A Letter to the Love of My Life
In January, I flew 4,473 miles to spend 24 hours with you. You flew 3,986, and bought me dinner.
Also in January, you made me pull on a third sweater, because you “had to keep your Pakistani warm.” You taught me the word for the dumplings I loved: pelmene.
In February, we cuddled by the heater, eating leftover carrot cake you’d baked the day before. We talked about how fast our lives were spinning, about how old our parents are getting, about what we’d wear to our weddings.
In March, we sat across a coffee table which doubled as battlefield for our egos, and you apologized with tears in your eyes for the fell-swoop which had both destroyed my trust and broken our hearts.
Also in March, I forgave you.
In April, I thought I’d left you. I thought I had to. I walked through Nişantaşı with cold wind whipping against my cheeks, trying to breathe in a life without you, reworking countless words that I could use to come back, to save us, to fix us. I sent you a Google calendar invite to say sorry, and I wasn’t sure you’d accept.
Also in April, I cried into a handmade Sindhi rilli as I told you the story of a heart trying to find itself. You listened, you listened, you listened, and then you told me how to find my answer.
In May, you drank chai with me in every spare hour we could find for each other. We shared books and bagels and made lists of our goals.
In June, the social welfare dream you brought us all together for hit its biggest milestone, and, with stars in our eyes, we celebrated. In search of a change to our daily grind, you drove me to a set of beautiful ruins hours away and talked to me about our goals.
Also in June, I saved my best outfit to wear when I saw you.
In July, we ate lotus cheesecake. Afterwards, I had to leave you to drive to a nearby ATM because we didn’t have cash for the bill. The waiters didn’t trust us to come back if we both went. I lied to help plan your surprise party.
Also in July, I bought you a journal, and you began a journey we’re both still on today.
In August, you bought me an outfit fit for a queen. You baked me a cake, & brought balloons and lillies to my favorite night of the year. You proofread my birthday blog post about summer heat and August hearts, on a crowded plane. You took the middle seat so I could stretch my legs.
Also in August, you let me cry into my chai in a basement cafe, and helped me calculate exactly how many years I had left to achieve my dreams.
In September, I helped you cook dinner. You washed the dishes afterwards. I fell asleep in the corner seat in your living room. We splurged on a five course meal that I wore heels to. You introduced me to aubergine pizza and organic shampoo. We went to a literary festival.
Also in September, you met my mom.
In October, you took me on a walk by the Aegean. We sat on jagged rocks and talked about the bitter bits of our souls, complaining at the ocean. You stayed up late listening, 40 floors in the sky above Asia, to all the words — the round-and-round metaphors I used, stumbling through my insecurities. The next day, you found a cafe with cookies and translated copies of Jane Austen to make me smile. I took pictures of cats.
Also in October, you sent me a simple message that leapt over two years of politely unspoken anger and failed apologies. Let’s talk. I want you back in my life.
In November, you came to watch me try to smile instead of cry as I told a room full of strangers jokes about the most vulnerable time in my life. You made eye contact in the heartstopping millisecond after my punchline, when I didn’t know if they’d laugh or not. They did, and you led the way, pride beaming in your eyes.
Also in November, you held my hand in a dingy corner shop as I got my ears pierced by a pot-bellied jewelry salesman and pretended it didn’t hurt.
In December, I sit here thinking about all of the times I called saying only I need you now, and yes, in this moment, and how you never hesitated. I sit here remembering how you unrelentingly played parent-and-guardian-angel every time I was too weak to do adult, and never let me apologize for it. I find I can no longer count the hours spent helping me find documents, send emails, pay bills, fall asleep, and every moment in between.
In December, I am here writing one love letter when I should be writing twenty, to each of you that tucked me in when I fell asleep exhausted, that held me tight — literally, not metaphorically — when I thought I was falling apart, that yelled at me through the phone, saying I couldn’t give up on love, that I mustn’t — a love letter to say thank you for paying for every meal before I could even ask for the bill, to say you helped me make my hardest decisions this year, to say, “How did I get so lucky as to find in you mentor, companion, dreamer, lover, best friend?”
In December, I can give only words to thank you for this year of friendship.
Also in December, I sit here at the edge of my seat, craning my neck — antsy, hopeful, excited, — and above all, full of love — ready to see what’s next in our story.
