Every night, he returned to Kris’s arms. Kris was the one person in the world who didn’t demand something from him, didn’t judge him for the way he listened to the azan with his eyes closed. Who never asked him to choose, American or Arab, gay or Muslim, him or them. Kris let him exist, in all his mismatched parts, even if his existence felt like an ink blot stain or a bug splat against a windshield.
