Page 76 of The Story Of Us

“Whatever punishment they give me is worth it as long as I can see you.”

I knock my head against him as I roll my eyes even though he can’t see. He replies with a quick kiss to the top of my head.

“What if they kick you out of school?”

“I’ll just move to London earlier and find the perfect apartment for us.”

I lift my head from where it’s resting on his shoulder and look up at him, his green eyes focused on mine. He’s completely serious about it. We haven’t spoken about the plans we made before, but that one sentence alone is enough for me to know that he still wants them as much as I do.

“You mean it?”

“Of course I do.” He doesn’t even hesitate.

I reach my free hand up to push his glasses back before running my fingers through his hair. He told me that he’s been growing it out so he can get it cut during winter break, but I know it’s just because he loves when I brush my nails across his scalp. His eyes close as he relaxes into the feel of it, and when I reach the back of his head, I pull him down to me until our lips meet. Isaac holds me tighter, his hand gripping onto my shoulder like he never wants to let me go, and I don’t want him to.

“I’m going to miss you,” I tell him when we finally separate a few moments later.

“I miss you already,” he says, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “I’ll call you every night.”

“Every night?”

“Every morning.” A kiss to my forehead.

“Every afternoon.” Another to my cheek.

“Every night.” A final one on my mouth.

It shouldn’t be this nerve-racking to face my mum, but weeks of a lack of real conversations that only touch the surface level have meant that we both have a lot we need to talk about. This is the last chance I have to tell her about my plans and ask for her support because in a few weeks, I’ll be submitting my final university choices, and not a single one is close to home.

She’s in the kitchen when I get home, humming along to some old Bollywood songs as the smell of my favourite food fills the air.

“Mum, I’m home,” I call out to her as I take off my shoes and swap them for slippers so I can enter the house properly.

“Dinner will be ready in ten,” she says as I start walking up the stairs to my room to leave my bags.

It always feels like I’m time travelling when I come home. My room hasn’t changed in years because I spend most of my time at school, so I decided to focus on making that room cosy instead.

There’s a small desk in the corner of the room, stacks of books piled on top of it because I’ve run out of space on the shelves that line the walls. Posters of disbanded boybands line the other walls, and I should probably take them down, but I don’t know what I’d replace them with, so they stay.

I unpack my bag, take out the few books I’ve brought back with me, and put them on my bedside table before putting my clothes in my wardrobe. It’s half empty because most of my clothes are at school, and as I hang them up, I start to wonder if this is what my life will always be like. Half empty wardrobes and messy rooms in two places instead of one, a life divided by two versions of myself, one constantly stuck in the past and one in the ever-changing present.

My bed sheets have been changed since the last time I stayed here a few weeks ago, and I wonder if this is what’s making Mum so hesitant to support me. I can’t imagine what it’s like for her to come in here when I’m gone just to see traces of me instead of the real thing. I don’t think I realised how lonely she must be.

I go downstairs after I’ve emptied my bags and find her in the kitchen plating up dinner, chicken and spinach curry with parathas which are always a special treat whenever I come home.

“Go sit down, meri jaan. I’ll bring it to you.”

I almost tell her that I can do it myself, but then I think about how she must enjoy this part of having me at home, too. The fact that she can make my favourite dinner and serve it to me seems like such a simple thing, but I’ve been depriving her of it by not visiting home as much as I should.

I sit on the sofa and wait for her to come in, a chaba in each hand as she approaches me and passes me one. There’s nothing wrong with the food at school, but my mum’s cooking is far superior, and I hadn’t realised how much I’d missed it. She pats my knee when she sits down, and I smile while thanking her.

We don’t speak while we eat. Only the sound of the TV playing a Christmas movie fills the room. When I’m finished eating and feel like I could lie down and take a nap for five hours, I decide to bite the bullet and get the conversation over and done with. It’s been simmering beneath the surface the whole time I’ve been home, even before that. There’s no point in dragging it out any longer.

“I’m submitting my university choices when I get back to school.”

“Are you still set on moving away?” She asks with no emotion in her voice.

“I am.”

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