I wink at her slack-jawed expression, gratified by finally getting a reaction out of her, and walk toward the stage.
The ballroom looks even bigger from the elevated platform than it does from the floor, but the lights pointing at the podium are bright enough to obscure the faces in the crowd. I smile and wave as the audience welcomes me with applause and camera flashes, a familiar rush of adrenaline coursing through me.
“Thank you,” I say into the mic. “Give it up for the organizers of the symposium, who have done a colossal amount of work behind the scenes for the event to feel so seamless to those of us attending. And thank you all for giving me such a warm welcome this evening.”
The uproar gradually dies down and I glance at the notes I brought. I prepared today’s speech a while back. It combines piecesof my regular keynote with anecdotes from my book and the odd joke thrown in for good measure. It’d be easy to deliver it as planned, to lean on the stories I’ve been culling and telling over the past several years. I know from experience which ones are the most crowd-pleasing, and I could deliver them in a way that will paint me in the best light for the Scope execs and make me seem like a shoo-in to host an interview show.
I scan the room, my gaze automatically landing on Maral. I’m a heliotropic plant and she the sun. As she’s always been—the center of my universe. Casting light when I’ve needed it most. And now that she’s illuminated certain truths, allowing me to see them clearly for the first time, nothing about the Before feels right anymore.
So I go off script.
“I have something to confess,” I say, inhaling. “I am a disappointment.”
Silence turns to confounded murmurings throughout the room.
“One of the questions I get asked the most is some variation ofHow do you reconcile your own happiness with your family’s expectations?” I continue. “People look to me as some kind of authority on the subject, as though I’ve mastered a self-actualized life—successful, fulfilled, with parents who are satisfied with where I am professionally and personally. I haven’t exactly dispelled this image, mostly because I avoid talking about myself in any real way.
“Sure, people know details about my life. Tidbits about my parents and my family. That my beloved cousin Maral is my right-hand woman, that I went to med school, that I look forward to my morning coffee when I go to bed every night—which is somehow the most notable of those items, given how much I talk about it.” Mild laughter ripples across the audience. “I’ve never delved deeper, partly because it hasn’t been necessary, but more truthfully because I didn’t want to expose myself that way.”
I take a deep breath, the lights shining bright in my eyes.
“I haven’t told anyone that I dropped out of my residency because every moment of it was such an unbearable reminder of my late father that entering through the hospital doors felt like being pierced through the heart. I haven’t shared that my father would likely have been deeply disappointed in my choice, just as my mother is, but that it was a choice I had to make if I didn’t want to risk a complete breakdown.”
A tremor courses through me. I hold on to the sides of the podium, steadying myself.
“How did I reconcile my own happiness with my family’s expectations? I didn’t. And I won’t.” Air rushes into the microphone from my exhale. “This is my life. If I could have it all, of course I’d want to meet their expectations. But if that means veering off the path to my own happiness, I’m not willing to do that. Even if that means disappointing them.”
A few people applaud.
“I don’t want to be a doctor. I want to work onSo Proud of You,because nothing has brought me more fulfillment than building its community. I want to write more books, because I enjoy the creative process and I have so much more to share. I want to live in New York, because I enjoy its hustle and energy and seasons. I’ve never liked the idea of year-round sunshine.”
Maral’s eyes are wide, but not as wide as her smile.
“Sorry to the Scope execs watching—I’m not moving to L.A.,” I say to Shanthi’s tripod. Confused murmurings rise from the audience. “Oh, yeah, I was pursuing an opportunity there, but I know now that I was chasing it for all the wrong reasons. I’m not leaving New York. I love it here. And…there’s someone here I really don’t want to say goodbye to.”
Mar’s jaw drops. I catch Shanthi’s eye, raising my brows in a question she understands immediately. She’ll make a good Maral2.0 (though let’s get real, there is no better version of Maralthan Maral. Shanthi will make an excellent Shanthi, just as she always has).
She taps at the screen quickly, and her face falls as she shakes her head.
Ryan’s not logged in. He’s not watching.
I wait for the pain to slice me open, but it’s not quite as sharp as I expected. Instead, it’s a soft ache, strangely satisfying in its familiarity. Like a contusion being pressed.
It’s okay. It’s good, in fact. He’s doing what’s right for him—serving his needs. Which happens to mean keeping his distance from me. I can’t fault him for that. I can only respect him for it.
Regardless of whether Ryan’s watching, it’s worth sharing this. Because it’s the truth—and I’ve spent far too long running from it.
“For a long time, I’ve believed that holding myself in is the only way to safeguard my heart and protect myself from getting hurt. But the joke was on me, because turns out denying your true feelings is more painful than feeling them has ever been.”
My vision blurs, casting halos around the spotlights beaming down at me.
“And I wasn’t the only one hurt by that denial. Someone so special to me was brave enough to put himself out there and I wasn’t. Even though I felt the same things, I paid my pain forward to him. Hurt him just as I was hurting. But as soon as I’m done here, I’m going to find him, apologize a hundred times, and hope with my whole heart that he’ll…”
My voice trails off as a silhouetted figure enters at the back of the room. Even from this distance, I recognize the set of his shoulders. Their proportion to his neck. The line of his jaw. That posture, the grace in his steps.
My heart rises slow and steady from my chest to my throat, bringing with it a wash of tears.
Ryan.
