Category: Uncategorized

He finally texted me. I woke up to 2 messages from him. The first one was a selfie video of him in the car with some colleagues; they were driving into Seattle from Vancouver for a SWE conference.

The second one was a text asking if we could meet up platonically this evening just to catch up since we were gonna be in the same area anyways.

I ignored the messages for a few hours. Was in a frenzy getting ready for my workday. Finally replied by late afternoon saying I could meet up. I was disappointed when I realized how casually I was dressed and that I had forgotten to wear my date night perfume. I was still holding on to hope that this could turn into something romantic, you see.

We met up and had a good time. He was a lot shorter than I expected. I didn’t feel that spark I was hoping to. It was just waking up to his messages that I had been looking forward to the most. And now that we had finally met, it wasn’t what I had built up in my head.

Then I woke up for real. He hadn’t messaged me. And so the ache returned. What does it say about me that I still wish he had messaged for real?

It’s not that I have nothing to say. I find myself tired again. The fire of an almost love that fueled me has smoldered into ashes.

So one of my stories I share with new people is that I got painted into my apartment and the fire department had to rescue me. I had stayed home all day and saw that they were painting all the walls and doors inside my building. Hours later, I finally decided to head out for food. I tried opening my door from the inside but it wouldn’t budge no matter what I did.

I called *him* because that’s what I always did when I didn’t know what to do. He said to call 911 but I was worried I’d get in trouble because it’s not really an emergency right? I ended up calling the non-emergency line for my local police precinct. The cop on the phone was confused af but he eventually understood that my apartment door wouldn’t open and transferred me to the emergency line who transferred me to fire rescue.

Three very old school NYC firefighters showed up at my door 7 minutes later. They spoke to me through the door and told me they were gonna pry it open with their tools… They eventually blew the door open. I was kind of embarrassed and I think they also understood the ridiculousness of the situation… The wet paint was carelessly brushed across the wall and outside of my door acting as a glue that sealed my door shut as it dried.

One of the firefighters asked me what my last name was. I told him but I still don’t know why he asked. Half an hour later the cop from the local precinct called me back directly (which I wasn’t expecting given the usual dastardly nature) to check to see if I had been rescued. Nothing about that evening was what I expected it to be.

I left to get my 10pm pancakes.

In a way, it’s a metaphor right? I thought *he* was healing me and saw me for myself. But really, he was just carelessly putting on a fresh coat of paint to brighten me up and the real me got trapped inside. She wasn’t able to open the door from the inside. And in this version, no one came to rescue her.

*Makes it clear how much he loves me even when we’re fighting

*Looks me in the eyes when I’m sad

*Holds me just because he senses I need it

*Plans for our future without me having to be the one always leading or asking about it

*Makes fun of movies with me without being on his phone

*Dresses up for our cute little Broadway shows or afternoon tea dates

*Kisses my forehead when we’re alone just because

*Doesn’t get annoyed about my rule about outside clothes not being on the sofa or bed

I used to think it was the epitome of romance and true love when a man cried at his wedding upon seeing his bride.

When I was naive, I dreamed I would find a man who loved me like that.

It’s only as I got older that I realized how meaningless it can actually be. I’m sure most men that cry at their weddings aren’t being performative but I don’t view romance the same way anymore.

I think my view on this changed after I saw the way this guy’s eyes lit up with attraction upon seeing me for the first time. I did end up seeing his wedding album at some point; he was that guy who cried upon seeing his bride.

Nothing ever transpired beyond that moment where there was this unexpected spark of attraction. I only knew him in a professional capacity and we kept our personal lives private. From what I could tell, he was a really kind, empathetic man who I’m sure adored his wife and would never step out on her.

Of course it’s normal to find people other than your spouse attractive. Nonetheless, my view on romance changed after that. If my husband cried at our wedding, but looked at another woman with those dreamy eyes (even if only for a moment) not even a year later, I think I would still find it heartbreaking in a way.

Now, what I view as romantic are not the cinematic public expressions of love, but the quiet calm private moments where only the both of you exist without an audience.

If my birth country is the motherland, what do I call the land that’s been home to me for the past 25 years?

I belong neither here, nor there.

Too haram for the Muslims and too halal for the rest.

Rejected by some for not being fluent enough in the mother tongue that was ripped from me when I was ripped from the motherland. Rejected by others for not being into Stanley cups and neutral lounge wear. Can you tell which one stings more?

I belong nowhere but I’m here to stay. My soul hovers just above the motherland and my heart flutters closer to where I physically am. I am torn across dimensions and oceans.

My soul is thirsty for the language I was born into. My body craves the comfort of the life I have built abroad.

I am caught somewhere in between.

To the barista at Paris Baguette in Ditmars who made me a medium lavender latte when I ordered a small and smiled at me on a day I was feeling ugly, thank you.

To the man walking behind me who complimented my outfit without being weird, thank you.

To the nurse who helped perform my echocardiogram and noticed my icy hands and warmed them in her own warm ones, thank you.

To the primary care doctor in Astoria who touched the fresh shingles scars on my back with her bare hands and asked me if I was stressed and sat with me as I cried, thank you.

To the pretty young woman on the subway who moved over to make room for me on the full car during morning rush hour on the Manhattan-bound L train and waved me in as I hesitated outside the doors, thank you.

To the little girl at the playground who smiled at me and looked at me like I was a goddess, thank you.

To the usher at Walter Kerr Theatre who enthusiastically complimented me and my outfit several times as she showed us to our seats, thank you.

To the couple sitting at the table next to us who gave me their rose on Valentine’s day because they couldn’t take it with them to their Broadway show, thank you.

To the homeless man in lower Manhattan who complimented my mom’s and mine outfits with a big genuine smile and asked for nothing in return, thank you.

To the cop on the non-emergency line who personally called me back and hour later to make sure I had been rescued from my apartment after the door wouldn’t open from the inside, thank you.

To the little girls who got off the schoolbus and yelled at me “your baby is cute!” referring to my nephew in the stroller, thank you.

To the woman in the backseat of an Uber in Brooklyn who rolled down her window to ask me if I was getting married when I was walking to my sister’s mehndi ceremony and complimented me on my lehenga, thank you.

I used to sleep as a means of escaping life.

I was dead during the day and let sleep carry me away into dreams where I was unbound by the obligations of family and society. I used to lay in a dark room for hours just to let sleep carry me in out of consciousness; I could find comfort in nothing else.

Then there was a period where I struggled to sleep at all. My one pleasure in life had abandoned me too.

I’m finally at a place where sleep is not an escape but a cozy comfort, something healing and regenerative. I wake up ready to live now.

So I went to a famous cemetery in Brooklyn, yes that one. The Green-Wood Cemetery. I went in search of finding an Amina in the hopes that I could maybe take away some lesson or learn how to live better in the moment.

I went in August 2024. I searched for her in the online directory, wandered through the ornate mausoleums and manicured lawns, found her there in the neglected section where the weeds were overgrown closest to the main road.

I wonder if cemeteries were designed by the dead instead of the living, how different they would be. Designed by the living, they reflected the same material trappings of life. I reflected on Oscar Wilde’s poem about how death must be so beautiful, to be able to finally let go of all the aches of life and know true peace. I really envied the dead in this moment.

My Amina died in 1871, it is unknown when she was born. Maybe she was a baby, maybe she was a woman in her late 20s like me. She definitely didn’t know a girl with her name 150 years later would be remembering her. It’s a really trippy concept. I wonder how long ago her last visitor was; the ones who would have visited her were long dead.

I wonder if a lonely girl 150 years from when I’m buried will come to visit me at my final resting place. I think I would like that. And her name doesn’t even have to be Amina.

Warm wind on a summer night

Freedom after taking the last exam before summer break

Falling so undeniably in love with the characters in a fantasy novel

Being kissed