Healing

32.

𝐻𝑒𝓇𝓈 ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥

Sitting in front of the mirror now, I was astonished at what my friends had done to me.

Razan had brought out her inner makeup artist and beat my face to perfection. We went for a natural look. No foundation, soap brows, tinted lip oil, just bringing out my natural features.

Ilaria had made me a custom dress, insisting because it was 'a very special occasion'. It had balloon sleeves, a modest neckline and the skirt flared out at my waist. The whole dress was silk with a see through floral mesh cover going over most of it.

To put the cherry on top, she had made matching gloves. I mean, what else would I need.

All in all I think it was safe to say that I was picture ready.

I slowly walk downstairs. I could now walk without crutches for a short period of time and I had finally gotten used to walking around in a caste.

"Shuna, you look beautiful," my mother holds my hands.

"I don't see why you should be dressing up this much. You look too pretty. It's not even your wedding day," my brother complains.

"Thank you," I tell him and ignore the rest of his comment.

My dad rushes me into his car.

"Good luck bestie," Razan says.

"Be yourself when you talk to him," Ilaria says. "And for Gods sake please don't spill anything on the dress."

"Of course I won't," I reassure her and thank both of them before my dad helps me into the car.

Omar had sent a car for us to ride in. Their was a driver and everything.

We drive away and I sit back to catch my breath. Everything had been such a blur. For the past few hours my best friends and I had done our best and I could say the outcome was worth it.

Quietly I await to the destination of our first meeting. I had been wondering all week where we would be going and let me tell you, it was well worth the wait.

"Oh my God," I basically scream as the driver rolls into the front of the tall white building. "He made reservations for us to go to Le Meurice Alain Ducasse!" I was usually really calm, even when I saw things that excited me, but now that calmness had simply been thrown out the window.

"Is it that good?" my dad asks.

"I've never been, but he's one of the best chefs in the world. He's earned 21 michelin stars." When I was 13, I had gone through the biggest obsession with chefs and the food world. I had watched food network and any show that featured Gordon Ramsay before I went to bed. Weird obsession, I know. But at least I know how to cook really well because of it.

Now, as the driver gets out of his seat to open my door, my inner child comes out. I don't remember having told Omar about this though. Regardless, he had literally picked the perfect place. I don't think I could have thought of something better if I wanted to.

Slowly, I get out of the car. My dad holds me in one hand as I walk into the building as elegantly as I possibly could. A man in a black suit, which it seemed like every worker was wearing, greets us and takes us into a room.

I marvel at the architecture. It was true baroque architecture. The walls had french murals and there were huge chandeliers hanging down from the ceiling. It looked even better in real life than I could have imagined.

"I'm glad you could make it," a voice says from behind me. I turn around and there he is, standing in a black tux. He looked perfect, I think.

"Assalamu alaikum," I greet him and he responds with a customary greeting as well. He then goes on to greet my father and they both shake hands before we are seated at our table.