One month later

Zemira

I had visited New York City many times before as a child. It made me feel like a princess lost in a big city, especially since I was too much into princesses back then.

The city was a nostalgic reminder of the time when we as a family attended the Broadway musical - The Lion King - and ate soft pretzels from the sidewalk that gave me a terrible stomach ache the next day.

When I arrived in the soot-filled, horn-blaring, concrete jungle, something felt different. Maybe that was what Dad meant when he said that I'd see the city from a fresh perspective. I wasn't visiting for vacation. I was coming to work.

I had also become a proud owner of a brownstone on 78th between Amsterdam and Columbus. Well, not exactly an owner. It was my mother's property that I put to good use as my home office till the time I settled in.

The place - a four-bedroom, marble abode - had all the amenities I needed. It had a home office arrangement like the one in Miami. The kitchen - not that I was an experienced cook - could put Michelin-star restaurants to shame.

My house muffled the buzzing New York streets and the cacophony of car honks. It was my cocoon.

My father had arranged everything for me. From a chauffeur for work, a chef for food and a help assigned specifically to force-feed me if I didn't eat on time, I couldn't complain of any inconvenience.

By deploying so many people, he ensured my safety while being away from him. Not that I was fighting a war but for my father, living away from him meant doubling down on his love.

My routine remained the same too, except for certain things. Without the pricking Miami heat but the caressing cold of the New York mornings, I found it hard to toss away my comforter and go for a jog.

It was much harder after the exercise when the temptation to fall back into bed than go to the office grappled me every morning.

I wondered if living in Miami had set my body to a certain standard of heat and warmth without which my mind wouldn't function.

The elevator to my office floor chimed open, breaking my reverie.

"Top of the morning to you, Zem." My assistant, Gina, welcomed me with a notepad in her hand and a cup of coffee in another.

"Are we enacting being British today?" I asked while she walked alongside. The sound of her new black heels reverted through the empty reception.

Gina Rodrigues was supposed to be our intern but our Human Resources decided to retain her as an assistant because according to them, 'she got things done.' For those who didn't understand their subtext, it meant Gina coerced people till she got her way.

"Yes, I've decided to talk in a Brit accent today," she said. "I'll use words like bonkers."

"As much as it's entertaining to see you do that, I'd expect you to attend the calls in your normal accent."

The moment she opened her mouth to counter me, her phone chimed.

This bubbling-with-energy girl with a petite figure and a mesmerizing smile was my closest friend in this place.

"Blimey," she said while checking her phone. "Your meeting with that baby hands man has to be rescheduled. He's running late...Again."

"His hands aren't like baby, Gina. And you're not to call him that..."

"Point taken, milady."

Gina pushed open my office door and closed it once I walked inside.

She wasn't just efficient. She knew how to keep things light during distressing meetings and client visits. In a place where most of us were new and tried being serious, Gina was a breath of fresh air.

Placing another steaming coffee cup from her cup holder to my side, and turning it to reveal my name, she sat on the opposite side of my table.

"You didn't have to buy me coffee, Gina. I was supposed to-"

"- buy me a drink, I know. But you know what, I'm drowning you in favors so that when the time comes, I can ask for your chauffeur to drive me around."

Gina never hid her true self and that was one of the things I liked about her. Utter honesty. That and being fixated on my driver, Hamid.

"He's leaving for Miami soon," I said. "Dad needs him."

"What the hell! He didn't tell me."

"He didn't know either. I decided after talking to Dad a couple of days ago."

Her smile crumpled. She tried standing but the new heels she bought with her first stipend toppled her.

"Oh, come on now. I thought it was a fling," I said.

"It's not a fling. It's a crush, a heavy one." She looked away. "I don't know. Leave me alone. I'm still figuring it out."

Hamid was a well-built man with a wheat-ish tone he acquired from his Asiatic descent. More than being a loyal guard and a helpful friend, he was also a kind-hearted person who respected women. He never pursued Gina even when she harassed him day in and out for a date.

At least I thought so.

"Are you sure it's not just attraction?"

"Yes, I'm damn sure. It's not a 'man looks good so I wanna hump him' kinda crush." Gina crossed her arms over her chest, straightening from the seat.

"Wait. I'm sorry about what I said. You are right. It's your life. You'd know better"

"So..." her eyes twinkled. She bit into her lower lip and pouted her face. "Will he be staying?"

It was part of Gina's puppy eyes plan.

It worked.

"Fine... I'll talk to Dad. Hamid can stay. But only if..." My index finger danced in the air to where she stood. "...if he wants to."

Grinning, she rushed out of my office. Within minutes, my desk phone rang, flashing her number.

"Yes, Gina," I began.

"I'd want to stay, Zemira," Hamid's soft voice came through the speaker. "If that's alright with you."

Gosh. This girl got things done at a lightning pace.

"Are you sure, Hamid? Cough twice if you're doing it against your will."

"Come on, Zem..." Gina's voice echoed from the background. "He confirmed. Now make him stay."

Seeing young love blossoming right in front of my eyes puddled me.

"You know what," I began. "You can take that reserved half-day of yours today with him. I don't see a lot of work so-"

Leaving behind their screaming celebration, the call got disconnected.

Moments later, Gina sprang back into my office, ran around the corner and hugged me with such force, I was sure to have dislocated my shoulder.

"You are so so so sweet. I love you, Zem."

She kissed me. More like lathered me with her saliva and ran back to the door. Before she grabbed the doorknob, her boiling energy subsided. Her breath cemented.

Turning around, she addressed me. "What about your session?"

Oh right.

With my therapist in Miami, my regular therapy session over video calls wasn't turning out to be fruitful. So, I joined a mental health support group in the nearby vicinity.

In the month following my move to the city, this group supported me and made me believe that I wasn't one of a kind with my mental health issues. There were others like me in worse conditions.

"I'll manage it." I waved at her. "You go have fun."

With pursed lips, Gina left the room to let me concentrate on work.

By evening, with no respite from the doubts that kept cropping up, I dialed my father. He knew the Hotel contracts in and out and there was no shame in asking for help.

When the call went to his voicemail, I decided it was time to take a little break from work and attend the ritualistic meeting.

New York was always crowded but on Fridays, it brimmed even further as if somehow more people poured in from parallel portals.

For a therapy session at six in the evening with a driving distance of ten minutes in a cab, I took thirty and arrived even later than the high-school member of our group, Harriet, who joined us after her soccer practice.

When I walked into the room - a place inside a community building that masqueraded as an art and pottery class in the morning - everyone was already seated. Harriet had arrived a little before me, wiping the back of her neck and fanning her face.

She winked at me, pointing at the seat she reserved for me. I shut the creaking door as gently as I could.

Our counselor, Ms. Davis - a young and vibrant therapist with silken brown locks and a golden-sheened tone - sat at the far end of the room. Everyone faced her.

Someone was sharing their story when I inched towards the metal chair, praying to all the Gods for it not to creak as I sat.

People here hated latecomers. They said it broke their flow of narration, of what they suffered when someone entered late and disturbed everyone.

In hindsight, it made sense.

You wouldn't want a person to stop narrating their grief because you wanted to go and pee or grab a cookie.

For our meetings, we had rules. Everyone arrived on time, took their seats and listened to the counselor for advice on tackling the bad days before a chit system selected who would share their story.

Perfect, right?

Wrong.

The chit always had the names of Glenn - the widower who lost his wife twenty years ago; Frankie - whose dog died last year; or Harriet, the sweet, innocent soccer player coping with anxiety from being in her senior year.

The chit gods never blessed me.

"Okay, everyone..." Ms. Davis' voice floated after her consult. "We'll not do the chit today because not many people get to share their stories."

Thank God.

"I'll select someone whom I think can benefit from a talk today," Ms. Davis chirped, smiling at all of us.

So now, the chit gods were replaced with a biased goddess who detested me for coming late.

I couldn't blame her either.

"How about you?" Ms. Davis asked. "Would you like to share?"

I strained my neck to see whom she pointed at.

It wasn't me. Luck rarely sided with me. Neither did Ms. Davis.

"Hello." The man who sat in the front spoke.

Usually, anyone who shared, rotated their chair for us to see them. This man didn't.

With a stooped back and palms supporting his head, he sat. Waiting for the perfect moment to begin his narration.

"I've been through something. The past couple of months were..."

Silence

"Go on," Ms. Davis encouraged.

"I have been abroad."

His voice was muffled. I blamed it on the backseat acoustics.

"I don't want to go into the specifics." He cleared his throat. "But the things I've seen, they never leave my mind. It replays every time I try to sleep. Every moment that my mind goes idle..."

Silence

I hovered over my chair, almost to the point of standing up to see what happened to his sudden quietude. When nothing was visible over people's heads, I fell back.

The air around me felt thick and warm. Even the air conditioning couldn't cool it off.

"If you want to stop, you can," the counselor said. "But if you want to continue, you need to peel all the layers. Otherwise, you can't address your pain."

Ms. Davis was kind. Almost like a mother. I would say almost because, for me, she was still that woman who rolled her eyes every time I walked in late.

We all sat in silence.

For longer, the clock ticked the next minute and another. A chair dragged in some corner. Someone sneezed in front of me. Those were the only sounds in an otherwise silent room.

"I was in the army," The man said. The disturbances faded into oblivion. "I scoped a man wrong. He was a milit... a suicide bomber. He blew up... So did my team... So did my..."

I heard soft gasps.

In the past, people have shown their attempt marks. Maybe, he was showing his scars too.

I tried to stand up but something about his words, his voice reminded me of Leo. The back of my seat creaked at the slightest movement. It kept me glued.

For the past three weeks, I had forgotten all about Leo.

Lie. I had moved Leo to the back of my mind for the distraction that he'd become. Leo needed time to heal and I needed time to understand his need.

Our new location was a blessing in disguise for me. Since my move, I only thought about him when I sat idle, much like what our narrator said.

"I thank you for your service, soldier," Our counselor said. "We all do." My head nodded in tandem with everyone else. "May we discuss a session with you privately after this?"

Ms. Davis leaned closer to him but he didn't speak. Nor did he gesture anything. A man, devoid of feelings and pain after everything he'd endured.

The murmurs began again - resulting whenever Ms. Davis scribbled something on her medical notepad.

It meant that the person was in desperate need of medical intervention because she never took out her notepad that often.

My phone blared. I forgot to put it in silent mode.

I would walk five hundred miles for you - the ringtone I assigned for my father rang inside my bag.

It was a song he loved so much that it felt wrong to assign him any other tune.

And I would roll five hundred more

I fished for my phone. It slid into the deeper trenches of my bag.

Just to be the man who rolls a thousand miles.

"Read the sign." Ms. Davis was telling me. When I looked up for a quick second, she was pointing towards 'Put your phone on silence'.

Her hooked eyebrows and relentless foot-tapping confirmed she hated me even more.

To fall down at your door.

"Would you shut up, stupid phone," I yelled into my bag.

I would walk five hundred miles - mocked me back.

I felt something cold in my palms.

I grabbed it and with the reflex of a ninja, silenced it.

By now, I was standing in a room full of people who sat ahead of me.

Ms. Davis tilted her head. Her pursed lips conveyed the rest.

Harriet typed 'Say sorry' on her phone and showed it to me.

Oh, yes.

"Sorry, everyone."

I surrendered my arms in apology, tossing my phone into my bag. It vibrated again.

"Sorry. Sorry. I'm so so sorry."

I held my bag and began moving out.

"Pleeasse." The man who had shared earlier, grated. "Attend your calls outside."

He turned around to address me.

Air escaped my lungs, never to return as I faced him. My Leo.

~

If this isn't one hell of a second meet cute then I don't know what is...

Did you like their meeting? And what do you think will happen now?

Let me know