That wasn’t cool.
So I wrote him yet another email.
When I first got back from Iran, we emailed each other all the time, until we figured out a schedule to call each other. And once we’d sorted that out, email felt so impersonal.
I couldn’t see his eyes squint up when he smiled. Or hear his laughter.
Even that was a pale illusion of the real Sohrab.
I missed being in Iran with him.
I missed sitting with him on our rooftop and watching the sun kiss our khaki kingdom.
I missed the way he would throw his arm over my shoulder, like that was a thing guys could do to each other.
But email was my only option.
So I asked him how he was doing, and said I hoped he was okay, and that he’d write back soon. I told him about my soccer games (we were ten and one now) and quitting my job. I told him about Laleh and my dad and my mom. I told him about Landon and homecoming.
Did they have homecoming in Iran?
And I told him I was doing okay, depression-wise. And Ihoped he was doing okay too, because he was my best friend in the whole world and I wanted him to be happy and healthy.
I didn’t tell him I was scared.
Scared that he hadn’t written back or called. Scared that something bad had happened to him.
Scared that he was mad at me. That I had done something wrong.
I would have given my life for Sohrab’s.
So I just wroteGhorbanat beram. Love, Darius, and hit send.
Sohrab used to tell me that my place was empty.
It’s an Iranian saying.
But now his place was empty.
I missed him terribly.
“Mom?”
“Yeah?”
“Have you talked to Mamou lately?”
“Yesterday. Why?”
“I haven’t heard from Sohrab for a while. And when I asked Mamou about it, she got kind of weird.”
Mom looked up from my hands. She was painting my nails that perfect Yazdi blue for homecoming.
“She didn’t mention it,” she said. “I’m sure he’s okay, though.”
I wasn’t sure.
I couldn’t shake this feeling. Like Mamou knew something and wouldn’t tell me.
