Page 23 of Writing Mr. Right

Aashiq stares down at me. He’s been silent for a long stretch of time, but I feel his gaze on my face. The tips of my ears turn pink, and gratitude at the fact we’re still mostly covered by the dark rushes through my body. “What is it?” I ask.

“Nothing, it’s just…” He gives me a once-over. “I haven’t seen you enjoy anything since I’ve been here.”

“What?” I quirk a brow. “I enjoy lots of things.”

“Not in the same way you’re enjoying this,” he points out. He places his hands behind his back. “Usually you’re too stressed to let yourself appreciate the things you like to do. When you’re at work, your mind is preoccupied with everything you need to do while you’re there. And when you’re on your way home, your brain works overtime thinking about what you could be doing at work or with your writing.”

“Isn’t that a good thing, though?” I ask. “When it comes to the writing part, I mean. The whole reason you’re here is to help me get back into writing. Isn’t me thinking about writing a good thing?”

Aashiq hums for a moment. “Not in the way you do it,” he finally says. “I get being creative means you’re often easily influenced by things you do or see, and I can see how it mightbe hard to shut that part of your mind off, but just like your body needs time to relax, so does your brain.”

I frown. “I…don’t get what you mean.”

Aashiq’s teeth sink into his lower lip, and I can see the cogs turning in his eyes as he thinks. “Okay, think of it this way,” he tries again. “Your ultimate goal is to be published, yes?”

“Of course.”

“And part of being published means being paid for your work,” he continues. “So, you’ve attached a monetary value to an activity that used to be something you loved doing in your spare time. Now your brain has made that connection, so the pressure to get published increases tenfold, because suddenly it’s not just something that feeds your heart; it could feed your belly. And that’s when the desire to succeed shifts into a desperate need to succeed. As the rejections pile in, that’s when you start to feel resentment and anger and sadness. All those negative emotions become intricately connected to this thing that used to be pure love, and then your brain becomes overwhelmed and you can’t enjoy anything anymore.” He holds his hands out. “Ergo, you need to retrain your brain to enjoy things.”

A bulge forms in the back of my throat. I don’t want to cry, so I force the emotion back. “Interesting perspective,” I acknowledge. “Writing used to be something I loved, but lately every time I open my laptop, I just feel annoyed.”

“And that’s normal,” he assures me. “Burnout is something a lot of people deal with. But it’s exactly why we have to go back to the basics and appreciate the simplicity of the world.” He turns his palms forward and gestures to the sunrise in front of us. “Like waking early in the morning and seeing the dawn of a new day.”

I turn so I can look at Aashiq. The burnt orange of the sky has given way to the gentle rays of the sun, and the daylight presses against his cheekbones like a playful kiss. It casts a shadow under his jaw, but like always, Aashiq’s smile can outshine any darkness.Even though my breaths come out in visible puffs, the brightness in his eyes warms me up from the inside out. The farther we walk toward the golden morning, the more I’m convinced Aashiq is the sun itself—radiant, captivating, and the center of the world.

“Ziya?” Aashiq waves his hand in front of my face.

I blink, then shake the thoughts from my head. “Huh?”

He taps the recently conjured watch on his wrist. “We should head back to your apartment. There’s still lots to do before you go to work.”

“Right.” I nod vigorously. “Let’s go.” I turn around and keep walking, but after a couple of steps, Aashiq pats my lower back. “What?”

“No more walking,” he decrees. “We’re going to run the rest of the way back.”

My jaw drops. “What happened to enjoying the sunrise?”

“We’ve enjoyed,” he affirms. “But now we’re getting down to business.” Without another word, he breaks into a sprint, and soon enough, he fades from view.

I let out a strangled gasp, hunching over and placing my hands on my knees. I drop my head between my legs.

I’m not going to live to see myself write this next book. Aashiq’s definitely going to kill me before I can get a single word onto paper.

11

As awful as the run was, it’s not nearly as bad as the thought of Aashiq making me sit at my desk and write the positive affirmations. It’s so weird, putting those thoughts to paper. Yes, I know that says a lot about my mental health and attitude toward myself, but just the idea of affirmations makes me scrunch my nose in distaste.

It’s why I purposefully take a long time in the shower and getting ready for the workday. I blow-dry my hair, then put on a tan turtleneck and sleek black pants. I hate to admit it, but I can feel a distinct difference after waking up super early and going for a run. I don’t feel as sluggish, nor does my head ache. In fact, I feel…fresh. Rejuvenated. Man, does that suck. Exercise actuallydoesimprove your well-being.

When I get out of the bathroom, I find Aashiq on the couch. It’s kind of a funny sight, because his legs are so long and our couch is so small that his knees basically touch his chest. He’s dressed in a crisp white shirt, a fitted tan blazer, and black dress pants, his preferred attire for the office. The only thing off is his tie—it’s slightly askew near his collar. Dimly, I realize the color matches my shirt.

“You know, you don’t have to dress so formally,” I say as I grab my coat from the closet and drape it over my arm. “You’re just shadowing me at the office. And you’re not even really doing that.”

“All the other lawyers dress like this,” he reasons.

“Yes, but you’re not a lawyer,” I remind him.

“Nuances,” he dismisses with a wave of his hand. “I never get to dress up because I’ve never had a bodytodress up. I want to express myself and try different things.”

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