Chapter 11 #2
I open the container for my salad, and though it’s my instinct to grab a huge forkful of everything, I gently pick up a couple of lettuce leaves and a piece of cucumber.
I’m about to take a bite when Aashiq suddenly plops his hands on my shoulders.
I stiffen and nearly drop the fork, but I fumble with it at the last second before it hits the ground.
Warmth from his palms flows into my body, and it’s such a strange sensation.
For someone who existed only in my mind a few days ago, he’s amazingly lifelike.
Why do his hands feel so real? Why is the weight so comforting?
I startle out of my thoughts when Aashiq suggests, “Let’s play a game.”
I scrunch my nose. “I’m not sure I want to play anything with you, given that your idea of a good time is taking a run at five a.m.”
“Just humor me for once, will you?”
I think I humor him plenty already—I’ve given in to a lot of his whims—but I close the lid to my salad. “Fine.”
He grins at my readiness. “I call it ‘set the scene,’” he explains. He circles around the bench and sits next to me. “I’m going to give you a scenario, and you have to fill in the details.”
I furrow my brows. “Okay, but we could have done that anywhere. Why are we at a park? In the cold?”
He lifts his shoulders. “I like to be in places where there are people,” he explains. “As someone who’s very used to being alone in your head, I’m going to take advantage of being out here.” He elbows me. “You know, really savor the world.”
“Alone?” I repeat. “Aren’t you with my other…personality traits?” I point to my head. “Are there other… I don’t know…beings up there?”
“No,” he answers. A sheepish expression crosses his face. “You’re a pretty isolated person, and you don’t share your writing with anyone, so it makes the most sense for me not to be around others.”
That’s…sad. Even though I’ve only known Aashiq for a few days, I can tell he’s the type of person (if you can call him a person) who has a real zest for life and loves communicating with others.
The fact that he’s isolated because of my unwillingness to share this part of my life with anyone… Guilt settles heavily in my stomach.
“It’ll do you some good,” he continues, which jolts me out of my thoughts. “To be out and about and have some fresh air. You shouldn’t be locked up in your stuffy room or in the office all the time. Being around people will be good for you, too.”
I lift a brow. “Meaning what?”
“Ziya, you can’t spend your whole life stuck in your house,” he says, not unkindly. “You should breathe in some fresh air every now and then and see people other than your roommate and your coworkers.”
As much as it feels like his words shot an arrow directly through my ego, Aashiq may have a point.
Sometimes it does feel like all I do is shuffle from my house to the office and back every day.
Emily and I sometimes go out and do things together, but only a handful of times in the year.
I forget how nice it can be to be outside, like how I felt this morning when we went on the run.
I watch as Aashiq’s gaze flits over the groups of people around us, taking in the conversations and the laughter, and I sigh. “So,” I begin, drawing his attention back to me. “What’s my prompt?”
Aashiq checks the crowd out again, then discreetly points to a man and woman sitting on a bench opposite us.
They’re young and appear to be the only people here—other than Aashiq and me—without children to watch out for.
“There,” he declares. “I’ll set the scene for you.
They’re a couple on a romantic date.” He drops his hand back into his lap. “Fill in the blanks.”
“How?” I ask.
“Any way you want to,” he answers. “This is your story. You decide what happens.”
Okay. This really isn’t any different from the game I play on the subway when I take quirks from people around me.
Making sure my staring isn’t obvious, I observe the couple.
They’re eating ice-cream cones; the guy licks a strawberry cone while the girl nibbles on mint chocolate chip.
He suddenly dives forward, as if to make a move for a bite of her ice cream, and she squeals and squirms away, holding her cone out of reach.
They’re too far away for me to hear what they’re saying, so I guess I have to make that up, too.
After a few long minutes, I speak. “They’re a fairly new couple,” I decide.
“The way they touch each other may be familiar, but it’s tentative.
” I motion toward them, where the guy pauses before he raises a hand and gently places it on her side.
“See how he hesitates when putting his hand on her waist?” I say.
The guy then kisses the underside of her jaw.
“And see how her chest hitches slightly when he presses his cold lips to her warm neck?” I peek at Aashiq.
“It’s a test to see how she responds when he touches new territory. ”
He nods but his face doesn’t betray a single thought. “And what are they talking about?”
I wrinkle my nose as I watch them giggle and hold up their cones.
“She’s commenting how strange they are for having ice cream in November,” I say.
“When the breeze is sharp, and people walk around bundled in jackets and scarves. He says it gives them personality; they like cold things when people are desperate to stay warm.” The guy entwines their fingers together, so I add, “He also says she doesn’t have to worry about being cold when she has him to keep her warm. ”
As if on cue, the girl giggles, and they share a kiss before she snatches a lick from his ice cream, even though she denied him a taste of hers earlier. That causes them to fall into a fit of laughter.
I can’t help but grin, too, and I turn to Aashiq. “How was that?”
“How do you feel?” he asks instead.
My brows pinch together. “Why does that matter?”
“Because I didn’t ask you to do this for a grade,” he explains. “I’m not gonna give you a performance review. How do you feel ?”
I close my eyes, examining the emotions swirling in my body.
“I feel…good,” I eventually say. I open my eyes again.
“When it comes to writing, I’m not the free writing type.
I have an outline, and I know exactly what’s going to happen.
Coming up with something on the spot is kind of freeing.
It’s also nice, because I never create outside like this; any real time I have free to write is late at night, so I’m typically locked in my bedroom with darkness filtering through the blinds and the glow from my laptop screen providing the only light.
I didn’t know what it felt like to be creative with the crisp midday breeze and the warmth of the sunlight on my cheeks.
” I nod thoughtfully. “It’s doing wonders for my creativity. ”
Aashiq stares silently at me for a long moment. “Wow, that was incredibly deep.”
Heat flares in my face. “Oh, you didn’t want me to open up so much?”
“No, no,” he quickly assures me. “I’m just surprised you opened yourself up to the exercise so fully when you’ve dragged your feet with some of the other things I’ve asked.
It’s nice.” He spreads his hands out. “And this is how I’m going to help remind you that it always matters first what you think and how you feel.
You’re your first critic, but you’re also your first supporter.
” He bumps my shoulder with his. “Thanks for humoring me.”
“You’re welcome,” I reply, and for a sweet moment, neither of us says anything as we stare at each other. Then I see something strange—a flicker in Aashiq’s appearance, like a glitch, and his face becomes transparent. It’s just a brief moment, but I notice it.
Before I can dwell on it, though, Aashiq says, “Okay. Ready to play again?”