Chapter 7
I leave my parents’ place around eight, and just as I start my walk to the subway station, raindrops fall from the sky. It’s light at first, a mist dotting my hair like fresh dewdrops on grass, but it quickly develops into harder sheets that slam my shoulders and seep through my coat.
I wrap my arms tight around myself, trying to protect my first book, which is tucked between my shirt and jacket.
I asked Abbu if I could take it, and he handed it over, but not before taking pictures on his phone so he could “keep the memories.” My gaze continually drifts down to it, resting snuggly against my body.
I don’t know why I wanted it; if I’ve given up on writing, I don’t need a reminder of how much I used to love it lying around.
But I guess it’s not only a reminder of how much I loved it; it’s a reminder of why I started in the first place.
Sally Miller is the person I assumed had to star in every story.
Her sandy-blond hair, porcelain skin, and baby blue eyes are all markers of a leading character who cries over her lost kite and tries her best to reunite with it.
I never stopped to think a Ziya Khan, with her short silky amber hair with golden undertones, rich brown skin, and dark chocolate eyes could also be sad over her kite flying far away from her, drifting to places she’d never reach.
This book is a reminder of my optimism, my innocence. My belief that I could do anything I put my mind to. I just never realized how much pain would come along with that.
My eyes ache, and my cheeks warm in places where tears slide down, mixing with the cold raindrops.
I can’t even wipe them away because I don’t want to loosen my grip on my book in case it slips through my jacket and falls into a puddle, so I keep my head down and let the tears flow as water continues to pelt me.
The rain suddenly stops, all at once. The echo of raindrops hits my ears, so it’s definitely still raining. I wrinkle my nose, then tilt my face up to see the underside of an umbrella. I check over my shoulder.
The expression on Aashiq’s face is unlike any I’ve seen on him before.
I’ve come to see him as an extremely happy-go-lucky guy, whose grin, which seems to be a permanent part of him, can illuminate an entire studio with little effort on his part.
But this time, it’s quiet; the left corner perks up ever so slightly, and his lips appear impossibly soft as he curls them inward.
His clothes and head are both dry, even though he angles the umbrella to cover more of me than him.
Despite my constant internal reiteration that he’s not real, I guess my subconscious must be convinced he is.
I sniffle. “What are you doing?”
He glances up at the umbrella. “The men in the shows you watch do this a lot, and you seem to love it,” he explains. He lifts a shoulder. “I thought it might make you smile.”
A laugh involuntarily snorts out of my nose.
Aashiq’s eyes brighten. “And there it is,” he says softly, the sound like silk brushing against skin.
His sunny expression falls a bit. “I’m sorry,” he starts.
“For telling your coworkers you’re a writer.
I didn’t realize how much it would upset you, which, you know, I probably should have been able to guess based on your facial expression—you seemed pretty upset but I thought it was in my head, and then I guess I was thinking more about what I thought was best for you, which I can’t do because you know you better than I know you, and—”
“I accept your apology.” I cut him off before he drowns in his own words. “But I’m still upset.”
“But why?” he asks, confusion contorting his eyes. “The whole point of being a writer is to share it.”
“Sure, if you have something to share.”
“But you have something to share,” he argues. “You have the manuscripts you’ve written.”
I scoff. “Those don’t count.”
“Why not?” Aashiq presses. He tilts his head to the side. “They’re books. They’re words you’ve written. They matter.”
I pause, trying to gather my thoughts. “The thing about being a writer is if you don’t have anything to show for it, you’re a failure,” I finally start.
“Like, if you don’t have a splashy book deal or a literary agent, then your writing isn’t as valid.
The blood, sweat, and tears mean nothing if there isn’t a physical book printed with a glossy cover and pristine pages to hold.
” I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from bursting into tears again.
“And every time anyone asks for updates, you have to say no and they give you a look that’s like ‘chin up, your time will come!’ They think they’re being helpful but it just feels demeaning, like you’re a child who needs to be placated. ”
Aashiq is silent for a long while. Then he says, “That’s not true.”
I exhale an annoyed breath. “Yeah, well, what do you know,” I mumble. “You’re not real.”
As I turn around to take a step out from under his umbrella, he’s suddenly in front of me.
“ This is real,” he says, and before I can ask what he means, he grabs my hand.
He squeezes it, then raises our joined hands so they hover between us.
“This is real, too. You can feel my skin warm against yours, can’t you?
” His fingers lace through mine, his thumb running along the length of my thumb.
“Because I can feel you, and you’re as real to me as anything else. ”
A burst of heat crackles in my torso, and for a second, terror grips my veins as I picture myself struck by lightning.
After a moment, I realize it’s my heartbeat thundering against my chest, causing a storm to brew underneath my rib cage.
Aashiq’s hand in mine burns a hole through my palm, and the heat then spreads from my arm to my shoulders and all the way to my face, searing my cheeks.
He gazes into my eyes with pure sincerity, and the intensity cuts the connection between my brain and the rest of my body.
Finally, the connection jumps back to life, and I wrench my hand out of his. I remain under the umbrella this time, though. “Fine,” I relent. “I accept you’re real…somehow.”
“Great!” Aashiq grins, and somehow it dims the darkness around us. “Now you just need to accept I’m here to help you.”
“I never asked for your help,” I remind him. “I don’t need it, and I don’t want it. I told you, I put my pen down for good.”
“You picked up a pen at work today!”
“I meant my metaphorical pen!”
“You’re a writer, Ziya,” he stresses. “I’m here to remind you of that. To show you you’re not as ready to give it all up as you say you are.”
“I am ready to—”
Aashiq moves, grabbing the hand holding my coat closed. He pries it away from my body to reveal my first book clutched between my fingers and the material of the inner jacket. “What’s this, then?”
I stare down at it, my mouth opening and closing but no words coming out.
Aashiq pries the book out of my hand, then holds it up in front of me.
“This is the first book you ever wrote. If you’ve given up, if you don’t care about writing anymore, why did you take this?
It could have sat in your parents’ files for the rest of their lives, tucked between other projects you left in your childhood, but you took this. Why?”
When I still don’t respond, Aashiq gently takes my hand.
“I don’t want you to do this because of me,” he begins, his voice as soft but as powerful as the rain around us.
“And I don’t want you to do this because you think it’s the only way to get rid of me.
” He carefully slips the book into my fingers.
“I want you to do this for the writer in you who knows she’s not done yet.
I want you to do this for you .” He covers my fingers with his own.
“And you don’t have to do this alone. I am here for you. ”
My eyes burn, and I lower my gaze to the front cover.
The book may be about a white girl, but my very Pakistani Muslim name—Ziya Khan—graces the bottom.
Memories of moments in bookstores drift into my head, times I spent staring at names on the shelves and vowing to myself I’d see mine there someday.
I think back to my epiphany when I found this book, and after a long earthy wet breath, I lift my eyes back up to meet Aashiq’s. “Okay.”
A sparkle glimmers in his eyes. “Okay?” he repeats, hope lining his tone.
When I smile, the intensity mimics his. “Okay, I’ll give it another try.”
“Yes!” Aashiq cheers, pumping his fist in the air, and it’s such an unexpected reaction I can’t help but laugh.
When Aashiq lowers his arm, he gets right to business.
“Okay, now, I know you’ve been querying a novel, so we can work with that.
See if we need to adjust your query and first ten pages, or if something about the manuscript itself isn’t working.
The best part about having me around is having someone to bounce ideas off who understands your work and can help and… Why are you making that face?”
During Aashiq’s entire excited speech, my expression has slowly turned to horror. Because the manuscript he’s talking so enthusiastically about? The one he thinks is the perfect place to start?
I completely wiped all traces of it. It’s gone.