Page 64 of Writing Mr. Right

“Yup.” I lean against the shelf. “When I was growing up, my parents didn’t see the sense in paying for books when the library was free. My love for reading was fostered here amongthese stories.” I gesture to the books, and nostalgia washes over me. “There used to be a librarian who worked here—he was my favorite. He greeted me with a huge smile every single time he saw me, and he’d tease me by saying, ‘Hey, weren’t you just ’ere?’” I deepen my voice to imitate his thick Queens accent, which elicits a snort from Aashiq. “Over time he figured out my tastes based on what I checked out every week, and eventually he started recommending me books as I grew older. He introduced me to a lot of my favorite books, likeThe Hunger Gamesseries andTwilight.” I rest my temple against the wood. “He’s also the one who made me realize I could be a writer.”

“Oh, right.” Aashiq nods thoughtfully. “He told you about the writing contest.”

“Mm-hmm,” I hum. “He made me realize if I wanted to write, I could just start writing. There was nothing stopping me.”

“What happened to him?”

“Oh, nothing,” I say. “I moved away for college and started going to different libraries. He’s retired now, but it reminds me how a good librarian can change your life.” I lift a shoulder. “Who knows? I had a love for books, but if it weren’t for him nurturing that love and then introducing the path of writing to me, maybe I wouldn’t be where I am now.”

Aashiq smirks. “With the physical manifestation of your writing muse at your favorite library?”

I manage a smile, even as something heavy settles in my gut. “Yeah.”

Aashiq’s face droops, but he quickly recovers and returns his attention to the book in his hands, flipping through the pages.

I don’t want things to stay sad, so I add, “I guess this must be the place where you grew up, too.”

He lifts his head, quirking a brow. “What do you mean?”

“Well,” I begin, “this library is the place that fueled my imagination. I got to step into the shoes of characters and go onjourneys I never thought I would, and in doing so, it sparked my own inspiration. In reading the books here, and in discovering my ability to write my own stories, I fostered my creativity.” I nod at him. “Which is where you come in. Being my muse, this is the place where you developed until I was ready to turn to you and express myself.” I lift a shoulder. “In that way, we grew up together.”

Aashiq stares at me for a long moment, and eventually warmth fills his eyes. “Yeah. I guess we did.”

We continue to stare at each other, the air between us thickening. After a few seconds, though, Aashiq turns his head to his right. “Do you hear that?”

I follow his gaze, and after a moment, the boisterous chatter of small children drifts over. I peek around the shelf and see a cluster of kids sitting in the story time area, a large space with a soft rug on top of the carpet surrounded by tiny chairs and tables. A larger adult-sized chair sits at the front, alongside a board showing a blown-up cover of a children’s book. The title,The Butterfly and the Dragon, is bold in soft blue against a backdrop of white. A young woman with rich brown eyes and hair that hovers a couple of inches above her shoulders grins at the children. “It’s so great to meet all of you!” she says. “I’m Hanna Zafar, and I wrote this book.” She holds up a copy. “Do you all want to read it with me?”

I move to walk back over to Aashiq, but to my surprise when I turn my head, I spot him next to me. He focuses his attention on Hanna, and at first a spark of jealousy burns in my belly, but after a second, I realize he’s staring specifically at the book in her hands. The anger quickly fades, and I smirk instead. “Aashiq, do you want to stay for the reading?”

He snaps his gaze to me, blinking rapidly. “What? Why would I want to do that? I mean, it’s just a kids’ book.”

“Kids’ books shouldn’t be dismissed so easily,” I remind him.“They’re where the imaginations of all readers start. Besides, today is about you, remember? Whatever you want to do.”

Aashiq turns his gaze back to the reading, and after a second, he returns my smile. Wordlessly, I take his hand and lead him closer to the circle. We don’t get too close—we’re still two adults among children—but we sit together on the floor just on the edge, near another row of bookcases. Hanna flips the page and speaks in a loud dreamy voice as she reads the story.

Aashiq sits with his legs gathered to his chest, and he wraps his arms around them as he listens to Hanna. I don’t pay as much attention to Hanna; from her words to the gorgeous illustrations, the book looks amazing and appears to be steeped in Pakistani culture, but I can always find it on my own later. I won’t have many more opportunities to stare at Aashiq.

Eventually, I tune out Hanna completely, and my mind drifts. I can’t help but think about how far Aashiq and I have come since the day we met. I thought I was losing my grip on reality, then I wanted nothing to do with him, and now I’m not sure how I’m supposed to function without him. Where else could I find someone as devoted and imaginative as him? As caring and warm? Someone who knows when to push me to be better, and someone willing to learn and recognize when he’s wrong?

Aashiq said once that he doesn’t like not knowing things. That thought never used to bother me, but ever since I learned I’m going to lose him, I realize I don’t like not knowing what tomorrow is going to be like without him. Will I still wake up at 5 a.m. and exercise? Will I still make myself a hearty breakfast and a good lunch to take to work? Will I still maintain a healthy work/life balance? I want to say I will, that we didn’t make all these strides just for me to give up on them, but I don’t know. The only thing Idoknow is I won’t be the same person I was before Aashiq entered my life. I don’t want to be the overworked, burnt out, hopeless person he came to help. I want to continue bettering myself, in all areas of my life.

After Hanna finishes her reading, there’s a Q and A, and she patiently answers the questions of a bunch of six-year-olds. Aashiq makes no indication he wants to leave, so I stay seated and listen to the answers with him.

One kid raises her hand, and Hanna points to her. “Yes?” she says.

The kid flops her hand back into her lap. “Do you think stories always have happy endings?”

Hanna pauses, and I can see the cogs in her head turning as she tries to come up with an answer that’s hopeful but still realistic. “Maybe…not in the way we think. Everyone’s version of happy is different,” she begins diplomatically. She gives a whimsical grin. “But the best part of the happy ending is we don’t know what it’s going to be. It can surprise us.”

Almost as if we are magnets constantly searching for their connection, Aashiq and I look at each other at the same time. His eyes soften, and I want to lose myself in the sea of his irises. Our hands find each other, our fingers threading together. After another beat, we turn back to the front.

The event ends not long after, so we get up and go back to wandering the aisles. The whole time, I tell Aashiq stories about the hours I spent here. It’s highly possible he already knows all these stories, given he used to live in my brain, but he diligently nods his head at my words. He smiles when I tell him about the time I tried to convince the librarian to let me borrow four books even though the limit for children was two, and his eyes sparkle with laughter when I point to the tiny soft chair that I fought another kid for because I had designated itmyspot in the library. Thankfully, because of my close relationship to the librarian, I didn’t get banned, but from then on, I was encouraged to take my books home and read them from the comfort of my own couch.

I pause my stories as I grab another one of my favorite young adult books to show Aashiq. “Oh, sorry.” I lower the book inmy hands, then stick it back onto the shelf before facing him again. “This day is supposed to be about you, and I keep rambling on about me.”

Aashiq’s eyes widen, and he quickly shakes his head. “No, don’t apologize,” he insists. “I love hearing stories about you. Listening to your voice is one of my favorite things to do.”

The compliment curls my toes, and I bite my lower lip. “Who’s going to say that stuff to me when you’re…” My throat tightens. “When you’re…”

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