The conversation felt like one between friends. That subtle hint of flirtiness was gone again. I had come directly from college. I wasn't sure exactly when we'd meet, so I texted him. There was an hour gap, so I planned to wait at college, maybe rest in the mosque, and then meet him at 2:30. Surprisingly, I reached there just on time—exactly at 2:31. He called, but he wasn't there yet. I didn't mind; I had planned to read a little. I had brought the gift I had talked about: a wax sealing set for letters. I read for about thirty minutes before he arrived. I saw him in the elevator, and we went up together. I was wearing a white shirt with a black hijab and black pants.
I got there early, and our conversation turned, as always, into lessons.
"You shouldn't be a follower no matter what," he said. He'd mentioned something similar before, so I thought he was quoting Aristotle, who had told his students to be students, not followers. I said, "Yeah, one should be a student." He smiled and corrected me, "No. One should be a friend. Those who tell the other when they're wrong." Then he paused, smirked, and added, "Those that tell the other person when they're not dressed properly." I laughed because I remembered both times I had done that.
The first was at his workplace when his shirt wasn't tucked in. I told him to fix it. He said it was fine, but I couldn't accept it and insisted, joking, "I'm not asking for you. Fix it." The second was during our second visit to Read & Write. Coming directly from his workplace, I noticed his pants were hanging low because the belt was set too low. I told him he should wear it higher, and he adjusted it quietly.
He spoke about stories and narratives—how they control, restrict, and bind people. "Who is a good person? Who decides what is socially and morally correct? What gives someone that right?" According to him, one should follow their own aql and shaoor, doing what feels right. "It's all stories in the end. So many people have killed because of stories—world wars, nations enslaved by ideas, generations stuck in a mindset." He gave the example of fleas in a jar: even if the lid is removed after three days, they won't jump out because they've limited themselves. "You need to learn to live your own life. Freely. Make your own decisions. The bird in a cage even feels that flying is an illness. I don't usually tell people this, but you remind me of myself."
I had trouble focusing. I was paying attention, yet I kept spacing out. A deep desire to hide, to cover my eyes, to just rest overtook me. He noticed and asked if I was alright. I said it was nothing.
"Are you self-aware?" he asked. I laughed and said, "No, I'm not." Then I turned the question to him: "What do you think? Can someone else tell?" He countered, "That is something only the person themselves can tell." I didn't have an answer.
We talked about people he had introduced me to, like Minahil, and he said suddenly, "I wish I studied at CMH." I asked why, and he said, "So we'd get to spend more time together." I laughed and told him he could come now as my patient, but he chuckled and reminded me how often patients come. Rumors, past proposals, and misunderstandings made me realize what we had was a deep friendship, and I wasn't willing to let it be tainted by what others thought.
We were both lazy. He asked me to get him books; I didn't move. He laughed when I eventually did. The waiter brought biscuits. I wanted sweets but refused to get up. He said he knew me too well, and I laughed. Later, I went to fetch more biscuits, and he stayed on my beanbag. I suggested he get up; he refused, claiming it was comfier squished. I sat on his beanbag instead. He sang softly while I browsed books, a Persian song I didn't recognize at first. We talked about music—Persian songs, Coldplay, autotune—and I gave the impression I didn't listen, though I did.
He was a contradiction, always, recently admitting it himself. But there was something in him—a spark to learn, to observe, to be present.
His words lingered: "Finally, the tea has spoken. Sometimes it takes two cups to quiet the noise and let the truth whisper. Most people don't live—they perform, like actors in a play they never auditioned for. And one day, perhaps over chai, perhaps in silence, they realize the stage is empty and they never danced their own dance.
This existential crisis you feel… it's not a curse.
It's a blessing disguised in heartbreak.
It means you are waking up.
Now, don't panic.
Don't rush to fix it.
Just sit with it.
Cry a little. Laugh if you can.
Breathe deeply.
And when you're ready… live. Not as someone's daughter, lover, worker, achiever. But as you. Raw, present, and unrepeatable."