A beautiful flower. almeen bano

stood there, not knowing what to say. Should I tell them about my breakup with Staci now, in the dead of night? Or should I wait until morning? My mother would bombard me with loads of questions. Concealing the truth seemed pointless. If anything, it had been a mistake to come here. I should’ve gone with the other option of staying in the hotel.

      Right now, I was too weary to pretend that everything was fine. My hair was disheveled, my face tattooed with a frown, I needed a shower, and I looked sleep-deprived. Speaking felt like an insurmountable task.

      “Why don't you come inside?" My father, Robert, finally spoke, his voice soft but lacking compassion.

      We settled at the dining table in the dimly lit hall, and a silence hung over us. My mother returned with a glass of water, which I gratefully accepted.

      “Tell me the truth, son. Is everything all right? Aren't you supposed to be with Staci? Did you two have a fight?" My mother showed no mercy. In the middle of her interrogation, the sound of a ticking clock reverberated in the room, making me even more uncomfortable.

      I wanted to throw up, but “Mother—" I forced the words out, my voice strained. "Staci broke up with me.”

      “What?” She nearly stood up, her hand covering her mouth. My father remained silent, his gaze locked onto my soul, while I stared at the almost empty glass of water.

      “What do you mean she broke up with you?" “You must have done something. Did you apologize to her?”

      “What do I apologize to her for?” I shouted, “I didn't do anything. We went to Cancun and had a great time, or so I thought. She smiled, laughed, and played. She seemed happy, and I was, too. We didn't argue once the whole time.

      My mother interrupted. “You mean she never told you what was wrong? Did you even give her a chance to tell you?”

      Damn it, she didn't even mention a single thing she didn't like about me. What the hell would I have apologized for, Mom? For being nice? Loving? Caring? Responsible? Hygienic? Trying to make her happy?”

      I finally broke down and covered my face with my hands. I couldn't bear to hear my mother seemingly siding with her. Why? It wasn't like Staci was her best friend. She liked Staci, yes, but not to that extent. She hated the idea of me being without a girlfriend. She believed that if I had a stable relationship with a nice Jewish girl, my life would be on the right track, and my future would be secure.

      I found solace in my father's stoic demeanor and silence for the first time. I wouldn't say I liked his judgmental looks, but they were exactly what I needed today.

      “Calm down, honey,” My father directed his first words at my mother, “Panicking won't do any good right now.”

      “But this is bad. Can't you see? There's nothing that can't be solved by talking things out. Please tell him to talk to her,” she implored.

      “Talk about what, Mom? She fell out of love with me. Please, tell me, how do I make her love me again?”.

      “Listen, Joe,” my father interjected. “You shouldn't be dwelling on this now. Whatever has happened is now in the past. Move on and focus on the things that matter. “Your studies should be your priority. There are plenty of fish in the sea.”

      I took back what I’d said about my father. He was as unyielding as ever. If this was what he believed being strong was like, I wished no part of it. I wanted to mourn my losses, regret my decisions, and celebrate my victories. Unlike with my mother, however, I couldn't negotiate or express my opinions regarding my father.

      When he spoke, I listened. When ordered, I complied. I wasn’t exactly afraid of my father—he’d never hit me when I was a child—but he preferred things to be done his way, which had brought me here. Even in my broken moments, I didn’t talk back.

      My academic success was undeniably tied to my father's influence. Given his position as the dean, it was almost a given that I had no choice but to excel. He’d played a pivotal role in pushing me to choose NYU over Yale’s and Harvard's offers. His rationale revolved around the idea that NYU was my superior option, primarily because he could look out for me.

      The hours my parents spent talking to me— “Give it time—Things will work out” felt more like a series of instructions than a consoling conversation. I couldn't help but wonder if they truly understood the extent of my heartbreak, as their words only seemed to reinforce that I had failed beyond repair. And, in all honesty, I had indeed failed miserably. It was a humbling experience. It was like God himself wanted to punish me.

      My father stressed that regardless of my feelings for Staci, I had to preserve my sanity and, more importantly, my academic performance. I reluctantly agreed, but I knew my attention in the ensuing weeks would remain fixated on one person and one person alone: Staci.

      ###

      Two days later, I was back in class surrounded by hundreds of medical school students. Our relationship and shared apartment had been an open secret. Everyone knew about us. We attended all our courses together, sitting side by side, sharing meals, and chatting. But now, I found myself alone in class, my gaze fixed on her. I noticed several people staring at me. What was going through their brains?

      It was an odd sensation, not because I was unaccustomed to solitude. I had mentally prepared for that. What made it peculiar was that she never met my eyes when I looked at her in class or the hallways. Instead, I found her absorbed in the professors' lectures, diligently taking notes. Not once did she spare me a glance.

      How cruel you are, Staci. Do you even have a heart?

      My days became an unending punishment. Each morning, I woke up, went to NYU, and fixed my gaze on Staci. I would then tune out the conversations of supposed friends until I returned home, where I would listen to my mother's relentless reminders of the mistake I had made. I would dutifully report my academic progress to my father and then lie in bed, consumed by thoughts of Staci. This pattern repeated itself day in and day out.

      Some nights, the weight of my sorrow was too much to bear. I would curl up, clutching at my chest as if I could hold the heartache at bay. The evidence showed beneath my eyes in the form of dark bags, but it seemed like no one cared about my suffering, not even Staci.

      I wished for her to reach out just once to inquire about how I was holding up. I had accepted that she was gone, but I craved a small acknowledgment that perhaps she could have been kinder the way she left.

      Days dragged on, and I found myself sinking deeper into a self-destructive abyss.

      Then, one day, I heard a voice, the feminine voice I had once loved so deeply. I turned around to see Staci standing there, looking exactly as she always had, with no hint of sadness in her eyes.

      “Staci,” – I started, but she cut me off.

      “You've left some of your stuff behind. Come around this weekend and get it,” she said before walking away.

      I stood there, dumbfounded. She hadn't waited for my response, and I couldn't help but think she loathed me. That was how I spent the next few days—grappling with uncertainty.

      I eventually made my way to what had once been our home to retrieve my belongings. She wasn't there, so I went about the apartment, moving from one room to another, reminiscing about all the memories we had created together. The apartment was eerily quiet, except for a note that caught my eye. It read, “Leave the keys on the counter once you're done.”

      Seeing that note gave me a strange sense of happiness. She had written something for me, no matter how brief. How low had I sunk to find solace in such meaningless gestures?

      In the following days, I half-heartedly began preparing for the second-year final exams at medical school. My motivation was nonexistent. I was going through the motions for my father's sake. It was evident in my study habits, or rather, lack thereof. The outcome reflected my lack of dedication—I passed but with a B grade.

      As expected, my dad was disappointed. For the first two days, he didn't even make eye contact with me, let alone talk. However, as his initial anger and embarrassment subsided, he finally sat down with me.

      “Joe,