reached the spot where she sat, Miryem stiffened in her seat, but Masrur simply ran by without saying a word. What is he even doing? She thought to herself. This was nonsense. Once, twice, three times he went past her as he did laps around the park, and each time he silently did Miryem became more furious. Finally on the fifth lap she couldn’t take it anymore, and as he passed her she exclaimed, “Oh stop!”
He did, turning towards her and panting only slightly despite how long he had been running.
“What is wrong with you, Masrur?” she said tiredly, and his usual surprised expression came up before disappearing in an instant as it always did. She dove in unheedingly. “Why are you doing this sort of trouble if you don’t even care? Pleasing your dad can’t be this important to you, can it?! I mean, you can’t be this goddamn weak!” She felt like she was pleading, but Miryem pressed on regardless. “Don’t you think you should speak up when you don’t want something?”
He looked at her, and sheepishly said “Yes.”
“Urgh! There you go again! Can’t you just be honest and tell me the truth for once?” The boxer stood quietly, incredulous, then something changed in his expression. He walked over to the orange tulip she had spent so much time looking at this month, that deceitful flower that smelled nothing like how it looked.
“Yes, I will.”
She was almost at her wit’s end, but she’d finally gotten him to agree to just say what he feels. It will be better for idiot himself than just listening to his father all the time like a lost lamb. “Isn’t there anyone that you feel you really love? Someone you could propose to yourself if this arranged marriage business hadn’t happened? Well, isn’t there?”
He picked the flower and turned around, handing it to her. He had that usual expression on his face and he looked her in the eyes. This time, Masrur didn’t compose himself instantly, and upon closer inspection he looked almost... hurt. She remembered that the first time he had shown her that expression was when she had immediately rejected the idea of marrying him, before he had the chance to say anything. “Yes”, he whispered for the third time. She was jerked back by the word and the flower in his hand, the tenderness in his eyes whenever she had called him something hurtful and mistaking it for surprise. It was only in retrospect that the poor girl understood. She shed a tear, then two, then started bawling, realizing that each time he’d said yes, what he had actually meant was I love you.
She cried for a while, calling him and idiot over and over for hiding his pain as he had been taught to. He’d warned her, told her that boxers felt pain like everybody else. All that time Masrur had one hand on her shoulder, standing over her behind the bench like a guardian statue as her shoulders rocked with her sobs. When she had quieted down, he asked her, almost fearfully:
“What are you going to say tomorrow?”
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Thank you so much for reading my story! It’s the biggest compliment a writer can have, because without it our work is nothing. I specialize in writing fiction short stories dealing with social issues, and hope to make the world a better place. If you are interested in some of my other work, please look here:
Scriggler
Yes Page 3
