Rania curled up on her sofa with a pen and ink, soaking up the comfortable silence and lamplight. Raven was probably asleep already in their room- she'd kissed him goodnight then slipped out to write a while. She tapped her pen on the arm of the sofa, pausing to watch her ring glitter in the low glow. Four tiny set diamonds in a ring that shone silver, and a plain band nestled next to it. Engaged, then married, in what likely seemed like haste to outsiders, spanning months instead of years. But the months had been spent writing to each other, honestly, fairly, and not in playing heart-games or spinning light banter. She trusted the man she had married, with all her heart. She wondered sometimes if he knew how much that meant to her, to be able to trust - to look over and see him, and know that he would still be there after months and years....

She stared absently at her hands. How many other friends had she hugged and said goodbye to? Raven had had his share, but he also knew that Rania came from an inheritance of wanderers. He knew, and perhaps was tired of her remembering, that many of her dearest friends were still just as footloose as she had been. She heard snippets from them, every now and then. "Searching for work," "looking for meaning," "on the road again." Sometimes the words made her think about her long-idle traveling bags. It had been months since she had left the country. She had ranged farther and farther afield, exploring and trying to take in this new home of hers. Maybe somehow she could find enough unfamiliar to keep her feeling alive. In the old days, what wasn't new was short-lived. One learned to see the new as a good thing, and the old as unreliable. These new days, what was new was almost a threat, and needed to be understood or at least faced well. The language was becoming more and more natural to her, and she noticed and chafed at mistakes in a way that she would never have scolded others for. But what did she ever scold others for?

After enough hard goodbyes and last smiles to last a lifetime, she vowed one day to Raven, "For the next year, I will only make friends with small children and fellow workers." He smiled, and hugged his Rania, knowing she didn't totally mean it. She smiled back, knowing deep down how uneasily much she did mean it. She had certainly done a better job with keeping herself bright, helpful, and in motion instead of moody and anxious over things. She shook her head. Over people. Things didn't make her so nervous. She'd realised with surprise, last week, that she actually had collected a few 'normal' friends. Some fellow workers, with whom nothing but work and weather was discussed, in a practical fashion. Another friend or two with whom to visit stores, and enjoy hot drinks while talking about language and God and being married. So far, none of these new friends had seen her in tears. She had seen none of them in tears either. Surely it was more practical like that?

She sighed. There was just no comparing life. Raven wrote once that he didn't want her to live in two worlds. She remembered getting tears in her eyes over that. She had been torn for a long time. And just now, as she was weaving a fabric of her new life together, some of the same pulls as before emerged. She didn't know what to do about them. If she was stronger- smarter - more loving, surely she could find a way to double-weave; surely she could bring together the former threads with the new ones, and make it an even stronger, more beautiful piece? She only didn't see that she was strong enough. Rania had failed before, and the fabric ripped sorely, for her and for others. She took the responsibility on herself these days. She'd tried to share it, or lay some on the other threads before, only to be told she was hiding away. She'd never been good at distinguishing fine lines, and took some of the rips to heart. Of course, that didn't mean no one else had. Multiple rips, all around. It was just that she was worried to start weaving again. What if she ripped the new threads? What if she tried to weave in the old ones and failed?

The pen rolled off her lap and hit the floor, startling her. When she bent down to pick it up, the blank pages on her lap fell too. She picked them up tiredly. She had tried, last week, sending out a few pages and attempting a slow mending. She'd stayed up late tonight, hoping to hear something, even if it was just a few words telling her she wasn't a hopeless fool for trying. Maybe she was. Maybe she was more of a fool - if she looked deeply enough- for thinking that if she tried hard enough, she wouldn't disappoint those who couldn't help but blame her for ripping the fabric in the first place. Her mother, or the other women in her circle, would likely have good advice for all this. "Leave it behind" or "give it time." She had tried to do both. The giving time had only made the ripped fabric twist back against her, reproaching her for being apparently caught up in a grand new life to drop a few moments to what she had claimed was important to her. The leaving behind.... She had just, only just, come to peace with how things were, before the post had arrived, before questions floated through the air again.

She had just come to peace with the past when it collided with the present again, and left her confused again. 'You give up, you give up too easilyyyyyyyy..." hissed the wind outside. They had said that too. She stood up abruptly. She also held on too easily. And when there was less reason, apparently, than for her to give up. If she was as cynical as the world demanded, she would say she had been played for a fool. If she was as optimistic as she had been not long ago, she would say there was still *hope*, that with time and words all would be healed and well.

She sighed and carefully-neatly- stacked the stationery on a shelf next to her books. She had not grown cynical, but she had not stayed hopeful either. She looked around at a room that was too cosy and welcoming to foster frustrations or harbour doubts against old friends. It was time for sleep. She always thought too much, late at night. She drew on her slippers and pushed away a double-edged thought - "You used to think too much with them too- no wonder they lost patience." She pulled her robe tight around her, against any more musings that could be disloyal, or true, or false. Or all three.

"Time to sleep," she said firmly, if quietly, aloud. There was more to life than endless questions. She was not giving up - she was learning to weave one cloth. And if the old friends were woven into the border instead of the pattern - if they only allowed themselves on the edges - so be it. It was good to have their colour in the weaving, whether in delicate or in bold.