Page 16 of Writing Mr. Right

It’s as I stare down at this book that a tiny inkling tugs at the back of my head. Maybe…maybe Aashiq is right. Can I truly give up on writing, even when it seems like every door is shut in my face? Can I give up on the eight-year-old girl who had no idea she could write about people who looked like her?

I turn back to the photo of me, and my fingers skim along my face. My mind swirls with so many complicated thoughts, so I set aside the photo and keep going through the others, but even as I do, I can’t stop thinking of the proud expression plastered on my young face as I posed with that paper book.

7

I leave my parents’ place around eight, and just as I start my walk to the subway station, raindrops fall from the sky. It’s light at first, a mist dotting my hair like fresh dewdrops on grass, but it quickly develops into harder sheets that slam my shoulders and seep through my coat.

I wrap my arms tight around myself, trying to protect my first book, which is tucked between my shirt and jacket. I asked Abbu if I could take it, and he handed it over, but not before taking pictures on his phone so he could “keep the memories.” My gaze continually drifts down to it, resting snuggly against my body. I don’t know why I wanted it; if I’ve given up on writing, I don’t need a reminder of how much I used to love it lying around.

But I guess it’s not only a reminder of how much I loved it; it’s a reminder of why I started in the first place. Sally Miller is the person I assumed had to star in every story. Her sandy-blond hair, porcelain skin, and baby blue eyes are all markers of a leading character who cries over her lost kite and tries her best to reunite with it. I never stopped to think a Ziya Khan, with her short silky amber hair with golden undertones, rich brownskin, and dark chocolate eyes could also be sad over her kite flying far away from her, drifting to places she’d never reach.

This book is a reminder of my optimism, my innocence. My belief that I could do anything I put my mind to. I just never realized how much pain would come along with that.

My eyes ache, and my cheeks warm in places where tears slide down, mixing with the cold raindrops. I can’t even wipe them away because I don’t want to loosen my grip on my book in case it slips through my jacket and falls into a puddle, so I keep my head down and let the tears flow as water continues to pelt me.

The rain suddenly stops, all at once. The echo of raindrops hits my ears, so it’s definitely still raining. I wrinkle my nose, then tilt my face up to see the underside of an umbrella. I check over my shoulder.

The expression on Aashiq’s face is unlike any I’ve seen on him before. I’ve come to see him as an extremely happy-go-lucky guy, whose grin, which seems to be a permanent part of him, can illuminate an entire studio with little effort on his part. But this time, it’s quiet; the left corner perks up ever so slightly, and his lips appear impossibly soft as he curls them inward. His clothes and head are both dry, even though he angles the umbrella to cover more of me than him. Despite my constant internal reiteration that he’s not real, I guess my subconscious must be convinced he is.

I sniffle. “What are you doing?”

He glances up at the umbrella. “The men in the shows you watch do this a lot, and you seem to love it,” he explains. He lifts a shoulder. “I thought it might make you smile.”

A laugh involuntarily snorts out of my nose. Aashiq’s eyes brighten. “And there it is,” he says softly, the sound like silk brushing against skin. His sunny expression falls a bit. “I’m sorry,” he starts. “For telling your coworkers you’re a writer. I didn’t realize how much it would upset you, which, you know, I probably should have been able to guess based on your facialexpression—you seemed pretty upset but I thought it was in my head, and then I guess I was thinking more about what I thought was best for you, which I can’t do because you know you better than I know you, and—”

“I accept your apology.” I cut him off before he drowns in his own words. “But I’m still upset.”

“But why?” he asks, confusion contorting his eyes. “The whole point of being a writer is to share it.”

“Sure, if you have something to share.”

“But youhavesomething to share,” he argues. “You have the manuscripts you’ve written.”

I scoff. “Those don’t count.”

“Why not?” Aashiq presses. He tilts his head to the side. “They’re books. They’re words you’ve written. They matter.”

I pause, trying to gather my thoughts. “The thing about being a writer is if you don’t have anything to show for it, you’re a failure,” I finally start. “Like, if you don’t have a splashy book deal or a literary agent, then your writing isn’t as valid. The blood, sweat, and tears mean nothing if there isn’t a physical book printed with a glossy cover and pristine pages to hold.” I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from bursting into tears again. “And every time anyone asks for updates, you have to say no and they give you a look that’s like ‘chin up, your time will come!’ They think they’re being helpful but it just feels demeaning, like you’re a child who needs to be placated.”

Aashiq is silent for a long while. Then he says, “That’s not true.”

I exhale an annoyed breath. “Yeah, well, what do you know,” I mumble. “You’re not real.”

As I turn around to take a step out from under his umbrella, he’s suddenly in front of me. “Thisis real,” he says, and before I can ask what he means, he grabs my hand. He squeezes it, then raises our joined hands so they hover between us. “This is real, too. You can feel my skin warm against yours, can’t you?” His fingers lace through mine, his thumb running along the lengthof my thumb. “Because I can feel you, and you’re as real to me as anything else.”

A burst of heat crackles in my torso, and for a second, terror grips my veins as I picture myself struck by lightning. After a moment, I realize it’s my heartbeat thundering against my chest, causing a storm to brew underneath my rib cage. Aashiq’s hand in mine burns a hole through my palm, and the heat then spreads from my arm to my shoulders and all the way to my face, searing my cheeks. He gazes into my eyes with pure sincerity, and the intensity cuts the connection between my brain and the rest of my body.

Finally, the connection jumps back to life, and I wrench my hand out of his. I remain under the umbrella this time, though. “Fine,” I relent. “I accept you’re real…somehow.”

“Great!” Aashiq grins, and somehow it dims the darkness around us. “Now you just need to accept I’m here to help you.”

“I never asked for your help,” I remind him. “I don’t need it, and I don’t want it. I told you, I put my pen down for good.”

“You picked up a pen at work today!”

“I meant mymetaphoricalpen!”

“You’re a writer, Ziya,” he stresses. “I’m here to remind you of that. To show you you’re not as ready to give it all up as you say you are.”

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