Page 5 of Writing Mr. Right

“Never say I don’t love you,” she teases. “Now, let’s assemble these sundaes and turn on our K-drama. The last episode ofMy Holo Lovewe watched had me out ofbreath.”

* * *

Sometime later, Emily snoozes beside me, her body curled up against the arm of the couch. Our plan was to stay up until midnight for my birthday and have a slice of cake, but Emily has to be dead tired from her 5 a.m. to 5 p.m. shift, especially because she came home and cooked for the both of us.

I’m still awake, but barely; my eyes are open just enough tokeep my focus on the TV screen. I don’t know why, because Emily falling asleep means we’re going to have to watch these episodes all over again anyway. I might as well go to bed.

I turn the TV off but leave Emily on the couch. At some point she’ll get up to use the bathroom and end up in her bedroom. I clear the coffee table and take the dishes to the sink. It’d probably wake her up if I cleaned them now, so I’ll do it in the morning.

The last thing I carry to the kitchen is the clean plates we planned to use for the cake. It’s still out on the counter, so I put it back in the fridge. It’ll be just as good tomorrow.

I grab my phone off the couch. When I lift it to my face so I can set an alarm for tomorrow morning, I recognize the telltale blue notification banner telling me I have an email from my querying inbox. It’s from Rachel Devon, a huge agent in the business. She’s a dream agent of mine, but because of her fame and the fact that she reps some high-profile clients, I didn’t expect much to happen when I threw my query into her inbox. I was very surprised when she requested the full book, and now she must’ve made her final decision.

Oh, my God. Okay. Okay. Okay. I inhale deeply through my nose a few times, trying to calm my racing pulse. There’s no reason for my stomach to feel like it’s going to launch out of my mouth. Sweat pools in the center of my palms, and I have to wipe them on my skirt a few times before I gain the courage to open the email. This is just Rachel Devon. Just Rachel Devon, who represents some of the biggest names in romance. Who asked to read my book. Who isinterestedin my book!

I hold my breath. It’d be better to wait to do this until the morning. Because if it’s bad news, I don’t want it to ruin my sleep. Then again, tomorrow is my birthday, and if it’s bad news, I don’t want it to ruin that. And I know myself; I will not be able to wait until the day after my birthday to check this email.

Besides, what if it’s a sign from Allah? I had a rejection earlier today, so it would make sense cosmically that this emailis likely to be an offer. It’s also ten minutes to midnight; why would an agent reply this late at night if itwasn’tgood news?

Okay. Ripping off the bandage it is.

With my lungs contracting and more sweat dampening my tank top, I swipe on the notification and the app opens and shows the email right away.

Dear Ziya,

Thank you for your patience with me while I finished THE LONGEST GOODBYE. While there is so much to love here regarding characterization and representation, the low-stakes plot of the story makes it one that would not be able to stand out in a crowded market. Small-town stories are a dime a dozen in this business, and I struggled to see any new or fresh angles delivered in this concept, so I can’t see anyone wanting it. For this reason, I must decline representation at this time. I’m sorry I don’t have better news, but please remember this is just one agent’s opinion. I wish you all the best in finding the right home for your work!

Best,

Rachel

Oh.

Okay.

My heart sinks, and there’s a sharp ache in my chest. The back of my throat burns. Tears flood my eyes and blur my vision, to the point where I can’t even see the words on the screen anymore. It’s strange to think how blots of fake ink on a screen can be enough to make someone ugly cry.

I clamp my hand over my mouth to muffle the pitiful sounds coming out of me, then peer over my shoulder to make sure Emily is still asleep. Once I’m sure, I dash over to my bedroomand shut the door behind me. Our apartment is pretty small, so I don’t allow myself to wail, but I let the tears fall as I slide down to the floor.

The low-stakes plot of the story makes it one that would not be able to stand out in a crowded market.

Small-town stories are a dime a dozen in this business.

I struggled to see any new or fresh angles delivered in this concept.

Is that all my story is reduced to? AllI’mreduced to? Does that mean different voices don’t matter? That they’re worthless? That I missed a moment I wasn’t allowed to take part in in the first place?

As cracks splinter through my rib cage, I realize the truth: my dreams will never be fulfilled. After over twenty years, the weight of that truth settles over my lungs. It fills the tiny air sacs to the brim until it suffocates me. My dreams don’t matter. They never will. And I need to accept that.

I lift my head, now pounding from all the crying, and scramble to my feet. I stomp over to my desk, plop myself down in the chair, and flip my laptop screen up. I didn’t turn it off the last time I used it, which makes what I’m about to do a lot easier.

I delete my manuscript from my folder. I delete everything. All my previous drafts, my outlines, my notes.

As I move all my files to the recycle bin and take the extra step to empty it out, I think about the first time I realized I enjoyed reading. In kindergarten, during free time, all the other kids flocked to the toys or the art stations or the sandbox; I would always go to the bookshelf. It was slim pickings, and I made my way through the whole shelf fast, so once I finished the entire catalogue, I started reading all the books again. By the time I got to my fourth read-through, my teacher had ordered a few new books for the classroom. The excitement that filled me when I saw the brand-new glossy covers buzzed my entire body. It felt like the world was full of possibilities, because if one day I was reading the same thing over and overand then the next I suddenly had something new, it felt like anything could happen.

As I clean out the backups on my computer and the cloud, I think about the first time I realized I could be a writer. I was twelve, and the local library was having a writing contest. I had already been writing little stories down on paper, but I never thought to do anything with them. I remember the librarian slipping a paper with the announcement to me when I went to go pick up the ten books I put on hold (which I would inevitably finish in a week). I stared up at him with wide eyes and said, “But I don’t write.” And his response was “But you could.” With that encouragement, I sprinted home. I grabbed my best gel pens and newest notebook and scribbled down all kinds of ideas. I ended up writing about a man who decides to go fishing but everything goes wrong with his day. I didn’t win, but the rush of adrenaline that coursed through my body as I pressed the tip of my pen into the paper and wrote in my best handwriting and then handed the story off to the library is one I’ll never forget, because it changed everything. It made me realize if I wanted to be a writer, I could just start. No one could stop me, not if I had a pen and ideas swirling in my head like dandelion fluff waiting to settle into the grass to plant something new and bloom into something beautiful.

And finally, as I delete my entire querying email account, I think about the first time I realized I could do writing for real. I was fifteen, wandering the shelves of the library, trying to find something new to take home for the weekend, when I found a title with an author whose last name was Tahir. I immediately grabbed it and flipped to the author bio, and sure enough, the author was Pakistani. She was just like me. And if she could do it, so could I.

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