Page 50 of Writing Mr. Right

His responding smirk sends a thrill through my stomach, and this time I let the feeling settle over my body as we step out of the elevator.

We leave the building, and a crisp wind rushes through the bare trees. Snow drifts from the sky, and tiny flecks of white settle in our hair. A thin layer covers the ground already, with no signs it’s going to stop anytime soon. My nose turns red, and the tips of my ears go numb. If this was last year, I’d curse the fact it was dark at five o’clock, and I’d shake my fist at the swirling frost as it descended from the sky and created dirty gray slush on the ground. I would have sprinted from the office to the subway, wrapped up in scarves and a hat, desperate to get out of the cold. I’d nestle into my warm bed, alone in my dark room, as the seasonal depression sunk me into a hole.

But this year, I stare up at Aashiq, who somehow shines even stronger in the glow of the red and white lights strung in the trees behind him. Warmth spreads in my cheeks. “Let’s go.”

Aashiq nods, and we start walking down the street, no real destination in mind. It’s kind of nice to walk with nowhere to go. New York City boasts the busy life; everyone power walks everywhere, people rush to catch the last train, and God forbid you move slowly in front of someone. You’ll end up feeling like you killed somebody because you had the audacity to put one foot in front of the other in a leisurely way.

I’ve been guilty of the need to rush. Living every day in a speed-run like I was a video game character who wanted to skip through the cut scenes so I could get back to the action. Before Aashiq came into my life, I was just waiting for the exciting part of my life to start, not realizing I’d have to be theone to start it. But I was always too afraid to do that, at least on my own.

I glance over at Aashiq, whose mesmerized gaze remains trained on the area around us. The snow falls harder now, blurring the world in white. It steadily builds on the branches of the trees above us, as well as on the cars parked along the streets. The farther we get away from the tall buildings and busy shops, the closer we get to the townhouses. Yellow bulbed lights weave through the handrails of the houses, especially bright against the snow. Some lights loop through the branches of the trees, twinkling like fireflies.

Aashiq can’t take his eyes off them. “I can’t believe such wonderful things exist.”

I tilt my head, my gaze sweeping along the snow-filled streets. “It’s not that amazing,” I say. “It happens every year. Most people even dread its arrival, and they’ll leave for warmer climates to wait it out.”

His eyes widen. “Why? It’s such a privilege to be in an environment that constantly changes.” He holds his hand up, catching snowflakes on his palm. They immediately disappear, but that doesn’t stop him from smiling.

I wrinkle my nose. “I thought you didn’t like the cold.”

“I’m not fond of it,” he acknowledges. “But I find I enjoy the snow. Not only for its beauty, but because it provides a change of scenery. Where I’m from, everything looks the same all the time—the wordlooksisn’t even the right one to use, perhaps—so being able to watch the snow has been miraculous.”

Huh. That’s an interesting thought. For me, experiencing the rotation of the four seasons is natural; it occurs every year, without fail. But for someone like Aashiq, who has only been “alive” for a little over a month, it must be pretty special. I stick my hands into my pockets, curling my fingers together to retain warmth. “You don’t talk about it a lot,” I say gently. “I mean, what it’s like where you come from.”

He tenses, though it passes after a moment. “That’s because it’s inside your brain,” he says, and a teasing glint flickers in his eyes. “It’s kind of weird to talk about.”

“True,” I allow. “But where you live says a lot about who you are.” I gesture to my body. “For example, I’m a New Yorker, which means I’m not afraid to slug someone for pushing me in their rush to get on the subway.”

Aashiq snorts. “Like you’d ever do that. You’re too nice.”

I mock gasp. “I may be nice, but I know how to stick up for myself when I need to.” I waggle a finger at him. “And don’t think I don’t notice you changing the subject. Tell me what it’s like where you’re from.”

Aashiq bites his lip, then says, “Fine, but only because you asked.” He’s silent for a long moment before he finally starts. “It’s not like I have a body in your mind.” His eyes shift down to his hands, which are now bright red in response to the cold. “It’s more like I exist intangibly. I can go long periods of time lying dormant, though I’m never not working in some capacity. You’re so inspired by the world around you, you’re always picking up tidbits of information, and I hold on to them for you until you need them. When you’re writing, I see a lot of action. I keep you stocked with motivation and help you with ideas when you’re brainstorming by yourself.” He stuffs his hands into his pockets. “So, I suppose you’re not actually brainstorming by yourself.”

I chew my tongue. “You said once that you’re alone in my head,” I say. “Do you ever feel it? Lonely, I mean?”

He sucks his cheeks in. “I…guess so, yeah,” he allows, his voice dropping. He avoids my gaze as he continues. “You try really hard to keep your writing and your work and social life separate. As a result, I don’t have many opportunities to interact with other areas of your life.”

My guilt must be plastered all over my face because Aashiq’s eyes widen and he quickly adds, “But just because I don’t getto interact with anyone else doesn’t mean I can’t observe!” He gives me an encouraging nod. “I enjoy watching you when you’re in your element. And it’s been nice to see how different you’ve become since I came into existence. You’re having fun for once.”

I temporarily ignore what Aashiq’s said in favor of watching the snow stick to his eyelashes, and the urge to stand on my tiptoes and touch my thumbs to the snowflakes overwhelms me. Then, it hits me. “What do you mean, I’m having fun ‘for once’? I know how to have fun.”

He scoffs. “Sure. Before I showed up, you barely left your apartment except for work.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “I know how to have fun!” I plant my hands on my hips. “And I’ll prove it to you.”

“How are you going to—” But I’ve already run off ahead, so I don’t hear the last bit of his sentence.

During our walk, we reach the same park where we played “set the scene” for the first time. I head straight for the fountain, where a thin layer of snow covers the concrete bench around the outside. The water continues to flow from the spouts, trickling into the birdbath and then slipping into the bottom pool. It’s definitely not as blue as it is in the daylight, though; the darkness of night adds a shimmery layer to the cloudy water. It kind of reminds me of Aashiq’s eyes with the way it glows. I put one foot up on the wide rim of the fountain, and once I’m sure I won’t slip, I climb up onto it.

I spin around just in time for Aashiq to stagger to a stop behind me. He huffs a couple of times to catch his breath. “What are you doing?”

I spread my arms out. “I’m having fun.” I snap my fingers and traipse along the edge of the fountain. I decide to start singing, and the first song that comes to mind is theFriendstheme song.

“Don’t you think that’s a little cliché?” Aashiq asks as he follows me. He splays his hands out, as if prepared to catch me.

“Hey, when in New York.”

“We’re in Brooklyn, not Manhattan.”

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