The Art of Leaving

They told me I could be anything. I chose to be the one who waits.

At first, it was a choice, deliberate and proud. I waited for their calls in the quiet hours, ready to absorb their tears, their fears, their failures. I waited for their needs to reach a crescendo, for their lives to break open just wide enough for me to crawl in and patch the cracks. I told myself this was love: to sit in the shadows, still and steady, while the world revolved around everyone else.

The waiting used to be filled with purpose. It felt noble, almost holy, to hold my breath and suspend my needs for the sake of others. I thought I was a lighthouse, guiding them safely to shore. But the shore is empty, the sea still. The horizon stretches endlessly, mocking me with its nothingness. The waiting has turned from purpose to habit, a hollow ache that fills the silence but not the void.

The candle flickers, casting long shadows that twist and stretch like specters. I watch them move, feeling a strange kinship with their aimlessness. They, too, are waiting—waiting for the light to fade, for the darkness to take them. And when it does, what then? What becomes of a shadow with no light to anchor it? What becomes of me when there is no one left to wait for?

The ending is always the same. Sift through a thousand photographs, go through a million memories, and you’ll find yourself alone in every single one. An empty passenger seat, a cold side of the bed, a hand no longer held. This is one night I wish the sun would erase. But the sun never erases does it? It merely illuminates; without the sun there would be no shadows. They take form and linger beyond the sun’s reach, their claws sharpened. I hear their shouts, I hear their murmurs, but it just might be all in my head. It does not matter if they’re real, though, on a whim, they can still spill your blood.

I don’t know what vile sin I have committed to deserve her fury. She liked to play this game where she asks for my opinion. The catch is she will never take it unless it fits squarely within what she already has decided before asking me. Games with her were always rigged. I know now that she never really loved me, but we shared something more intimate than love: an eternal, boundless, melancholy. We ached for something. Her eyes screamed it. The eyes of perpetual sadness.

She makes me question the rules I’ve put in place for years. The morals, the compass, the understanding of relationships I’ve clung to for so long—they all feel flimsy in the face of what I feel for her. I want to throw all of it out of the window just to see her face next to me first thing in the morning. I’ve built walls so high, thinking they’d keep me safe, but she doesn’t climb them. She doesn’t tear them down. She simply stands outside and waits. And somehow, that’s more devastating.

I told myself I’d given up on being a hopeless romantic, on grand gestures, on the impossible ideals of soulmates. But she rewrote that script. She made me believe, for the briefest moment, that maybe I wasn’t foolish to hope for something more. And now, I’m left with the quiet, aching knowledge that the rules of my life—the ones I thought were unshakable—mean nothing without her.

And now, I can’t escape the feeling that I’ll never quite find someone like her again. Not because she’s perfect—she’s clumsy and infuriating and stubborn in ways that drive me mad. But because she makes the world sharper, more vivid. The mediocre becomes beautiful in her presence. The sky bluer, the rats cuter, the air clearer. She makes me feel like I’ve been walking through life with my eyes half-closed, and now I can’t unsee the colors she’s shown me.

She gave me something more dangerous than hope, more wicked than enthusiasm, more insidious than love. She gave me a taste of what could be, and that is a drug with the worst withdrawal. I’ve tried to wean myself off it, but the memory is relentless. It clings to me like the scent of her hair, like the weight of her absence in a room she never even entered.

I miss her both emotionally and physically. The weight of her absence presses against my chest, her memory clawing at the edges of my mind. And yet, I can’t bring myself to regret a single moment. Because for all the pain, she gave me a glimpse of what could be. And even if I never taste it again, I’ll carry that with me. Forever.

There’s a strange peace in the spaces where nothing demands my attention, where life’s relentless pace pauses just long enough to breathe in stillness. There is an eerie comfort in being as close to death as possible, without actually dying. This is what the place reeked of, not of death, but the stench of physical and metaphorical proximity to death. The antonym to life is not death, but this parallel plane of existence, intangible, yet ever present. In these moments, every layer peels back, exposing something raw, something I often shy away from.

Her hand is wrinkly and tied up, her vocal cords cannot work without assistance —her soul is defeated, but the doctors insist on keeping the vessel alive. This is not how I remember her; she was a strong woman, and I refuse to accept that she remains somewhere in the confines of this frail body. The thought of being in her place consumed me. I did not want to end up like this, confined and confused, my liberties and mind taken away. If I lose my soul, I don’t want to keep the vessel to satisfy the arrogance of man.

The nurse came in, announcing with indifference that visiting hours are over. I thought of waking her up to say goodbye, but what purpose could that possibly serve? I got up and started walking down the hallway. I’m here every day, but the halls keep getting slightly more confusing with every visit. I never liked being in hospitals, but the concept of death intrigued me.

As I was leaving I heard a commotion in the room, I hesitated, but eventually turned back. The woman lying in the bed across from her had just died. She was surrounded by her daughters, one of which was crying hysterically while hugging the lifeless corpse. In between the bouts of tearful screaming, I could hear the silence. Death is here, calling for me, but I did not know how to respond.

I went to my car in the huge parking garage. I sat there to collect my thoughts. I didn’t want to go home. “Home is a thousand miles away” I muttered to myself, ending with a quick sarcastic laugh. I glanced at my reflection in the mirror, my eyes are red from 16 hours shifts. I sat there and I wept. Not for the death of a soul, but my proximity to it, inching closer.

The silence grew loud and heavy, encompassing the vast parking garage. It expected a response; an answer to a question that I never heard. I got out of the car and walked up the ramp. They’re waiting for me, just out of sight. Unsteady steps turned into a purposeful jog. I’m up to the third floor of the garage. Now at a full sprint, I made it to the roof. I know what I have to do.

I got up on the ledge with ease. There was no wind, and no stars. I asked the sun to rise, but it had refused. I do not want to be strapped to that bed, I am tired of the stench, but I have to accept my fate; I am an agent of death, and it is time for me to fulfill my purpose. The void calls for me, it demands my presence, but I remain stranded in between life and death —never fully alive, nor tasting the sweet relief of death. I take a step forward, I can finally feel the wind on my face.

I was told there were sunshines here too. For the life of me I cannot find the rays. I begged for her feet to stay on the ground, but they ignored my pleas. We walked a thousand miles together; her feet must have gotten tired. A few inches off the ground is all it takes to lose your soul. I embraced her legs in an attempt to breathe life into her; they remained motionless. I could hear echoes of her laugh, but echoes are temporary; the real thing will never grace my ears again. In my marvel I asked her how was she all the things she was. She smiled and asked me how many things did I think I was. A beautiful soul, she called me, but when she saw our reflections, she saw the grotesque. I bought her every shiny new mirror I could find to shake off the demons—she smashed every last one.

I can hear all the voices except mine; it leaves no echoes anymore, an orchestra without a conductor. How did it come to this? I whispered to myself. You are an inconsequential piece of garbage. How could you do this to her? I could raise my voice, but there was no one left to hear me plead for the sun to shine on her face one more time. I gave her my echoes and my reflections, my shadows and light. I offered her the silence between my breaths; I would surrender to her every other fragment of my being if I still could. Death was never the antonym to life; it is indifference that lingers when all is gone.

Dear Anya, 

There is a school right outside my office window. They have a clock tower attached to the building, except the clock is ornamental. Every time I look at it, the arms indicate 10 after 10. With every glance, I secretly hope it will start moving, yet it remains stuck. No amount of yearning will make it move. 

I’m currently stuck, but for the first time in my life, I don’t know where to go. I’m at a movie theater, and as the movie is reaching its predictable cliché of a climax, the screen goes blank, and the lights turn on. I sit there in a daze, unsure if the movie will continue or if I should leave. The clock is still at 10 after 10. 

In the third grade, my teacher got me a set of Parker pens. He thought I had potential and wrote me a letter declaring that I would one day make a great writer. The original set went unused. They’re still in their original box, rotting away in obscurity.

People have told me I’m destined to do great things for over a decade. I fell for it. I told myself that my life’s mission was to create something beautiful. That something was never defined, but I said I would point at that thing one day and say, “I made that beautiful thing.”

When I went into policy and public service, I thought it was my lucky break. I could finally create that beautiful thing; the intangible started to take shape. I could live a life of kindness, and for a while, I did. I was on my way; the clock should be moving soon, I thought —naively. 

Yet, as I sit here today in my office, people loudly celebrating Trump’s victory, I doubt if kindness really exists around us. Are we all vile creatures underneath, eager to step over anyone to gain a sliver of power or money? Am I what I present myself to be? A public servant trying to do what’s best? Or am I simply another cog in the machine of cruelty? I look around, see suffering and injustice, and wonder what kind of house I helped build. 

While I am still ambivalent about my place in the world and where I should go next, I know for certain the effect your presence and your kindness had on my life. I remember vividly waiting outside your office door, shaking and quivering, my anxiety at its height, wondering if you would let me submit an assignment late because of my circumstances. I felt guilt and shame. My mind telling me I had let you down. That I’m using mental illness to get away with things. 

As soon as I stepped into the office, I was welcomed with a smile and stacks of books arranged in every angle. While I stumbled through my sentences, trying to give an excuse that I was not convinced of myself, you offered me banana bread. You did not ask me for medical reports and official letters, but you did ask me if I wanted to take a walk in the park. My anxieties were still there but were being peeled down layer by layer. You allowed me space to express my worries, validated my concerns instead of discrediting them, and reassured me that there are still opportunities to make up for what was lost —the banana bread definitely helped. 

To choose kindness is often a solitary path. When you offer kindness to others, you offer pieces of a finite resource that you have; you offer pieces of your soul. No matter how small these pieces are, even if microscopic, they remain prone to depletion. Yet to abandon kindness is to succumb to the existential dread, to become one with the shadowy figures. To accept the cruelty is deliverance from the illusions of kindness. To be liberated from the suffocating burden of guilt. To grant oneself the sinister liberty of exploitation and selfishness.

Whenever I ask myself which choice to make, my interaction with you that day—in addition to many others—reminds me of the kindness present in this world. Even though the world might seem cruel, someone like you will still choose kindness over the many other seductive choices. Every time we are kind, it is an extension of the kindness offered to us. 

Knowing you, Anya, traces of your kindness go beyond me and beyond the walls of our university, and extensions of your kindness undoubtedly have crossed continents. Thanks to you, Anya, I know that whether I choose to stay or leave the movie theater, or whatever beautiful thing I might create or not create, I can still leave traces of kindness wherever I may go. For that, countless others and I are eternally grateful. 

With love and adoration,
Tarek

Sometimes it feels like there is a vise on my heart. My hand has control over the vise, but I do not have control over my hand. In my despair, I ache as it loosens, I groan as it tightens. In my agony I declare and I command, but my hand disobeys.

I asked her why I should keep writing; is there anything left for me to write that has not already been written? She said the sky has been painted thousands times, should we stop painting the sky?

The vise loosens.

You have fought with valor, but every warrior needs rest. You may enter the cocoon of kindness. Generous layers of silk enfold you, a garden of jasmine breathes around you.

You are now home. At peace. Through the night of many terrors, your soul rejuvenates. Fragments of your being, once torn, are sewn and stitched. Vile remnants of all the yesterdays, filtered and dissolved.

It has been a long night, but the first rays break their way through. The sun shines today, just for you.
A light born from within. A darkness kept on a leash. A vast middle ground ripe for conquest.

The winnower is here. A war is stirring beyond your kingdom gates. Yet the warmth, breaking through every wall and barrier, flows into the vessels.

You are the instrument in which the universe expresses its kindness—a collection of atoms, a conduit of energy.

The people await the supplications. The seekers are crossing the deserts.

It is time to emerge. You are summoned once more. Another iteration of the cruel experiment awaits.

Dawn is here. Rise. Untether, and venture forth.

Dawn is here. Rise. Untether, and venture forth.

Dawn is here. Rise. Untether, and venture forth.

It itches,
It burns,
Beneath the skin,
A war I cannot win.

It twists,
It turns,
Locked in a cage,
Nothing but rage.

It claws,
It scrapes,
Hoping for a dawn,
Where the shadows are gone.

It aches,
It waits,
For the sun always shines,
Just a little too late.

No two molecules may occupy the same physical space, just as no mind can hold two thoughts simultaneously. Anxiety can feel like a torrent of a thousand thoughts crashing together at once, but in reality, the mind is consumed by only one thought at a time. This does not make anxiety any less overwhelming. After all, an avalanche is still just a cascade of individual snowflakes.

In each moment, that single thought becomes your entire world, the only thing that truly matters. The most important thing in the world shifts with every heartbeat, flickering between letters, words, and numbers—twisting, convulsing, transforming—while your mind is swept under the avalanche, devoured by a single solitary thought.

In the third grade, my teacher got me a set of Parker pens. I still have the set today, and these pens are what started my long love affair with Parker pens. I try to always have at least one on me. They also make great spontaneous gifts. My teacher thought I had potential. He wrote me a letter declaring that I would one day make a great writer. He was an excellent teacher, but he was sorely mistaken. The original set went unused. They’re still in their original box, rotting away in obscurity, not unlike their owner.

A lot of people were/are wrong about me. I rely on simple tricks to build an illusion of talent. A layer of paint over a pile of garbage, a facade over a crumbling tower. The first trick is maintaining silence until you have something smart to say. This leads to the belief that you only have intelligent things to say. The glasses help solidify my case, and a few white hairs seal the deal. I occasionally throw in a random fact or a funny anecdote I rehearsed and engineered a thousand times to appear spontaneous.

I usually make excellent first impressions. People walk away thinking they met a thoughtful, intelligent, occasionally funny, and most importantly, kind stranger. Aside from my bag of tricks, I can’t deny that I have some modicum of natural charm. It’s maintaining that illusion that is exhausting. The longer you get to hear my jokes and rants, the more likely you are to experience all the baggage that comes along. The more likely you are to get a peek behind the veil.