began again, in earnest.
Samir
Samir sat in the armchair in his room, his hand covering his mouth. This was what he’d wanted, right? This was where their relationship had been headed all along. That was what he’d been trying to get her to see. Not that he didn’t have feelings for her—of course he did—but that, no matter what, no matter how they tried, they were doomed to fail. Because of how different they were.
This, breaking up, was inevitable. He was just being honest with her when she asked. He’d never intentionally misled her into thinking something obviously false. The Samir Jhas and Pinky Kumars of the world weren’t meant to be together. That was a logical, incontrovertible fact.
So… why did he feel sick to his stomach? He was experiencing none of the satisfaction that he usually got from making a rational, mature decision. Instead, he felt like he was making the biggest, most moronic mistake of his life. Every fiber of his being was drenched in regret and remorse.
The truth was, what he wanted most in that moment was to get up and rush to her room, to take her into his arms, to kiss her until her head spun, until she realized exactly how much she meant to him. To take back everything he’d said, to apologize, to tell her he wanted to be with her anyway, logic and good sense be damned. He closed his eyes, feeling like someone with an iron fist had just punched him in the stomach. He bent over, his body, his soul, crying out for hers. He wanted to soothe her, to undo the hurt he’d done, but where was the sense in that? Why did his brain know one thing but his heart insist on another?
Moving to put his head in his hands, Samir caught sight of the loose planner pages Pinky had found in his nightstand. On impulse, he strode across the room to his messenger bag, which was hanging neatly from a hook in his closet, and withdrew his planner. Opening it up, he began scanning the weekly calendar going back to the beginning of the year. Pages and pages of notes in his neat, blocky handwriting that soothed him just to see. Each part of his day planned out, so he could see everything coming. Breakfast. Tennis. Schoolwork. Listening to music. Basketball with Ashish. Shopping. Cooking with his mom. It was all scheduled in there, nothing at all left to chance. This was his life the way he liked it, here in black and white, predictable, manageable, controllable. No surprises.
And yet… Samir paced to the table in his room and set the planner down, pausing to look out the window at the dark, subdued lake. A silver moon glimmered on its surface, watchful and quiet. And yet… the best thing in his life so far, the most inspiring, amazing, scintillating thing—falling for Pinky—had happened unplanned. She’d texted him out of the blue, and he’d accepted her offer to be her fake boyfriend on impulse. There was nothing in his planner about that. One of the biggest disappointments of his life—losing that internship in DC—had also happened unplanned. He’d done everything he was supposed to; he’d been diligent and watchful, and the rug had still been pulled out from under him. So what did that say about life?
“Life’s what happens when you’re busy scribbling in your planner,” he said into his empty room, then wanted to laugh because he sounded like one of those inspirational quote posters you might find at the gym.
What if he’d been living some thin facsimile of life until Pinky had come along and thrown it all into turmoil? What if her chaotic energy wasn’t what would throw his life off course—what if it was her chaotic energy that had given his life a course? He’d done things here he never would have dreamed of doing if he hadn’t answered her text: He’d pretended to be a fake boyfriend to land an internship; he’d kissed a girl who’d scared him at first; he’d then fallen for said girl; he’d made friends with the Shark—and a strange opossum; he’d climbed rooftops and treetops when he much preferred standing on solid ground.
Samir turned and walked to the bed, where she’d left the stupid list he’d made. He snatched it up, fully intending to tear it into pieces, to feel the paper disintegrate between his fingers. Instead, he found himself reading the list, top to bottom, over and over