn’t answer.

She doesn’t have to.