Chapter 30
When I step through the front door, Aashiq isn’t there. He must think I’m still upset and made himself scarce to avoid bombarding me. My heart aches for his presence, though. After spending all your time with one person, being without them feels wrong.
I make my way back to the couch, where everything is left undisturbed.
My barely drunk cup of chai and Aashiq’s nearly drained mug of hot chocolate sit on the table.
The blanket I like to snuggle under when I write is in a tangled lump at the end of the couch.
And my laptop lies on the coffee table, the screen still closed.
I sit on the couch and slowly open the laptop.
The screen boots up, and after I type in the password, I open the book’s folder.
I didn’t actually delete it before I left.
My fingers scroll through the document almost absentmindedly as I absorb the words.
This file is like a fever dream; I remember writing the words, but I also don’t.
I try not to go back and read what I’ve already written in the outline unless I need to make a continuity check, because I might end up adding more to the book, which isn’t always a good thing when you’re trying to stick to a certain word count.
Now, though, I take the time to read through the entire outline from beginning to end.
I always write every single detail I can think of—dialogue, scene directions, characters’ thoughts.
It’s basically a draft zero I can then use to create a first draft.
The book is quite good, and I don’t say that to pat my own back.
The plot, the dialogue, and the emotions tie together in a deliciously thrilling manner, in the way that buzzes my fingertips and makes me want to kick my legs and giggle.
In a way that makes me want to open a fresh document and start writing, even though the book doesn’t technically have an ending yet and I would never start writing a book without the outline finished.
I cover my face with my hands, hunching my back as I lower my head.
My mind flashes back to all the moments when Aashiq inspired me.
Through each writing activity, each brainstorming walk, and every discussion, I truly fell back in love with writing.
I wasn’t doing it with any kind of end goal, and he never pressured me.
Everything was easygoing, nothing had an explicit purpose, and I was writing for myself .
Aashiq supported everything I did. I wrote one paragraph?
I got a standing ovation. I wrote a grocery list?
He enthusiastically read off each item as we wandered the aisles in the supermarket, no matter how much I begged him to keep his voice down.
And whenever I finished a section of the outline?
He celebrated by making me the most delicious ice-cream sundae I’d ever had.
He helped me find the joy in writing again. It made me happy.
And that’s all I wanted, wasn’t it? Wasn’t it what I wished for when midnight struck on my birthday? To be happy?
Aashiq didn’t just do things to make me happy.
He helped me find the happiness that was already there.
He encouraged me to interact with my colleagues.
He supported me in making strides in my career.
He broadened my creative horizons. And he helped me fall in love with writing just when it seemed like I was going to turn my back on something that had always been a huge part of my life.
I can’t rely on him to be happy forever. I have to work on finding and maintaining that happiness for myself. And writing is one of those things.
I can’t do it. I can’t quit.
A sudden weight sinks into the couch on my left. A hand reaches out and curls a strand of hair behind my ear. The touch is featherlight; not the usual solidity I’m used to from him, but at least I can still feel him.
“Ziya…” Aashiq starts, his voice barely a whisper.
“Don’t,” I sniffle. I take a deep breath, then drop my hands. “We’re not going to talk about how this ends. We’re not going to be sad, because we’ve got work to do.” I turn to him and manage a smile. “Will you stay? Until I finish the outline?”
“Of course,” he quickly says. “But with how close you are to the end, I won’t be as strong as I used to be.”
“It’s fine.” I place my hand on his knee, and though his body glitches at my touch, he’s still firm enough for me to rest my palm against his leg. “As long as you’re here.”
Aashiq glances down at my hand, then slides his own underneath it. He folds his fingers on top, and then brings our joined hands to his lips. The pressure is light, but it’s there. “Then I’ll stay.”
My stomach sinks, but I nod firmly. “Alright, then. Let’s get to work.”
* * *
Over the next few days, Aashiq and I stay locked in my room so we can finish my outline.
We do step away for a few hours to celebrate Emily and Daniel’s engagement (it turns out Daniel was waiting to propose because he’s still paying off student loans and didn’t want to enter a marriage with debts, so they’ve made a verbal agreement to do the whole event a couple of years from now), but other than that, life is all outline all the time.
Christmas arrives, though for a Muslim it’s a meaningless holiday.
Aashiq and I do spend it at my parents’ house, because I’m off work, and my siblings with their spouses and children join us.
It goes much better than the first time they all met Aashiq, and my heart swells watching him play with my nieces and nephews and conjure up stories to entertain them.
I try not to think too much about how this is probably the last time I’ll get to see Aashiq interact with my family, and how there will probably be questions as to why he’s not around anymore after he leaves, because anyone who sees us can tell we care deeply about each other.
Every now and then, Aashiq looks over at me and, very briefly, an ache fills his eyes.
I know the pain is as deep for him as it is for me, because while I’ll still have my family and my friends and my coworkers, Aashiq has to go back to a lonely place in my head.
But we make good on our promise and don’t let what’s inevitably going to happen dampen the mood, even as we both notice Aashiq is slowly getting more and more transparent.
His weight on the couch next to me is lighter with each day that passes, and I can’t rest my hand against his cheek while we lie next to each other in my bed without it passing through.
Still, neither of us make any comment about it.
Finally, the day before New Year’s Eve, I reach the end of my outline.
Aashiq and I are sitting on my bed. A blanket covers my shoulders while he peers at the screen, watching me type away.
I’ve figured out the climax and the resolution; Junaid reveals that he can’t stay with Manahil, but they agree to finish the project they’re working on together before he fades from existence.
I’m just short of typing THE END at the bottom of the document. As my finger approaches the T key, I stop. I lean away from the laptop.
Aashiq frowns. “What? What’s wrong?”
I turn to him. “When I type THE END , are you going to disappear?”
His breath hitches. Uncertainty brews in his eyes, and I can tell he wants so desperately to lie to me, but he nods. “Yeah.”
“Okay.” I nod, then hit Save and close the laptop screen. “Then I’m going to do this tomorrow.”
Aashiq lets out a deep exhale. “Ziya, we agreed not to let what’s going to happen get in the way of us finishing your outline.”
“I know,” I allow. For the first time in a few days, genuine joy brightens my face. “But the reason I want to do this tomorrow is because I want to spend one day focusing on you.”
He raises his brows. “What?”
“Who knows if you’ll ever show up like this again,” I reason.
“You’ve spent the entire time you’ve been here with your focus on me.
You helped me see how much I love writing, and I can’t give up on it anymore.
You’ve widened my world to include so many things and so many people.
” I raise my hand and press it to his cheek, and surprisingly, he doesn’t glitch. “Let me give you one day for you.”
Aashiq bites his bottom lip. “Just one more day?” he clarifies.
I nod and pretend like the thought doesn’t split me open and eviscerate me. “Our last day. We’ll do whatever you want as long as it’s not writing-related. It’ll be just you and me.”
I think I’ll remember the way Aashiq gazes at me now forever.
Sadness rims his eyes, but a bittersweet tenderness washes over his features.
His mouth perks up in the corner, the first real sign of the return of his happy-go-lucky smile I’ve come to cherish.
He raises his own hand and cradles my jaw.
He leans forward and touches his forehead to mine.
Keeping his gaze locked on me, he nods. “Okay. Whatever you want.”
“Actually, it’ll be whatever you want,” I correct, but we stay like that for a long while, knowing that when the moment ends, it’ll bring us closer to our goodbye.