Page 7 of Writing Mr. Right

He puts the food on the plate and then brings it over to me, along with a glass of orange juice. He places both on the coffee table. “Once you have some food in you, I’m sure you’ll have a clear head for writing.”

The sight of the perfectly puffy scrambled eggs, the crispy halal chicken strips, and the buttered brown toast makes my stomach growl loud enough for the entirety of New York City to hear, but I’m not about to let it distract me from whatever…mental breakdown I appear to be having. And I must be having one, because I don’t know how I’m sitting calmly while a strange man makes me breakfast in my own home. I stare at the plate of hot food for a second, then finally lift my stare back to Aashiq. “Whoareyou?” I demand. “And why am I not calling the police to get you out of here?”

Aashiq sits down on the couch next to me, barely leaving an appropriate amount of space between us. He folds his hands together. “I told you already. I’m your muse. You needed me, so here I am.”

“My muse? For what?”

“Your writing muse,” he clarifies. “You decided to quit writing last night. I’m here to help you get back into it.”

I regard him for a long moment. “I’m still ninety-five percent sure I hit my head and I’m hallucinating you.”

“Okay.” Aashiq nods. “I think you need convincing.”

He rubs his hands together and points to the window. The curtains, closed before, pull apart, allowing the morning sun to stream in through the window.

I jump, my hands coming up to cover my eyes. “What did you just do?!” I screech. That cannot have happened. It did not happen. I did not witness my vivid hallucination open curtains without touching them.

Maybe he’s a djinn. I need to get rid of him. I start mumbling Ayatul Kursi under my breath. “Allahu laaa ’ilaaha ’illaa hu…” I recite the entire dua’a, but when I slowly lower my hands and peek my eyes open, Aashiq still sits in front of me.

“If you need more convincing…” He turns toward the coffee table and splays his hands out, so his palms face downward. After a few seconds, a typewriter materializes out of thin air and drops onto the table with a lightthud.

Aashiq ignores my squeak of surprise as he picks it up and jostles it around like it weighs absolutely nothing. He holds it out to me with a wide grin on his face. “Happy birthday!”

I scrunch my brows. “Happy birthday?” I repeat, and with a jolt, I remember I’m turning thirty today. With all the chaos of the morning, it had slipped my mind.

“Yeah.” He sets the typewriter back onto the table. “Maybe writing doesn’t work for you on a computer, so you need another tool to work. A typewriter could help.”

I stare at him again. “Istillthink I’m hallucinating.”

“Alright. If you need to make sure I’m real…” He spreads his arms out and flexes the muscles in his arms. “Go ahead and touch me.”

I narrow my eyes at him, but when he doesn’t move, I lean forward. I stretch my hand, then curl the rest of my fingers inward until only my pointer finger is out. Slowly, carefully, I bring it close to the spot on his chest just below his shoulder. My finger hovers in front of the space for a second, and then, before I can lose my courage, I poke him.

And Aashiq feels real. His shirt is soft, and his shoulder is warm, and I can feel the material of his turtleneck on the pad of my finger. Intrigued, I shift closer and move my hand, so my palm rests against him. He’s surprisingly firm and strong underneath my touch.

If he’s really who he says he is, he’s not a person. But he can’t be a person who’s just screwing with me because no real person can do the things he did.

I finally move my gaze so it meets Aashiq’s, and I startle at the curiosity lining his green eyes. Actually, this close to him, I can see his eyes aren’t entirely green. They’re a mixture of green and blue, with the green lightly ringing his pupils and the blue spreading out to the rest of his irises.

We stare at each other for a beat longer before I abruptly pull my hand away. I put a healthy distance between us, cramming myself as close to the arm of the couch as I can. “Where did you say you came from?”

“From you,” Aashiq answers. “See, there’s a place in all artists where their inspiration lives. It’s where your creativity comes from. I live there. I used the wordmusebecause it’s the closest word I can think of.” He tilts his head to the side. “I’m the physical manifestation of your artistry, basically.”

“And why are you here?”

“To help you get back into writing,” Aashiq responds cheerily,as if I hadn’t just felt him up and then stared intensely into his eyes. “I’m your muse, and you needed me. Normally you need me on just a regular level, so I’ve never appeared to you before, but you’ve decided to give up. That’s when I knew I needed to resort to more drastic measures.”

“But how did you get here?” I look around the living room. “I definitely didn’t let you in.”

He puckers his lips. “It’s…hard to explain,” Aashiq starts. “One second, I was floating in your head, and the next I was standing in your living room. I thought about waking you up, but you clearly needed the rest, so I poked around your apartment for the night. I hid when your friend left for work, but then I got hungry—which I’ve never felt before. It’s a very strange feeling. It’s like it hurts but only in one part of your body, and it doesn’t go away.” He shakes his head. “Anyway, that’s when I went to peek in your fridge. I found the chocolate stuff—that’sreallygood, by the way.” His eyes light up at the mention of the syrup. “I don’t have it where I’m from. I need to get some but I’m not sure how to, because I live in your brain and all.”

Aashiq rambles like this for so long it feels like my mind is running a marathon to try to catch up with him. When he’s done, he claps his hands, startling me. “Now.” He pushes the plate closer to me. “Eat! If you don’t take care of your body, you won’t be able to focus, and then you won’t be able to do your best work.”

My head is still foggy, like static crackles between my temples, but I turn to the food. I didn’t even know the chicken strips were still in the freezer. Usually, I buy breakfast items with the intention of waking up early to make a good meal, but most of the time I surrender to sleep instead. Then I’ll eat a bowl of sugary cereal or grab a bagel from a nearby café before going into work.

Wait.Work.

I snap my head back toward Aashiq. He’s wearing a watch, so I grab his wrist and raise it so it’s eye level. My stomach bottoms out when the time registers. I’m running late. Like,reallylate. Like, “you shouldn’t give this irresponsible employee funding for law school” late.

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