Page 67 of Writing Mr. Right

I frown, leaning back. “What? We just got here. I thoughtyou wanted to see more of Times Square and wait for the ball to drop.”

“I did,” he acknowledges. “I figured if this is the end, we should at least go out with a splash, doing normal couple things and being here with everyone when the New Year rolls in. But now I don’t care about anyone or anything else. I just want to be home with you. That’s all that matters to me.”

I stare up at this man who came into my life like a hurricane, who is now going to leave it like the scattering of leaves clinging desperately to the trees. I don’t want to go home, because I know once we get back, that’ll really be it. Our day will be over, I’ll typeTHE ENDin the outline, and Aashiq will disappear. But as much as the idea terrifies me, I would also rather spend the last little bit of time just the two of us. I can be around other people anytime; I only have so many moments left with Aashiq. If I were to pick between Times Square right before the ball drops and my cozy warm apartment, I know which I’d pick every time.

I smirk. “Well, like I said, today’s all about what you want to do.”

Aashiq returns my smile. He shifts so he can loop his arm through mine, and then nods once. “Let’s go home, Ziya.”

33

When we return to the apartment, the somber air hangs over us like a thick rain cloud. But in the “let’s curl up by the fire” way, not the “I’m having a mental breakdown and need to wrap myself up like a burrito” way.

I’d have said this to Aashiq out loud, but after we both remained completely silent on the subway ride here, the mood is too serious to joke about. So, I just open the front door and let him go in first. He steps through, and I follow. “Hey, are you hungry at all?” I ask as I lock the door. I start to turn back around. “Because I am a little, so maybe we could—”

Aashiq’s hands grab my face, and his lips are on mine in seconds. My hands reach up to his, wrapping around his wrists. He tastes like chocolate and a hint of mint, and I don’t normally like the combination of flavors, but this is so addicting I might have to stock up on the stuff.

Aashiq moves forward as we continue to kiss, and my back hits the wall. It rattles the picture frames, but I don’t care if they fall to the ground and break, because Aashiq’s lips are moving to my jaw. They skim the edge of my face before moving to my cheeks and back to my mouth. My hands move from hiswrists to his face, running along the underside of his chin. I stretch my arms out and wrap them around his neck. He steps forward, and so I walk backward. I stop when the backs of my legs hits the couch, and I sit down on the arm. I break away and tilt my head back. When I stare into his eyes, I don’t see the usual blue-green. It’s still there, of course, but his pupils are so enlarged, only a thin circle of color remains.

Aashiq pauses for a moment, then cradles the back of my head as he leans down and carefully kisses my forehead. He lingers there, his Adam’s apple bobbing. The gesture is so simple yet so filled with emotion that the urge to burst into tears heats my whole face, but I force it back. Instead, I close my eyes, allowing the moment to envelop us. It’s just me and him, and it feels like it’s always been that way. From my earliest days of wandering the library, to the very first time I picked up a pen, to the endless nights outlining and drafting and revising, to now. He’s always been with me.

“I don’t want to leave,” he suddenly whispers, his words moving against my skin. My breath hitches, but I don’t move or speak. He takes it as a sign to continue. “I want to stay here, with you. And not just because I want to help you with your writing, though I find so much joy in that, too.” The pads of his thumbs trace circles along my hairline. “I want to wake up next to you every day and fall asleep to your snoring every night. I want to hold your hand while we walk to work. I want to watch as the golden streak of the sunrise lights up your face when we go for runs. I want to go to the movies, and to dinner, and the bookstore. I want to sit in the park next to you while trying to convince you not to feed the squirrels your leftovers in case they chase after us.” His tone drops to a whisper. “I want to be the person who grows old with you, and I don’t want to watch some other guy hold your heart. Not when you already have mine.” He draws a staggering breath.“I want…” His voice cracks, and the emotion thickening his throat cuts him off.

That’s the problem with wanting. We so rarely end up getting what we desire, so our wants turn into wishes, and thus become more unattainable. And then we feel foolish for ever wanting in the first place.

My response comes out strangled from my unshed tears. “I want, too.”

Aashiq finally pulls away, then hooks his thumbs under my jaw to tilt my face up. Something wet hits my cheek, and I flinch for a second before running my finger along the damp spot. Aashiq blinks a couple of times, then raises his hand to his face. He wipes, and then widens his eyes when his fingertips come back damp. He sniffles. “Wha… Am I…crying?”

As if those words were giving his body permission, more tears trickle down his face. There are no heavy sobs or racking wails, but his shoulders shudder as he presses the back of his hand to his mouth. He straightens up and steps back.

“It’s okay to cry,” I assure him. “I do it all the time.”

“Yeah, but…” Aashiq hiccups. He sucks in a deep breath, but that doesn’t stop the sobs. “I’ve never cried before. I don’t know what it feels like.” He wrinkles his nose. “Why is it so warm?” He paws the corner of his eye, where the tears still flow. “And why does it burn here?” His other hand goes to his chest, massaging the area. His outline glitches, and for a moment I can see through him to the kitchen. I don’t think he notices, though, because he still has the same shell-shocked expression on his face. “It hurts. I don’t like crying.”

I chuckle despite myself. “Not many people do,” I say. I rise to my feet, bringing my hands to his face. He stills, then relaxes under my touch. “But it’s still important we do it.”

Genuine confusion lines his forehead, and it’s a funny expression in contrast to the tears spilling down his face. “Why?”

I draw him closer so our noses brush. “Because it’s how weknow we’re real,” I answer. I squeeze his cheeks. “That all of this is real.”

Understanding dawns in his eyes, though a touch of melancholia darkens it. Aashiq sniffles again, and I take the opportunity to kiss him. He trembles under my palms, but I keep going, because this will be our last kiss. Drawing this out longer isn’t helping either one of us, and I knew it as soon as Aashiq voiced his desire to stay aloud. In the time since I found out he’s supposed to leave me, he’s never allowed himself to say he doesn’t want to go. He’s always reiterated that he has to, probably more for my sake than his own. But the moment he expressed his wish to stay, I knew it was time to let him go. That, plus his glitching, means the last of his powers are fading. Keeping him here any longer is a cruelty to both of us.

Finally, I draw back slowly. Aashiq instinctively moves forward to continue, but when his gaze drops down to mine, he stops. He swallows thickly, then touches his forehead to mine. He closes his eyes. We stay like that for a moment, completely wrapped up in each other.

In a quiet voice, I speak. “What am I going to do without you?”

Aashiq doesn’t respond for a beat, but then he opens his eyes again. To my surprise, there’s no anguish or defeat there, but it’s also not adoration like I expect. It’s pride, whole and unabashed, that stares back at me. “You’re going to be a great writer. You’re going to write the stories people like you need in the world. And you’re going to live beautifully.” He dips his head so we’re eye level. “And I’ll be with you, every step of the way.”

I draw in one final breath, drinking him in. Then, I step out of his grasp. I’m immediately cold without the warmth of his embrace, but I force myself to ignore that as I sit down on the couch. Aashiq sits, too, but he just watches me. My laptop is already on the coffee table, so I flip the screen open. It boots up, and I type in my password. I open my outline, scrolling allthe way to the bottom of the document, and now all’s that left is to typeTHE END.

My hands hover over the keyboard, my fingers shaking. If only I’d known when I made my wish to be happy that I’d end up heartbroken anyway.

I’ve just typed the letterTwhen I freeze.Wait.“Hang on,” I say. I whip my head over to Aashiq, who raises a brow at my abrupt movement. “You showed upafterI made my wish on the candle.” Excitement stirs in my belly. “Maybe that person who sold Emily the candles wasn’t bullshitting!”

I leap up from the couch. My shin bangs into the table, but I barely register the sharp pain as I scramble to the kitchen. I hear Aashiq get up and follow behind me, but I don’t check as I screech to a stop in front of the cabinet where I put the candles all those weeks ago. I open the door, and there they are, lying haphazardly in a pile. I pull them out, then slide over to the fridge. Kira and Antonio sent Emily and me cupcakes as a holiday treat, and there was still one left last time I checked. To my relief, it’s still there, and I take it out.

I spin on my heel to face Aashiq, who regards me with a strange look. “What’s going on, Ziya?”

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