Page 120 of The Mismatch

‘It feels very personal …’

There was an awkward silence. ‘You’re right, I shouldn’t push you. It’s just … never mind.’

‘What?’

‘Nothing.’ He busied himself with picking up the plate in front of him and walking over to the sink to clean it.

‘Come on! What is it? What were you going to say?’ She could barely hear herself over the sound of hot water, and the clatter of plates in their very full sink.

He turned the water off and looked at her.

‘I was just going to say, a couple of months ago you were talking about your dad. Now it seems you’ve closed up again.’

‘I’ll think about it,’ she muttered.

Soraya found that it was surprisingly easy to write, came almost too naturally. But when she read the first draft, before agreeing to do it officially, she realised how superficially she was writing about her experience. It was as though she was an onlooker in her own life. So when she brought the lens closer, and talked about how it affected her mentally and physically, it brought waves of vulnerability. Just having the words written down stripped her bare. And that was before anyone had even looked at it. Her face was tear-stained, her whole body tense from writing up her experience.

It was in that moment she knew she needed to tell her story. Even if just one person read it and could relate, that would be enough. It felt selfish of her not to at least try and make one person feel less alone.

The day of the launch arrived. The venue was in Deptford, the cafe/bar was on the ground floor and the basement was a larger room with plain white walls. The copies were laid out on a table at the back of the basement, and every time she looked at them Soraya felt a rush of pride. She finally had something tangible that she could produce to show she had achieved something, that she was good at something other than selling overpriced dresses to stuck-up customers.

The cover was simple; she had played with typography and contrasting colours to make it stand out. She’d also drawnsome illustrations of small birds, which were printed in foil; they shimmered in the light.

A couple of hours in and the bar was busy, faces Soraya recognised merging with others she didn’t know.

When it was time for the readings, the basement fell quiet. Soraya’s palms were clammy, and she would have preferred less engagement from the audience.

All eyes were on Priya, Oliver and Soraya as they stood at the front of the room.

‘Thank you all so much for coming to theMillennialslaunch party!’ Oliver said, breaking into a grin. She had never seen him so happy. There were claps and cheers from the audience. Oliver’s new boyfriend, Kiran, wolf-whistled from the back row. Soraya had met him a few times and finally felt that Oliver had met someone worthy of him. ‘Millennialsis a journal celebrating stories from people whose voices aren’t ordinarily heard. We’re so excited to show you something we’ve been working really hard on. We’re going to start off with some of the contributors reading excerpts from their pieces, and then you can buy a copy, have a drink, mingle …’

‘And get smashed,’ Priya added, sticking her tongue out. Soraya cringed, but the crowd seemed to enjoy it.

Soraya had rehearsed what she would say but with all eyes on her, strangers and friends, she clammed up. She looked to Oliver, and he gave her the slightest nod.Fuck it, she thought.

‘And the theme for this issue is breaking free. It’s a theme so many of us can relate to. Whether you’re breaking free from toxic relationships – involving others or yourself.Graduating from university and finding yourself. Breaking free from societal expectations, from supposed norms. The list goes on. And Issue One is just a snapshot of us breaking free. I hope you all enjoy it.’

Priya jumped on the spot. ‘And leading with that … the beautiful Soraya Nazari will begin with her piece “A Prison of Silence”.’

Oliver and Priya sat down. The piece of paper shook in Soraya’s hands.

She had practised this over and over. She had it memorised; the printed copy was just insurance. Earlier in the day when they had run through it together, she’d been told she needed to speak louder and slower. At the time she was aware she was speaking too quickly, but fear of being truly heard held her back. Again,Fuck itrang loud and clear in her head. Once it was over, she could hide away and be embarrassed then.

‘Hi, I’m Soraya,’ she said, and then cleared her throat. ‘Obviously,’ she added. Oliver gave her a supportive smile. She focused on him. Settled on him, and only him. ‘“The first time I told someone my dad is a drug addict, I burst into tears. The first time I told someone, my best friend, my dad is a drug addict, I was twenty years old. All my life until then I stayed silent, as though I had done something wrong, as though I were to blame. It took meeting my best friend, my confidant, to change that.

‘“My dad is selfish, cowardly, and often a bully. What saddens me most about all of this is that I’ll never know if that’s his personality, or the drugs. I never knew my dadbefore he became addicted to opium, and then methadone, courtesy of the NHS. I will never know him sober because he doesn’t want to quit. Or maybe he simply can’t.

‘“It’s taken me a while to realise the effect his drug taking has had on me, physically and mentally. When I have a moment to think, I peel the skin by my nails. It often bleeds. It hurts. But I can’t stop. It’s compulsive. I grew up in a disrupted house. Life was never smooth sailing with a drug-addicted dad, so in adulthood I can’t see my life being smooth. Therefore, when it ticks along, and there’s no immediate threat, I peel the skin by my fingers, and wonder: what horrible thing is going to happen next?”’

Her vision of Oliver was blurry by now, but she continued speaking, needing to finish her piece before she cried.

‘“So, I’m learning to forgive, to understand my dad better, to change my future. I made a decision to break myself free. Free from the shackles of my dad, from my anxiety, from his addiction. I’m allowing myself to soar, unrestrained by the weight of my dad’s mistakes. I am his daughter, yes, but I am not my dad.”’

The clapping in contrast to the silence before made Soraya jump. She put up one hand to cover her smile, and to wipe away her tears. Oliver stood up, clapping loudly. She heard a familiar yelp above the clapping. It took her all the way back to graduation day. She wiped away any lingering tears and looked out over the seated crowd.

Magnus.

Just as she had at graduation, despite her grand speech about change, she moved out of the spotlight and sat down inthe front row, next to Priya, whilst Oliver introduced the next speaker. All the while her head was pounding. Was she going mad? Or had she seen Magnus Evans, who was supposed to be in Paris, listening to her read? Convinced it couldn’t have been him, she turned in her seat to peer at the back row. Sure enough, there he was, looking right at her. He smiled. She turned back to the front again. Her brain couldn’t compute what was going on.This isn’t supposed to happen, her mind moaned, he’s meant to be dead to you. The technique didn’t quite work when the subject was in the same room. And very much alive. A minor flaw.