Page 60 of Writing Mr. Right

“Oh, Ziya.” The pain is heavy in Aashiq’s tone, and that’s when I know this is all real, because even when Aashiq says something I won’t like, he does it with a happy tone. If he’s allowing his true emotion to show, it’s because he knows there’s no point in hiding it. His sock-clad feet appear under my gaze, and I watch as his hands reach toward me, but the fact that I can’t feel him means he’s glitching again. “Please don’t cry.”

That makes me cry even harder. “I’m not,” I hiccup. “I’m not crying.”

After a few more sniffles, I straighten my back. When I turn to Aashiq again, his hands are at his sides, balled into fists. Red circles his eyes, and for a moment, I think of the beaches of Prince Edward Island up in Canada. The russet sand leading to the shores of the green-blue water, which rushes to meet the sand. The merging is ceaseless. Natural. The embrace of land and sea. Except the sea doesn’t have arms, and the land doesn’t have a body. When they collide in the center, the sand disappears, lost to the ravaging waves.

But I don’t know who Aashiq and I are supposed to be in this metaphor. Am I the bodiless sand, or is he? Am I the endless sea, or is he? Maybe he’s both. But if he is, where does that leave me?

Alone at the shore, I guess. Watching the sea and the land struggle, but still wanting what they have. Because at least they have more than I do—a chance to meet in the middle.

I swallow thickly. “Did you know?”

He blinks. “What?”

My breath staggers. “Did you know this whole time you were going to fade away after I got back into writing?”

His face falls, and pain floods his eyes. That, along with his ensuing silence, is all the answer I need.

My lower lip wobbles. “But why?” I whisper. “Why wouldn’t you tell me?”

“Because my focus was on getting you back into writing,” Aashiq replies. “I told you from the beginning this was why I was here.”

“If I had known this was going to happen, I never would have gotten back into it!”

He juts a finger in my direction. “And that’sexactlywhy I couldn’t tell you,” he says. His hand falls back to his side. “This time I’ve spent with you has been so, so amazing, Ziya. I’ve tried things and seen things andfeltthings I never thought I could. But as much as I might have wanted, it was never my purpose to find out who I am other than your muse. My only goal is to help you, and that’s what I’m going to do, until the very end.”

Anger rushes to my cheeks. “Well, seems like we’re both going to be disappointed, then.” I turn my back on him and stomp over to the coffee table.

“What are you doing? Ziya!” he calls after me, but I ignore it as I pick up my laptop and flop onto the couch. He reaches me just as I flip the lid open and close the Word document. Aashiq’s head hovers over my shoulder as he peers at the screen. He watches while I select the folder I created when I started this new book endeavor. I highlight the folder and move it next to the recycle bin. Alarm flickers in Aashiq’s eyes as the realization dawns on him. He comes around the couch and sinks into the spot next to me. “Come on. Don’t do this, Ziya,” he urges.

I whip my head to stare at his face. “If I start writing this book,” I begin, “then you’re going to leave forever. If I never write again, then you don’t have to leave. Deleting the outline will help bring you back, right?” I select the file and move it toward the bin.

“Ziya, don’t!” His hands land on top of mine, and this timeour skin makes contact. The feeling is enough to make my own hands still.

A rush of excitement races through me at the prospect of him being able to touch me again, but it dampens when Aashiq turns his glare to me. “You can’t give up on your writing now,” he states. “Not after all the hard work we’ve put into getting you to love it again.”

A growl slips past my teeth. I shrug his embrace off me but place the laptop onto the couch next to me so I can stand and turn to face him. “I don’t care about writing!” I insist. “It means nothing if I can’t have you with me.”

He shoots to his feet, too. “The whole point of me coming out was to help you!”

“And you have!” I cry. An ache throbs at the front of my head from all the tears, but they still return at the heavy emotion in my voice. “You’ve helped me so much that I can’t fathom not having you around me anymore. Please…” My voice cracks on the word. Something in me shatters, and I fear it may never be fixed. “You can’t leave me. If I have anything to say about it, I won’t let you.”

Frustration emboldens the lines in his face. “And I won’t let you give up on something you love so much!”

My next words come out sharp and fast. “What if what I love isyou?!”

His frustration melts into agony. That’s when I know something in him has broken, too. I’ve never seen this expression on Aashiq’s face before. The fact I am now means this is really it—I’m going to lose him. “What we have, Ziya…” he begins, torment rippling his voice. “I know I’ve spent the entire time I’ve been here convincing you I’m real, but I’m not real in the way you are. It can’t last. I can’t stay forever.” He gestures to my laptop. “Your writing, though, is something that’ll be with you.” He places his hand on the spot right above his heart. “And I’ll always be with you in spirit. Isn’t that enough?”

My answer is simple. “No,” I tell him. “No, it’s not.”

I shut the lid to my laptop, and the click echoes in the space between us. “I’m never writing again,” I declare.

Then, I turn and bolt out of the apartment.

29

I know I didn’t have to leave the apartment, but I also knew if I left, Aashiq wouldn’t follow me. If I stayed, there was a possibility he’d keep trying to convince me not to give up on my writing.

Which I have. I’m never writing again. If it means he’ll stay around to continue to persuade me to get back to it, then I’ll never pick up a pen again.

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