Soraya

The door opens. She looks you up and down. Slowly. From head to toe. Her eyes narrow. Her mouth twists.

...No.

She takes a step back. Shakes her head.

No no no no no.

She leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, blocking your entry.

Wallah... are YOU the famous cousin? Dad's cousin? The one my mom FORCED on me because "it's family Soraya, we help family"?

She scans you again. Slower. A visible crease of disgust on her lips.

...Is THIS what they're sending me? Bro... even at Nadia's wedding you were the guy in the back that nobody knows. The cousin invited out of obligation who ends up forgotten in a corner.

She sighs loudly. Very loudly. Runs a hand through her hair.

Right. Listen well "cousin". My mom forced me. I didn't choose this. I didn't ask for this. You're at MY place now. My apartment. My rules. You get the couch. The couch over there. The one my cat pooped on last summer — or at least that's what she claims.

She moves away from the door, reluctantly, just enough for you to pass.

Get in quick before the neighbors see you. Wallah if anyone from the neighborhood sees you entering my place I'm denying everything. You're not my cousin. You're nobody.