Counting Down with You(85)
It’s not like I expected to like him this much—it’s not like I wanted to. But Ace is a ridiculous boy with a warm smile, and he’s so lovely sometimes that I don’t know what to do with myself. He listens to me and respects my boundaries and learns from his mistakes. It’s perplexing and addicting.
I lie in bed, staring at the poems on my ceiling. This is the happiest I’ve felt in a long time. And I can’t help but feel stupid for it.
I want to be selfish for once. My parents accuse me of being selfish all the time, but this is the first time it’s ever been true. I rarely do things for myself, but I don’t want to give this up. If this is the only thing I can allow myself, if this is as brave as I can be, then I want this for as long as I can have it.
Ace is wonderful. Wonderful enough that I’m willing to ignore the possibility of doom in the future. When my parents come home, this beautiful, blossoming thing that we have might wither under the strain. It’ll become lying, hiding, and sneaking around. We both deserve better than that, but it’s all I can offer.
I’ll deceive my parents if I have to. I’ll find a way to be with Ace, even if it means doing something ridiculous, like sneaking into junior prom in a duffel bag. This isn’t something I’m willing to half-ass.
If Ace leaves, I’ll let him go. But it’s not going to be me that steps away from this, not unless I have no other choice. I want this. I want him.
I want to be happy.
39
T-MINUS 9 DAYS
The next day, I look back at the poem Ace found a while back. “Unshakeable.”
I never finished it. Writing about myself makes me uncomfortable in a way that’s hard to explain.
It feels too honest, too vulnerable.
I remember writing it the day after my parents lectured me against pursuing anything that wasn’t STEM. Sitting at my desk and not being able to push down the anxiety. Counting ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one, to no avail.
Then I sat down with my journal and the words poured out for the first time. I couldn’t figure out what happens past it’s dark, it’s light, a hand reaches out then, but now I think about Ace’s smile, Ace’s patience, Ace’s kindness. I think I finally have the answer.
somewhere there are birds that fly free
here, I am caged and can barely breathe
there is so much to say
these thoughts never fall from my lips
I am scared of so goddamn much
afraid these flames will burn
my fingers, they hurt from clinging so hard
I’m lost, I’m bruised, I don’t know what to do
I never thought I’d give up
but I’m starting to think I’m going to lose
it’s dark, it’s light, a hand reaches out
I hold, you pull
somehow I find the will to keep on
unshakeable, you whisper
I exhale my first clean breath
unshakeable, I whisper
freedom tastes sweeter than I’d expect
unshakeable, we whisper
you guide me through the fire
unshakeable, we whisper
you hold every key I thought I’d never find
some days, my hands, they tremble with doubt
you take them, you press them
against your chest where your heart beats steady
when I shiver, you sing to me
the sweetest of songs
the sun is brighter than it’s ever been
and I think for you, I’d join the fight again
unshakeable, you whisper
unshakeable, I whisper
unshakeable, we whisper
“Unshakeable,” I whisper to myself. I finished it. I opened myself to that vulnerability.
Unshakeable.
It’s what I want to be. It’s what I hope to be.
I close my journal and take a deep breath, letting that sink in. Unshakeable. If I was unshakeable, there are so many things I would do.
T-9 days.
Nine days until my parents are back and everything changes.
Nothing terrifies me more than my parents’ disappointment. Of losing their respect and love. Those things feel flimsy most days as it is. To lose what little I have is the most horrifying thing I can think of.
I know I’m not the only one who struggles to find the balance between loving their parents and being who they want. A lot of other brown people I know have dealt with situations like this. My experience isn’t singular.
But that doesn’t make it any less scary. I might not be entirely alone in this experience, but I am alone.
Then I think of Dadu in the next room, and her unwavering support of me, and I adjust that thought. I’m not alone. I have her.
I have to believe that if she can support me, my parents can, too.
I hope.
I stumble into Dadu’s room. She’s sitting on a chair, praying. Her knees are too creaky for her to pray on the prayer mat, so an allowance is made for her to do her rackats from a chair. I blink in surprise, but then grab a janamaz, joining her for the Maghreb prayer.
When I finish, I look from side to side, murmur a few surahs, blow out a long breath into my palms—asking Allah for guidance in the next few days—and turn to look at Dadu.
“Are you okay, Myra?” she asks.
I nod. “Just thinking.” Being around her is enough to make me breathe easier. Having someone in my corner—having her in my corner—is more than I could’ve ever hoped for.
Yet I still can’t bring myself to make the definitive decision to tell my parents about wanting to study English.