Page 22 of Writing Mr. Right

“Andyoushouldn’t confuse the absolute dread that accompanies the thought of academic failure with enjoying homework,” I counter, though humor lines my tone. “Besides, writing good stuff about yourself is weird. It makes you conceited.”

“It only makes you conceited if you’re already egotistical,” Aashiq points out. He straightens his back, letting go of my sheets. “I’m not sure I’ve seen a single shred of self-confidence from you.”

I gape at him, even though a nagging voice at the back of my head knows he’s right. “Rude.”

Aashiq simply holds his hand out to me. “Come on. Time’s ticking.”

I stare at his outstretched hand, then let out another growl as I cover his palm with my own.

* * *

I’ve come to resent early mornings. There’s something evil about the expectation to wake up after not enough hours of sleep and trudge through the streets while there’s still a layer of darkness over the sky. Everyone I pass has the same dead look on their faces: hollowed-out eyes, drooped lids, and a new pimple on their forehead that wasn’t there the day before.

I don’t own any workout clothes, save for a thin athleisure tank top and yoga pants I bought once after convincing myself I’d go to the gym regularly during a particularly hopeful querying week—a plan I promptly abandoned when I was hit with five rejections in a row. It isn’t exactly the best attire for this time of the year, though, so Aashiq conjures up a T-shirt, a thick gray fleece, and warm sweatpants along with a pair of white sneakers. It’s only after I’m dressed and examining the whole outfit in the mirror that I realize it matches his, rightdown to the aglets. I tie my hair into two tiny pigtails at the base of my head, then slip on a red beanie.

He stood outside my room while I was changing, and when I open the door to join him, he offers his usual sunny grin. “Aww, there she is! Are you ready to go?”

I stare back at him, and the haunted lifeless scowl on my face could rival Wednesday Addams. “I’mthisclose to kicking you in the kneecaps.”

He frowns. “But then we couldn’t go for a run.”

“Exactly,” I deadpan. I rub at my forehead, and even though every single cell in my body calls for my bed, I walk forward. “Let’s go.”

Aashiq waits until I’ve locked the front door behind us and bounded down the front steps before he asks, “Why don’t you have a better attitude in the morning?”

I freeze, my body tensing. I slowly turn on my heel. Now that I’m looking at him again, I see that he’s wearing a red beanie that matches mine. I’ll admit it’s sweet, but it’s not enough to get rid of the irritation in my body. “Excuse me?”

He must sense my shift, because his eyes widen as he quickly adds, “I just mean mornings are beautiful. It’s the start of a new day; isn’t that something to celebrate?”

“Then you’d be celebrating something every single day,” I point out. “The celebration would lose the magic.”

“I don’t think so,” he says. “If anything, it adds magic to your life, and isn’t that something everyone needs?”

I stare at him, and his words are so innocent, so earnest, I can’t find it in me to burst his spirits. “We should stretch so we can start. We don’t have a lot of time to waste.”

We do a couple of warmups, then get going. In my head, when I pictured myself going for a run, it would be a light jog. But as soon as we start, Aashiq flies down the street. Instinctively, I pick up my pace to match his long strides, and soon a sharp ache spreads through my thighs. I can’t even ask himto slow down because of how far ahead he is. My breathing struggles, and the burning in my thighs quickly spreads up to my lungs.

When I finally catch up to Aashiq stopped at an intersection, he appears completely unaffected by the vigorous exercise. Sweat coats my neck and my armpits, and iron lingers in my mouth like I’m going to hack up my lungs right here in front of me. I practically collapse against the large pole that holds the beg button, grasping tightly to it while my breathing regulates itself.

Aashiq tilts his head in confusion. “Are you okay?”

I glare up at him. “What does it look like?” I gasp. I lift the top of the beanie and swipe at my wet forehead. “Why are you running so fast? We’re not being chased by zombies!”

“I’m running fast?” he says, a puzzled expression creasing his face. “Huh. I guess because I’ve never run before, I don’t know what’s fast and what’s not.”

A sharp pain pinches my side, and my hand goes to soothe it. “Well, for those like us whodon’trun like Usain Bolt, you were going fast.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

I take in the genuine remorse in his eyes, and that same nagging guilt tugs in my gut. “It’s okay,” I assure him.

“We can slow down for a while,” he proposes. “So we can catch our breath.”

I appreciate that he frames it so like it’s a break for the both of us. The signal changes to prompt us to walk, and we cross the street at a normal walking pace.

In doing so, I finally take in my surroundings. I usually run on autopilot in the morning, my only concern making it to the subway and then to my office all in one piece. I never take the opportunity to inhale the air, made sweeter by the dewy drops of mist on the grass. The streetlights are still on, bathing us in swaths of muted gold when we pass under them. Behind us, the blues in the sky shift from streaks of indigo to lightergray, and ahead of us the gray morphs into burnt orange and, off in the distance, strips of pale yellow. In this atmosphere, even the cold breeze is nice, slipping through my jacket and cooling my flushed skin.

It’s just Aashiq and me out on the streets. We don’t even pass any other joggers or people taking their pets for a walk. The world is oddly quiet. I can’t tell if he’s made it that way, or if we’re truly up at such an ungodly hour that no one else would even think of being outside at this time. Though now that I’m out here, feeling the soft wind against my cheeks and breathing in the crisp air, I can’t see why I thought it was such a bad idea. Another breeze brushes the stray hairs away from my jaw, and I tilt my chin up, a shiver running down my body.

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