I sat, rather lazily, scribbling in the corner of the paper that was supposed to be my new masterpiece. Or a new pay cheque at the very least.
I had, many times, started to write the beginning of a story. I would begin to feel excited, begin to get that feeling in the pit of my stomach, not dissimilar to when I fell in love with Soraya. Then I would realise, not quickly enough, that the story was all too familiar. It would become all too apparent to me that what I was writing was...his story. My story.
Our story.
And I hated the ending.
I felt tears spring to my eyes and I angrily brushed them away. Tears were becoming a far too common occurence with me and I felt selfish in showing them, even if there was nobody but myself to view them.
I would give anything for Sohrab to cry. To yell. To kick over a table. I could work with that. I could comfort, listen even be a punch bag.
It was a week since Sohrab had smiled. A week since I had felt hope.
What do I do, Hassan?
Another tear. Baba's voice immediately entered my mind.
A man does not show his tears, Amir.
I smiled slightly.
I missed Baba, every day. Yet right now, the voice I wanted to hear was Hassan's. I wanted to see his comforting, reassuring smile.
I wondered what Hassan's voice had sounded like as a man. If his smile still reached his eyes.
Sohrab would know. Sohrab and I...we could exhange stories. Hassan's past...and the future I walked away from.
Yet, Sohrab would stay silent. Sohrab's eyes would plead at him to just leave him alone.
Sighing again, I reached for a fresh sheet. It had all become very clear what I needed to do... and it was going to hurt.
I wrote, carefully and deliberately.
My Sohrab,
For when you are ready.
All my love,
Amir.
Placing the sheet to one side, I took another sheet and began writing.
Our story...and now his.