My name is Paulina Quinn Suarez and I'm a Muslim.

It's kind of obvious with the way my veil is tied down to my head with a pretty hair clip to keep it in place in order to cover my hair. Because this is what a proper Muslimah does. She covers her hair with a veil so that when a potential boyfriend sees her, he won't be able to stop himself from wondering the following questions:

Is she blonde?

Is her hair soft to the touch?

And my personal favorite; will I ever get to see those freaking locks of sunshine?

Ha—ha...no, brochacho, you most definitely won't.

Unless, maybe, the aforementioned Muslimah is feeling really daring and is also being pressured by her cheese head of a boyfriend to flaunt her hair. And then this sad excuse of a boyfriend will see that the Muscleman's hair is brown and not blonde, and he's apparently "always been into blondes, sorry."

Long story short? It'll lead to an inevitable break up that will mess up an innocent girl's view on romantic relationships and maybe make the Muslimah cry for weeks or maybe even months because of a broken heart.

By talking from an extremely neutral perspective, I can try to relate to a million girls who have gone through this.

...Okay, so maybe it isn't a completely neutral point of view.

...Whatever.

Halle Café is located right across the street from my home. Just a strip of road wide enough for cars to whizz by and two pavements are literally separating us. My neighbor is a well—known café and it belongs to the Hall family.

Kenneth Hall's family.

My ex's family.

I sigh as I look out the window. I can see everyone and everything going on in the bakery despite the slightly tinted windows; customers sitting down—some drinking coffee, others eating muffins and croissants. Mr. Hall laughing as he chats with a few customers his age. Mrs. Hall giving some little girl a cookie. Kenneth Hall smiling at a pretty customer our age as he hands her a Styrofoam cup full of caffeinated liquid...

If The Purge should actually happen, I'll spend my time literally looking for Kenneth to murder him.

And if he's already dead, then I'll just spend my time looking for the boner that killed him. So that I can thank him/her. Then kill him/her for getting to Kenneth Hall first.

It's not like I still like him. No, dumping me for not being blonde under my veil may have hurt at the time but it definitely doesn't anymore. I've moved on from douche bags and I'm not going to look back. Nope. No way. Nada. Totally over it.

My current problem is this: although I'd love to avoid Kenneth Hall till thy kingdom come, I can't. And I have three reasons why.

Reason number one; he's still my neighbor. He and his parents live in an apartment directly above the cafe. It's not easy avoiding a guy who regularly takes out the trash at the exact same time you decide to go for an early morning jog. It's especially not easy to avoid a guy when he decides to invite himself to join you on said jogs because he's too boneheaded to take a hint that his company isn't appreciated in the slightest. Sigh.

The second reason is this: his parents love me and they're very vocal about it too. They invite me for dinner almost every week, and they go out of their way to give me a free snack anytime I enter their cafe

which, I have to admit, I do a lot

with the sole intention of making me crawl back to Kenneth.

Yeah. No.

But how am I meant to stay away from free cinnamon rolls? They've ruined any other cafe in town for me, that's for sure. Also, I can proudly say I love his parents too; they're sweet people and they know how to make a delicious chocolate chip cookie, and if seeing Kenneth's stupid face is the sacrifice I have to make for my stomach, wallet and the relationship between me and his parents, then okay.

But back to the main reason why I can't avoid Kenneth Hall for a good portion of this summer:

Ramadan.

Ramadan is a time when Muslims around the world focus on prayers, fasting, giving stuff out for charitable reasons, and religious devotion. Well, according to Google.

My definition: where I try not to use vulgar words, stop drooling over Dylan O'Brien by neglecting Teen Wolf to read my Quran and also have to not eat food for about twelve hours or so.

Ugh.

Now, don't get me wrong. Ramadan isn't a bad month. It's actually quite the opposite. This Ramadan is going to be my second as a Muslim and hey, I'm still going along with it despite the fact that I come from a family of atheists.

Or just people that don't practice any religion but tend to shout "Oh my God!" and "Jesus!" anytime they stub their toes against the kitchen table.

...I keep diverting from explaining the current problem at hand. Ugh. Moving on.

Despite the fact that we're neighbors, I could go out of my way to not see him. I get enough money for my weekly allowance to forget Halle Café's free cookies and buy myself some so that pretty much solves the problem to tackle my insistent craving for sugar.

But I'm still in need of a solution because it's Ramadan and I come from a family that lives on takeout and popcorn. I have to find solace in the fact that my dear neighbors can cook homemade food and are even willing to let me come over as early as 3 AM in order to eat Shoo and as late as eight in the night for If tar.

I really love my neighbors. Their son, on the other hand; not so much.

"Paulina," a husky feminine drawls, breaking through my thoughts. I know who owns the voice—it's Vanessa, my step sister. I break my staring contest with the window to look at her with a slight smile on my face.

Vanessa and I have been stepsisters for approximately seven, amazing years. To people, we're twins from different mothers and sometimes, I actually believe it. One wouldn't even know; it's been said that we look alike—save for her much tanner skin tone, my very prominent cheekbones, and my skinnier figure as opposed to her curvier one.

Apart from this; people continue to say we really do look alike. And the fact that we're the same age doesn't really work in our favor.

It must be our eyes. Brown and all.

"Yeah?" I ask. She's dressed in her whole punk rocker chick way and her guitar is strapped around her shoulder.