Page 21 of Writing Mr. Right

“It gives you an opportunity to dig deep within yourself and figure out what really needs to be done in a day,” he offers. “Plus, haven’t you ever heard a reader say they’d be willing to read an author’s grocery lists?”

I huff but turn my attention to the notebook and the pen. I pick up both, cradling them in my hands like I’ve never held either one before. “I don’t have time to write, though,” I try. “Work takes up a lot of my day. I’m not sure where I’d find moments to do stuff like write in a journal.”

“You were doing it before I showed up, weren’t you?”

“Yeah, and I was miserable,” I say. “Staying up late into the night and then waking up super early to go to work was a terrible cycle. I hated it, but I did it because it was what I thought I had to do.”

Aashiq pauses, then nods once. “Okay, fine. We can figure that out, too.”

“How?”

“We just will.” He pauses, waiting for me to make another protestation. I can’t find any more in me, though, so as soon as he sees my shoulders sag with defeat, he claps his hands. “Let’s get started.”

10

Even though I would rather have pulled out all my fingernails, I spent the night at my desk, making a to-do list for work the next day. Aashiq stood behind me the whole time, and while I hated it, there was something…calming about writing with a pen in my hand again. I’m used to typing at super speed on my laptop, so it was a nice change of pace.

I went to bed shortly after, and I swear my head had just hit the pillow when my alarm blares on my phone. I jolt, my eyes flying open. I blink heavily a couple of times, then groggily push myself into a sitting position, turning my head to the right. There’s a tiny gap between my curtains, and usually I see a strip of the pink and golden sunrise when I wake, except it isn’t there today. I blink again, my eyesight adjusting, then use two fingers to pull the curtain back and peer out the glass. Sure enough, it’s still dark outside, the last dregs of night still clinging to the sky.

I drop the curtain and grab my phone instead. The alarm is still going off, but as I silence it, my eyes widen when the time on the screen registers:5:00 a.m.

“What the hell?” I grumble to myself, my voice creaky withsleep. I don’t remember setting my alarm for this early. Fajr isn’t even until six thirty, which is typically when I wake up—briefly—to pray before crawling back into my bed and savoring another twenty minutes before my alarm goes off properly at seven.

I reset my alarm for six thirty, then drop my phone onto my side table. I nestle back into my bed, hiking my blanket over my shoulders. I close my eyes, and just as I feel the pull of sleep, a sudden brightness imprints onto my eyelids. I flinch before instinctively opening my eyes again.

“Rise and shine!” Aashiq greets from his spot at my door, his fingers still on the light switch.

A groan exhales out of my nose, and I cover my eyes to protect them from the blinding light. I wait for him to take the hint to let me keep sleeping, but when I don’t hear him flip the switch back off, I grit my teeth and drop my hands onto my abdomen.

My drowsiness ebbs, and now that I’m more awake, I can take in Aashiq’s attire. He’s in a gray crewneck sweater, though the material appears to be more athleisure than a regular cotton. His sweatpants match his sweater, and completing his ensemble is a pair of white sneakers. I’m so used to seeing him dressed like a K-drama male lead it doesn’t hit me for a moment why he’s in these clothes, but when it does, I push myself up onto my elbows. My sheets slip down, settling on top of my stomach. Luckily, though, because I’ve accepted the fact Aashiq could show up at any time, I wore a thin long-sleeved shirt to bed instead of a tank top like I usually do. “That better be a Halloween costume, because if you’re about to suggest what I think you’re going to—”

“If what you think I’m going to suggest is a morning run, then you’re right!” He reaches behind him and pulls out a bottle filled with green sludge. He holds it out to me. “Now, have a quick gulp of this for some energy and let’s go!”

I eye the blend. “What is it?”

“Spinach, apple, banana, ginger, and lemon juice,” he answers. He jostles the bottle. “Oh, and kale. With ice for a crunch.”

I stare at the goo for a solid five seconds before I say, “No.” I flop back onto my mattress and yank the blanket over my head.

Footsteps echo along the floor, and then Aashiq pulls the sheets back down, his face shockingly close to mine. Only a small gap separates our noses, and I know if I tilt my chin up, it’ll brush against his. This close to him, I can once again see the scattering of green in his otherwise blue eyes—it’s like the ocean, but not the deep, murky, dreary gray we have here. It’s the clear, bright turquoise you’d find on the other side of the world, on beaches with pearly white sand. The kind of blue and green blend that promises adventure at its shores and unbelievable discoveries under its surface. The kind of water you’d gladly jump into without any concern. The kind you can’t wait to explore.

“I told you, you need to develop better habits.” Aashiq’s voice brings me out of my thoughts. “That includes incorporating exercise into your day.”

My heart stutters, and I wait for it to return to its normal rhythm. “I get plenty of exercise,” I say, and I pray I don’t have morning breath. “I walk all around New York City.”

“That’s not the same, and you know it,” he says. He shakes the sheet gripped in his hands. “Now, get up! You have more to do this morning before you go to work.”

I narrow my eyes. “More? What do you mean by ‘more’?”

“You have to come back and write down five positive affirmations,” he replies.

“Absolutely not,” I refuse. I cross my arms over my chest, and it inadvertently pushes Aashiq away from me and helps to clear the breathing space around my head. “I finished school years ago. I refuse to do more homework.”

“Don’t think of it as homework!” he urges. “Think of it as…running a pencil along a piece of paper…in the same room where you sleep at night.”

“Sounds an awful lot like homework to me.”

“Okay, fine, but you were always a good student. Homework should be fun!”

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