Page 63 of Writing Mr. Right

My stomach sinks, but I nod firmly. “Alright, then. Let’s get to work.”

* * *

Over the next few days, Aashiq and I stay locked in my room so we can finish my outline. We do step away for a few hours to celebrate Emily and Daniel’s engagement (it turns out Daniel was waiting to propose because he’s still paying off student loans and didn’t want to enter a marriage with debts, so they’vemade a verbal agreement to do the whole event a couple of years from now), but other than that, life is all outline all the time.

Christmas arrives, though for a Muslim it’s a meaningless holiday. Aashiq and I do spend it at my parents’ house, because I’m off work, and my siblings with their spouses and children join us. It goes much better than the first time they all met Aashiq, and my heart swells watching him play with my nieces and nephews and conjure up stories to entertain them. I try not to think too much about how this is probably the last time I’ll get to see Aashiq interact with my family, and how there will probably be questions as to why he’s not around anymore after he leaves, because anyone who sees us can tell we care deeply about each other. Every now and then, Aashiq looks over at me and, very briefly, an ache fills his eyes. I know the pain is as deep for him as it is for me, because while I’ll still have my family and my friends and my coworkers, Aashiq has to go back to a lonely place in my head.

But we make good on our promise and don’t let what’s inevitably going to happen dampen the mood, even as we both notice Aashiq is slowly getting more and more transparent. His weight on the couch next to me is lighter with each day that passes, and I can’t rest my hand against his cheek while we lie next to each other in my bed without it passing through. Still, neither of us make any comment about it.

Finally, the day before New Year’s Eve, I reach the end of my outline. Aashiq and I are sitting on my bed. A blanket covers my shoulders while he peers at the screen, watching me type away. I’ve figured out the climax and the resolution; Junaid reveals that he can’t stay with Manahil, but they agree to finish the project they’re working on together before he fades from existence.

I’m just short of typingTHE ENDat the bottom of the document. As my finger approaches theTkey, I stop. I lean away from the laptop.

Aashiq frowns. “What? What’s wrong?”

I turn to him. “When I typeTHE END, are you going to disappear?”

His breath hitches. Uncertainty brews in his eyes, and I can tell he wants so desperately to lie to me, but he nods. “Yeah.”

“Okay.” I nod, then hit Save and close the laptop screen. “Then I’m going to do this tomorrow.”

Aashiq lets out a deep exhale. “Ziya, we agreed not to let what’s going to happen get in the way of us finishing your outline.”

“I know,” I allow. For the first time in a few days, genuine joy brightens my face. “But the reason I want to do this tomorrow is because I want to spend one day focusing on you.”

He raises his brows. “What?”

“Who knows if you’ll ever show up like this again,” I reason. “You’ve spent the entire time you’ve been here with your focus on me. You helped me see how much I love writing, and I can’t give up on it anymore. You’ve widened my world to include so many things and so many people.” I raise my hand and press it to his cheek, and surprisingly, he doesn’t glitch. “Let me give you one day for you.”

Aashiq bites his bottom lip. “Just one more day?” he clarifies.

I nod and pretend like the thought doesn’t split me open and eviscerate me. “Our last day. We’ll do whatever you want as long as it’s not writing-related. It’ll be just you and me.”

I think I’ll remember the way Aashiq gazes at me now forever. Sadness rims his eyes, but a bittersweet tenderness washes over his features. His mouth perks up in the corner, the first real sign of the return of his happy-go-lucky smile I’ve come to cherish. He raises his own hand and cradles my jaw. He leans forward and touches his forehead to mine. Keeping his gaze locked on me, he nods. “Okay. Whatever you want.”

“Actually, it’ll be whateveryouwant,” I correct, but we stay like that for a long while, knowing that when the moment ends, it’ll bring us closer to our goodbye.

31

It turns out Aashiq wants to spend his last day at the library. Thankfully, it’s still open on New Year’s Eve—it’ll close early, but he doesn’t mind. I take him to the Queens Public Library at the Flushing branch, which is the one I frequented most as a kid. He uses the very last bit of his power to appear whole and solid for the day; he was rationing it before so he could stay with me longer, but if this is going to be our last day, then he’s going to use it all.

When we approach the steps of the library, Aashiq’s breath catches. It’s so cute because I see it happen: the sharp intake of breath, the way his chest hitches, and the staggered noise that escapes his nose. His brows pinch together, and his eyes widen as he takes it all in.

He’s right to be astonished, though. The library was my favorite place growing up, and the Flushing branch is still among the best I’ve been to. The massive building looms over us, stretching high. Blue tints the windows, and the glass shows a reflection of the fluffy clouds, stunning splotches of white. Surprisingly, a bunch of people loiter on the stairs. I guess evenon a day like New Year’s Eve people want to come to the library. I can’t blame them.

I turn my gaze to Aashiq, admiring the way the sunlight peeking through the clouds presses against his warm brown skin. My stomach clenches just watching him, knowing my opportunities to see his awe are dwindling. But I don’t want to be sad on my last day with him, so I push the feeling away.

Aashiq shakes his head, wonder plastered all over his face. He turns to me, his eyes wide. “Have you ever seen something so magnificent?”

I giggle, then grab his arm and pull him toward the doors. “Come on, we don’t want to freeze out here.”

Aashiq’s overwhelmed expression only deepens when we enter the library and he sees the rows and rows of shelves. His jaw drops, and excitement lights up his features. “Ziya, there are so many books here!”

I can’t help it; a grin spreads on my cheeks. His excitement is infectious. “And that’s just the entrance,” I boast. “Come on, let me show you my favorite spot.”

He follows me all the way to the children’s section, though I have to redirect him a few times when he gets distracted by different things, like the computer area, the carts of books waiting to be returned to the shelves, and even the study space, where a couple of high school students are working on projects due after the holiday break.

When we finally reach the kids’ area, Aashiq’s expression brightens as he recognizes the children’s books. “Hey, kids’ books!” He stops in front of one of the shelves and plucks a random book. He turns the cover around, and it’s a copy ofThe Very Hungry Caterpillar. He lifts his chin. “The children’s section is your favorite spot?”

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