Page 70 of If I Loved You Less
“Did you like it?” I ask, holding upThe Piper’s Son.
“I did, yes.”
“Come, sit, and let’s discuss.” I love discussing favorite books, analyzing scenes and foreshadowing and symbols and moments. I head toward the living room, so we can sit, but his gaze goes to the flowers on the table again.
“No, I better get going,” he says. He runs a hand through his hair, making it a little messy.
“Oh. Okay.” I bite my lip. “Well, tell me one thing at least.”
“What is it?”
“Did you cry?” I ask enthusiastically. “I always sob through most of it.”
“Isn’t it one of your favorite books?” he asks, bemused.
“Yes, and that’s precisely why,” I reply. “I’ll do anything to feel something.” My tone is light, and it's perhaps onlypartlya joke.
“It did make me cry,” he admits. “Which is rare.”
“I am glad it made you cry, as strange as that sounds,” I respond. If he didn’t cry, I might have had to reconsider our friendship. I circle back to what he said. “Is it rare for you to cry because of a book or in general?”
“Both.”
“Oh gosh. I’m always crying.” I pause. “Though that does not make it mean any less.” I feel it fully each time.
“Perhaps I am an emotionless person,” he says, tone cavalier, but it does not do well to mask the echoing emptiness beneath the statement. I frown.
“I don’t believe that,” I say truthfully. “I used to hate crying as well, especially after Mama died. It hurt so much, and it seemed to be all I could do. So for a while, I stopped. But then one day I cried out of happiness, and it changed from this horrible act, only occurring at life’s most terrible moments, to something beautiful. It was quite liberating.”
“What made you cry out of happiness?”
I consider this. “I’m not sure.” I really don’t remember what it was exactly. “I think it was an ordinary day, filled with ordinary things, like laughing with my sister, and spending time with Papa, and it was a day filled with happiness, after being sad for so long.”
I do not even realize what I am saying until it is said, and then it strikes me just how true the words are. Strange. I didn’t know that about myself. Sometimes other people can excavate things buried deep within us we did not even know existed: sentiments, emotions, thoughts.
I look at him as if I have not seen him before. There is a lock of hair curving across his forehead, resting just between his brows, and for some reason I find this quite devastating. I’m enthralled by the curve of it, its silky sheen. I get the impulse to reach out and touch it.
Instead, I fiddle with the end of my scarf.
“Anyways,” I say brightly, “since then, I haven’t really shied away from crying, though I still don’t cry in front of people, as a general rule.”
“That’s not true,” he says. “I’ve seen you cry.”
“That’s only because you’re always around,” I respond. “You don’t give me any time at all to put up my pretenses and pretty facades. I can never hide from you.”
I am struck by how true this is, too. A peculiar sensation spreads through me. I startle a bit but recover quickly.
“It’s very rude,” I add, trying to keep the conversation light-hearted. “What if I was an ugly crier? My reputation could be ruined by you witnessing such a sight.”
Fawad laughs. “You are an ugly crier.”
“I am not!” I smack his arm with the book. “How dare you!” But I’m laughing as well.
Then, something in the air changes. He stops laughing, but the amusement lingers in his half-lidded eyes, in the turn of his smile. His eyelashes flutter as he blinks, looking at me, as if he sees me, truly sees me.
At first, I look away, suddenly shy, but I want to have the courage to seize this moment, whatever it is. I stare back, matching his perceptive gaze.
A jolt of electricity shocks through me as our eyes meet. My breath catches.
