Page 62 of Writing Mr. Right

“Either way, you’re going to be sad at the end. You might as well be happy for as long as you can. There already isn’t enough happiness in the world, so you should take what you can get. And then when it’s all over, you can move forward knowing you did all you could.” She presses her temple to mine. “Sometimes people can’t stay, but that doesn’t mean you don’t enjoy the time you have together.”

I can’t stay forever, Ziya.

She’s right. Even if I don’t continue writing, I know in the time Aashiq stays, all he’s going to do is work to persuade me to pick it back up. I’d probably get so irritated with his persistence that I’d end up resenting him, and I don’t want to do that. I’d rather spend that time with him as happy as we can manage to be.

We stop in front of the steps to our apartment, and I hug Emily again. “I’m so glad you’re my best friend.”

She hugs me back. “I’m glad you’re mine, too.” She pulls back and claps my shoulder. “Now, please go get your happy ending.”

I nod firmly. I start to go up the stairs but pause when I realize Emily isn’t following. I frown. “Aren’t you coming in?”

“No,” she says. She squares her shoulders back. “You’ve inspired me. I’m going to go talk to Daniel, and I’m going to get myself engaged.”

My jaw slackens. “Really?”

She gestures in the direction we just came from. “You were crying on the streets for a guy you’ve been with for like, two months.” She drops her arm. “If I can’t fight for a guy I’ve been with for two years, then what am I even doing?”

I grin. “Go! Get your man and your dreams!”

Emily walks backward, pointing at me. “You should, too!” With that, she turns to focus on the path ahead of her.

Which is what I should do, too. I’m going to get my man, my dreams, and focus on the path ahead of me.

30

When I step through the front door, Aashiq isn’t there. He must think I’m still upset and made himself scarce to avoid bombarding me. My heart aches for his presence, though. After spending all your time with one person, being without them feels wrong.

I make my way back to the couch, where everything is left undisturbed. My barely drunk cup of chai and Aashiq’s nearly drained mug of hot chocolate sit on the table. The blanket I like to snuggle under when I write is in a tangled lump at the end of the couch. And my laptop lies on the coffee table, the screen still closed.

I sit on the couch and slowly open the laptop. The screen boots up, and after I type in the password, I open the book’s folder. I didn’t actually delete it before I left. My fingers scroll through the document almost absentmindedly as I absorb the words. This file is like a fever dream; I remember writing the words, but I also don’t. I try not to go back and read what I’ve already written in the outline unless I need to make a continuity check, because I might end up adding more to the book, which isn’t always a good thing when you’re trying to stick to a certain word count. Now, though, I take the time to readthrough the entire outline from beginning to end. I always write every single detail I can think of—dialogue, scene directions, characters’ thoughts. It’s basically a draft zero I can then use to create a first draft.

The book is quite good, and I don’t say that to pat my own back. The plot, the dialogue, and the emotions tie together in a deliciously thrilling manner, in the way that buzzes my fingertips and makes me want to kick my legs and giggle. In a way that makes me want to open a fresh document and start writing, even though the book doesn’t technically have an ending yet and I would never start writing a book without the outline finished.

I cover my face with my hands, hunching my back as I lower my head. My mind flashes back to all the moments when Aashiq inspired me. Through each writing activity, each brainstorming walk, and every discussion, I truly fell back in love with writing. I wasn’t doing it with any kind of end goal, and he never pressured me. Everything was easygoing, nothing had an explicit purpose, and I was writing formyself.

Aashiq supported everything I did. I wrote one paragraph? I got a standing ovation. I wrote a grocery list? He enthusiastically read off each item as we wandered the aisles in the supermarket, no matter how much I begged him to keep his voice down. And whenever I finished a section of the outline? He celebrated by making me the most delicious ice-cream sundae I’d ever had.

He helped me find the joy in writing again. It made me happy.

And that’s all I wanted, wasn’t it? Wasn’t it what I wished for when midnight struck on my birthday? To be happy?

Aashiq didn’t justdothings to make me happy. He helped me find the happiness that was already there. He encouraged me to interact with my colleagues. He supported me in making strides in my career. He broadened my creative horizons.And he helped me fall in love with writing just when it seemed like I was going to turn my back on something that had always been a huge part of my life.

I can’t rely on him to be happy forever. I have to work on finding and maintaining that happiness for myself. And writing is one of those things.

I can’t do it. I can’t quit.

A sudden weight sinks into the couch on my left. A hand reaches out and curls a strand of hair behind my ear. The touch is featherlight; not the usual solidity I’m used to from him, but at least I can still feel him.

“Ziya…” Aashiq starts, his voice barely a whisper.

“Don’t,” I sniffle. I take a deep breath, then drop my hands. “We’re not going to talk about how this ends. We’re not going to be sad, because we’ve got work to do.” I turn to him and manage a smile. “Will you stay? Until I finish the outline?”

“Of course,” he quickly says. “But with how close you are to the end, I won’t be as strong as I used to be.”

“It’s fine.” I place my hand on his knee, and though his body glitches at my touch, he’s still firm enough for me to rest my palm against his leg. “As long as you’re here.”

Aashiq glances down at my hand, then slides his own underneath it. He folds his fingers on top, and then brings our joined hands to his lips. The pressure is light, but it’s there. “Then I’ll stay.”

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