Chapter Text
'cause it's my problem
if i want to pack up and run away
it's my business if i feel the need to
smoke and drink and swear
it's my problem, it's my problem
if i feel the need to hide
and it's my problem i have no friends
and feel i want to die
marina and the diamonds, “are you satisfied”
She sat on the sidewalk and hugged her knees to her chest. She caught her own reflection on the well-lit window of a shop across the street, right under the sign that read ‘CLOSED’. The waitress uniform she had stolen looked too big on her. It made her feel small. Insignificant. Alone in a foreign country, with her hair (all disheveled now) cascading over her shoulders and her brown eyes puffy from all the crying, Tahani Al-Jamil was the picture of patheticism.
A wave of nausea washed over her. She was so ashamed of her behaviour. Turning up uninvited, causing a scene and drawing attention to herself for all the wrong reasons. What did this say about her life? In her almost thirty years of existence, she had never felt uglier or sadder. What was worse, she could no longer hide from the truth: she was unloved. None of the people she hung out with really counted as friends, and the only family she had left despised her because that was the example their parents had set.
Tahani almost wished she had died earlier that night.
The moment kept coming back to her in violent flashes. Every time she closed her eyes, she was back there, tugging at the rope, muttering nonsense phrases like a mad woman, willing her sister’s statue to come down where no one but Tahani thought it belonged. It wasn't hard to imagine what would have happened if it hadn't been for the grey-haired stranger that had pushed her out of harm’s way.
She couldn't help but picture it, a funeral as beautiful and elegant as her godmother's had been, a roomful of people offering their most sincere condolences to a stoic Kamilah, newspapers and magazines later commenting on how brave, how strong the young prodigy always was in the face of tragedy, what was supposed to be a celebration of Tahani’s life turned by the media into yet one more opportunity for Kamilah to steal the spotlight. Even in the wake of her own death, she would have continued to be an afterthought for the rest of the world. Second best. The unloved, uncared for and unwanted child of parents that, had they been alive and had the stranger not succeeded in saving Tahani, wouldn't have grieved for her. They would have cried, yes, but only out of worry that her precious, sensible, now only daughter was under too much stress, her party ruined by her useless, good for nothing sister.
It all made so much sense in her head, all those what ifs… It was revolting that she found relief in her parents being dead, she knew as much. But the idea that they wouldn't have mourned the loss of a child (her loss) was enough to make her wonder if sudden, violent death wouldn't have been preferable to what lay ahead of her now: days like the ones she'd lived through before, only that now she was completely aware of how empty, how meaningless each and every one of them were, not unlike her.
It was pointless, dwelling on it. Self-destructive, even. Thirty years of unhappiness were too heavy a weight for anyone to carry, and yet it seemed that she had just been doing that until earlier that night. But now, no longer blind nor blissfully ignorant like she'd been before, Tahani could feel every ounce of pain and see through all the lies she'd been telling both to herself and others.
She was a fraud.
She didn't understand how some considered truth freeing. She felt trapped, an unsuccessful, miserable girl caged in the body of a woman devoted to pretending to be the cat who got the cream. What for, she wondered.
What for.
It was all for nothing, dear. You are worthless, and so is your life.
But there was nothing she could do about it, was there? Even if she wanted to break the circle, the circle wouldn't break. An old dog can't learn new tricks, Tahani. It was too late to do anything about her unhappiness, too late to change the things that made her terribly miserable. Therapy would imply talking about things, about herself. Ironic as it may have seemed to some, the idea made her panic. Yes, Tahani loved talking, and yes, most of the time she talked about herself, but everything that came out of her mouth were carefully rehearsed sentences, all part of an elaborate plan to show her life under a certain light, in a certain way, and to certain people. She could fool other billionaires, philanthropists and celebrities -- it was easy, they didn't care about her any more than her parents had, why would they look for signs that something was wrong? Why would they waste a second of their valuable time on something other than writing generous checks so the world could see how much they cared about changing the world through handing over money from the comfort of the ballrooms and galas they navigated so well? A therapist would actually pay attention to her. They would care, even if only in the way a health professional does for a patient. And that, she knew, would undo her. She couldn't see how therapy would help at this point if the mere thought of having the undivided attention of a fellow human being during a 50 minute session that she'd be paying for was already making her chest heavy with what was undoubtedly profound anguish.
No, therapy was out of the question. The only thing she believed could help her, and she felt embarrassed of how much she wished this was possible, was a time machine. It was ridiculous, childish even, to want something so much you don't care it doesn't exist outside of fairy tales where all-knowing, almighty, magical beings pop up out of old lamps and offer to grant you wishes. What was even more pathetic was that she knew what three things she would ask for, had known for years. There were the same three things she had prayed for every night since she could remember.
I wish someone loved me. Someone that would make my dull heart light up with joy.
I wish I had someone kind and nice that cared for me, someone to hold me when I'm upset and scared.
I wish someone patient and good saw how sad and unsatisfied I am all the time, how broken I'm inside, so they could help me.
As a supposedly accomplished, successful adult, her biggest, deepest hopes and dreams still were linked to unresolved traumas from her loveless childhood and fairy tale-like fantasies about magical beings granting her a do-over of her pathetic, lonely life. Too emotionally unstable, the thought of seeking help from someone trained to deal with complex human emotions was terrifying, perhaps even more so than all the other realizations she had come to in the last hour. That's how fucked up Tahani Al-Jamil was.
What she had to do now was rather simple, she supposed. She'd have to put this night behind her, bury it in some forgotten, forsaken corner of her mind, hidden in the dark where she didn't have to see it all the time. And some day soon she'd forget it was there. If she tried hard enough and threw herself into this pretending game of hers, surely the numbness, the blindness, would come back soon. And perhaps one day she would even believe her own lies again.
Yes, fucked up indeed.
The minutes ticked by and Tahani didn't move from where she sat. She should probably go back to her hotel room, take a shower, maybe even lie some more and convince herself she'd be able to sleep for a couple of hours. Her flight didn't leave until the following evening, she could have a duvet day -- God knew she hadn't indulged like that in ages. The intelligent thing to do would be booking herself a spa day, of course, make sure she looked her best for the relief mission. There would be a lot of photographers there, and her pores were in no state to be photographed, not even a harmless, fun selfie taken with an iPhone. So she had to do something about that, she couldn't waste time throwing herself a pity party.
Yes, she'd do that, she thought, she'd go to her hotel room, take a shower, go to bed, and then first thing in the morning she'd go down to the spa. She was perfectly capable of doing those things, and in less than 24 hours she would be too preoccupied with pretending to be happy and fulfilled so no one would find out she actually wasn't that she'd forget all about how unhappy and unfulfilled she actually was.
But if she had a plan, and a brilliant one at that, why wasn't she feeling any better? Breathing was proving to be more and more difficult by the second, the pressure in her chest and head so terrible for a minute she dared hope something inside her would explode and she would end up dying that night, alone in a dark street of a foreign country, disheveled and dressed as a waitress, in Cleveland.
It was the fact that the idea was so appealing what finally broke her. What began as hysterical sobs quickly turned into hyperventilation.
Stop it. For fuck’s sake, Tahani, just stop it.
But she had no control of her emotions anymore, and neither could she keep her body from reacting to what she was feeling. She didn't know how to do that.
Tahani closed her eyes and buried her face between her knees, her hands pulling on her hair in an attempt to replace emotional distress with physical pain. It didn't work.
She'd had episodes like this one a couple of times during her childhood when feeling especially neglected. She hadn't associated them with that until much later, of course, and her au pairs had treated them as tantrums at the time. They had become more frequent when she was in her adolescent years, studying abroad in France, overworked and overwhelmed by responsibilities all her efforts and achievements shadowed by Kamilah's. Tahani couldn't remember having an episode as an adult, thought long ago she'd outgrown this outrageous behaviour, managed to suppress these shameful reactions. She also couldn't remember her parents, or any living soul for that matter, knowing that she ever had them.
Escaping to a safe place inside her head had helped before. She'd recite them like a mantra, her three wishes, as if waiting some sort of metamorphosis: desperation turned into good fortune turned into the only things she truly wanted.
I wish someone loved me. Someone that would make my dull heart light up with joy.
I wish I had someone kind and nice that cared for me, someone to hold me when I'm upset and scared.
I wish someone patient and good saw how sad and unsatisfied I am all the time, how broken I'm inside, so they could help me.
Tahani didn't hear him approaching, nor did she hear him the first time he asked if she was fine. Completely engulfed by her misery, she did not notice the young, handsome Filipino man that now sat by her side.
She would not know it for a long time, but Tahani Al-Jamil’s life was about to be saved by a complete stranger for the second time that night.
It was only on his third attempt at engaging her in conversation that he succeeded.
“Hey, doll. Are you OK?”
She should have felt mortified that another human being was present to witness her reaching her breaking point. She should have felt embarrassed, really, that the kindness of a stranger was making her crumble down, her crying worsening the more this person asked her if there was anything he could do to help her, and was she alright and did she want him to call the cops.
The more he talked, his American accent barely audible over her sobs, the more Tahani wanted a sinkhole to open up beneath her feet and swallow her whole, make her pathetic existence disappear from the face of Earth until she was nothing but a memory everyone that she'd ever had a passing acquaintance with would soon forget. If this was her reaction to some bloke being a decent human being and stopping to check on a woman having a nervous breakdown on the sidewalk, did this mean that she was right in believing that talking to a therapist would make matters worse? Or did this only prove that she should really reconsider her decision to keep it all bottled up and consult a professional?
No. It's my problem if I feel the need to hide. It's my problem if I am never happy. It's my problem if I have no friends. It's my problem if I feel I want to die.
She wished her brain would stop firing questions at her while she was in this state. She also wished this guy --however good his intentions were-- would go away so she could have some more time to cry in peace before getting the fuck up and going the fuck back to her fucking hotel room. And what the fuck was this bloke still doing there talking to her, could he not understand that she wanted to be left alone with her sadness?
I wish someone patient and good saw how sad and unsatisfied I am all the time, how broken I'm inside, so they could help me.
But did she want to be helped? Or was she too comfortable pretending her average life was everything but that? Wasn't it easier, hiding away from it all, acting as if she was satisfied with everything she'd accomplished instead of voicing her frustration and depression? Were the hidden wishes she held so close to her heart nothing more than lies? Not ten minutes ago she'd been murmuring those words to herself, repeating them like a mad woman, and now there was someone showing some concern, but there she was again, wanting to be left alone and pushing away the people that dared come close to the mess that she was, even if out of common decency and nothing else.
She would never be pleased with anything life gave her, she would always want the exact opposite of what she got, she would always be left wanting something else, something different, something bigger, better. Nothing would ever do for Tahani Al-Jamil.
The realization made her sob harder, louder. It also made the young man sitting next to her more concerned for her wellbeing, which only worsened things. After all, she had been made to believe by her family, the people that should have supposedly loved her and protected her, that she was unworthy of attention and affection. The idea was buried so deep within her now… How do you unlearn that?
Fucked up, indeed.
Even though her face was covered in tears and sweat, her hair sticking to her neck and forehead, she was shivering. She couldn't breathe. Her stomach was in knots, her throat was closing up. For the third time that night, Tahani thought she would die there, in Cleveland, dressed as a waitress, some random person that had nothing better to do than waste their time trying to help the helpless as the only witness. At least she wouldn't be alone, and it wouldn't be hours until someone walking their dog found her body. Dying of a panic attack had to be better, more dignifying than being crushed by a giant statue of her sister.
Then she felt it.
The stranger's hands, gentler and softer than any hands to ever touch her before, got her hair off her face, tucking big chunks of it behind her ears (which she hated, of course, because her ears were ugly -- there was a reason why she never did her hair up other than her not being a factory worker.) He then procured a tissue from somewhere inside the pockets of the bright yellow trousers he was wearing, and with the same gentleness and care he'd shown before he wiped her face clean of tears and sweat.
And she let him.
She didn't fight him off, didn't scream at him to leave her the fuck alone. She didn't have the strength to do any of those things, didn't have the strength to resist the help of this mysterious Good Samaritan that was now having her drink from a bottle of water he carried in his backpack. She didn't have it in her to push away the only person in years that was showing her some compassion, even if it absolutely undid her. Tahani kept sobbing, and this stranger kept hushing her, whispering God knew what in his attempts to get her through the panic and the anxiety. She felt so tired all of a sudden, physically and emotionally, that she hardly cared he was now pressing the palm of his hand to her chest, warm and soft and calming.
And she let him.
And it made her feel less scared. Less desperate. Less lonely.
Before she knew what was happening, her breathing was somewhat normal again. The crying had also stopped. All that was left was the emptiness, the heartache, the realization that life would go on after that night because she wasn't dead, she had been saved, she had survived, and the following day she'd have to keep on pretending.
All that was left was that, and the kind stranger sitting next to her, rhythmically breathing in and out with her until he was sure she wouldn't hyperventilate.
“Better?”
Following the sound of his voice and with her eyes no longer clouded by tears, Tahani looked up and saw him for the first time. A boyish face, eyes expressive like a child's, she reminded him of someone. The brush of his skin against hers reminded her of something, but she couldn't have put her finger on what that was. All she knew was that she felt calmer, safer. Less sad.
It didn't last long, though. She tensed and pulled away the moment she realized she was letting her guard down. “I'm fine, thanks.”
A lot calmer now, panic was losing to mortification and embarrassment at her current situation. With as much dignity as she could muster under the circumstances, she finally got back up on her feet.
The bloke in the bright yellow trousers and sports jacket did, too.
“I might be way off-base here, but you seem kind of bummed.”
Was he kidding her? He had just sat with her through a panic attack, cleaned her bloody face off tears and sweat and probably snot (how disgusting!)
Deciding to leave as soon as possible so as to not subject herself to further embarrassment, she tried to make matters seem a lot less important than they actually were. “I just had a terrible day, that's all.”
I just have a terrible life.
I’m so sad inside, so unsatisfied.
“Do you wanna talk about it? People say I'm a great listener.”
There was something sweet about him that she found terribly endearing. It was due to tiredness, she supposed, or the aftermath of a near death experience and a panic attack, one right after the other. She needed to be comforted and held so badly. Anyone would do, even a young American man dressed in ridiculous, bright yellow clothes. On any given day, a guy like him would be the last person on Earth she would talk to. And even then she would only talk to him because she just loved talking. She could never be quiet, she didn’t understand how silent monks managed to keep their vows and suspected that they all had secret hiding places they went to when they felt like chatting.
“No, thank you,” she said, handing him back his now half-empty bottle of water. “I'm fine, really.” She was trying to sound as collected and polite as humanly possible, but Tahani knew that a part of her (a big part of her) was not done crying. She feared what might happen if she stayed there five more minutes.
She also feared what might happen if she walked away and went back to her hotel room like she’d originally intended before this guy appeared seemingly out of nowhere.
“OK, doll. I hope you feel better soon.”
He gathered his things and began to walk away. She did not move. Just before he got back into his car, something inside Tahani bursted and the thought she’d been afraid to voice escaped her without her permission.
“I almost died tonight.”
There. She’d said it. It was real now, even more so than it’d been an hour ago. She’d tasted the words, felt a shiver down her spine as she remembered the statue coming down, some unknown man pushing her out of harm’s way, everyone cheering afterwards because Kamilah had saved her, her sister taking all the praise and encouraging her fans in believing she was a hero when the truth was that she wouldn’t have wasted a single thought on Tahani had she died.
Honestly? I don’t really think about you.
No one really did. No one ever had. Perhaps she wasn’t deserving of being on someone else’s thoughts. Maybe she was not worth anyone’s attention. But if that was true, then why was this guy sitting by her side once again, that look of concern that she found so adorable still on his face, real pain for her situation shining in his dark, kind eyes?
“Sorry to hear that, doll.” His voice was honest and sweet, a balsam for her tattered soul. He had offered to listen if she wanted to talk about it. She knew now that she did, even if just this once, even if just to this one person that knew nothing about her and that she knew nothing about. What were the chances she’d ever cross paths with this man again? What were the chances she would explode and collapse on herself if she went back to the hotel with all of these feelings still inside her, festering and rotting in the pit of her stomach? The difference between one and the other was abysmal.
It wasn’t proper. He could be a thief or a murderer or someone dangerous for all she knew. They were alone in the middle of the night. It didn’t make any sense. And yet she wanted to talk to him, get it all out. And if she ended up crying again, so be it. She was a fucking human being, she was not some fucking robot. She’d rather explode right now than do it alone. She was terrified of the ideas she was getting, whispers in her ear. She did not want to listen to those voices while alone.
“I'm not,” she finally admitted, tears threatening to come again. “I'm not sorry. That's the problem. I wish it had happened. I wish I had died. I cannot shake that feeling off.”
“That's why you were crying.”
No shit Sherlock. She’d have to text Martin Freeman about this conversation. She’d leave some details out, of course. She’d leave all of the details out, actually, and just tell him the No shit Sherlock bit, context and situation slightly changed to her own advantage. She did not need dear good Martin knowing about this whole fiasco. What if he texted dear good Amanda about it? (Were they still talking? Not important).
She focused her attention back on the man by her side.
“I had a NDE a couple of months ago, you know?” What are the odds? “Near death experience. Some people say you have to flatline to call it that, and I didn't. But it still was a pretty close call. I did something stupid that I shouldn't have done. It could have gotten me killed. After that, my life changed completely. Do you mind if I smoke?” He said all of that really fast, a cigarette and a lighter already in his hands. He didn’t light it until she answered his question, though, which Tahani found very sweet.
“No, I don’t mind. Be my guest.”
She had never tried a cigarette. Her parents had always told her smoking was unladylike, a frowned upon habit. A woman should never fall for such a disgusting vice, they’d always said. The narrative changed when Kamilah was photographed smoking after one of her shows, of course. The press was comparing her to Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Her parents were delighted. They had also made it very clear to Tahani that it wasn’t in her best interests to take up smoking: it was an aesthetic that only worked well for elegant, upper class women. She was not one. She would never be able to pull it off the way Kamilah did. Fucking double standards. That was what she heard from her parents every time she wanted to do something: You will never be as good as Kamilah is at this, don’t you waste your time trying and embarrassing us with how un-Kamilah you turned out ot be. How much was she missing, how many mistakes was she not making and learning from simply because she could not get her parents’ voices out of her head?
“Can I have a cigarette?”
The question was asked on impulse. He told her it was his last one because he was trying to quit, but that he didn’t mind sharing. They passed the cigarette back and forth as they spoke. It felt intimate, which Tahani wasn’t sure if it should, but she did not dwell on that. If he noticed this was her first time smoking, he did not comment on it.
“I wish I could do that. Change my life completely, I mean,” she said, her voice calmer and clearer than before. She was more in control, more centered. It was a relief, knowing that she was capable of putting it in words without bursting into tears and coming undone. Maybe therapy was not completely out of the question after all. “I'm not sure that's possible. The things I want to change… Most of the bad stuff that led me where I am today is from my past. You can't change that, you don't get a do-over if you have a horrible childhood.”
You don't get a do-over if you have a horrible life.
“I had a difficult childhood, you know. My dad walked out on us. My mom worked two jobs, never saw her. It sucked. It sucked big time.”
He let her finish the cigarette as he spoke about growing up in someplace called Jacksonville, Florida (she’d never heard of that city before.) A lot of his childhood stories involved an American football franchise called The Jaguars (never heard of that before, either) but Tahani found she didn’t mind listening for a change. He had a nice accent, soothing even, and the way he talked was nothing like what Tahani was used to. It reminded her of someone, she knew that, but she still had no idea who or why. None of her classmates in Oxford or The Sorbonne had been from America, and she couldn’t think of a single American celebrity she was ‘friends’ with that this man could have something in common with.
They exchanged childhood stories, the more they talked the less she thought about how opening up to someone you just met in the middle of the night in Cleveland while sitting on a sidewalk and smoking your first cigarette ever did not make any sense. She found that she felt comfortable with him. She told him about her parents, about Kamilah (he did not know who she was, but he did seem to have a strong opinion about Pitbull.)
“Everyone thinks I’m a high achiever, a control freak, and that the only thing that truly drives me is my greed to succeed. Nothing more. No one cares about how I feel, and the truth is I feel so empty, so unsatisfied. And yet I act like I have everything figured out, I lie to everyone, I pretend that everything’s fine and that I couldn’t be happier. I doubt I’ve ever been happy, not one day in almost thirty years. I do not care, though, not as long as nobody else finds out. What does this say about me, about the life I am living? Am I really that shallow?"
“Listen, I am in charge of a 60-person dance group.” That explains the clothes, Tahani thought. “That’s why I’m in Cleveland this weekend,” he said. “A dancing contest. Anyway, whenever we audition a new dancer, we rate them in five categories: dancing ability, coolness, dopeness, freshness, and smart-brained. I would give you an eight in every category.”
“Well, eight isn't bad, I suppose.” She hoped he didn’t notice she was disappointed he didn’t give her a ten. And why should you care Tahani? This is a guy you just met, he knows nothing about you, he’s probably just trying to be nice.
“No, no. Eight is the best. It is a scale of 1-13, but eight is highest. The scale goes up and then back down like a tent.”
“Why?” She automatically regretted asking. “It's not important.”
“Lately, you've been really down on yourself, I think. But you seem like an amazing person. You’re so pretty. Like Nala, from The Lion King. And you talk so smart. Like Nala, from The Lion King.”
Disney was another thing her parents had been opinionated about. They hadn't let their daughters watch most of the films kids obsessed over in the nineties. They thought they weren't challenging or intellectually stimulating enough for the girls, and when Tahani asked why they said they would only fill her mind with absurd, impossible to meet expectations. Kamilah never showed any interest in Disney movies, but the Al-Jamils were delighted when she accepted the studio's offer to voice a princess for their newest production. Fucking double standards.
“I never watched The Lion King,” she confessed, cheeks blushing and heart beating incredibly fast because of this man's sweet words.
“The point is, you definitely are cool, dope, fresh, and smart-brained.” Tahani could not help it and smiled at this. Maybe his choice of words was far from what she would choose if she was asked to describe herself, but she felt flattered in spite of that. In fact, his words were actually kinder than the names she’d been calling herself in her head before he appeared out of nowhere. “I've never seen you dance, but I bet you're good. 'Cause you must be good at everything. I’m sure you're awesome.”
And then he said the one thing Tahani had always longed to hear, even if she had never admitted as much, not even to herself. It was the one thing she always wished someone had told her, the one thing she wished she had had (as a child first and as a young woman later) to hold onto.
“Be nicer to yourself.”
Her eyes closed of their own accord. Those four words from a stranger, that’s what truly undid her that night. She let them wash over her, wishing all the time there was a way to physically hold them to her chest, bury them inside herself, put them under her skin. She was scared that if she dared do something as simple as breathing the moment would be lost forever, the words gone.
They sat in silence for what felt like an eternity- and at the same time it didn’t feel like long enough. When she finally opened her eyes, she looked at this wonderful, kind stranger and simply said:
“Thank you. For everything.”
She meant it.
“No problem doll. I should get going, though.”
Tahani tried not to let it show that she was disappointed he was leaving. He stood up, and so did she, her body a lot lighter than it’d felt hours before. Lighter than it’d felt in a very long time.
“I don't think I know your name,” she said. She couldn’t remember if he had introduced himself properly.
“Oh, right. Jason Mendoza. Here,” he looked in his pockets until he found a business card for his dance group. “Call me if you ever visit Jacksonville, Florida.”
“Thank you.” There it was again, that smile on her face. There was something about this guy, this Jason, that made her smile. She was not sure she knew exactly what it was, only that she couldn’t help it. “My name's Tahani Al-Jamil.”
“Congratulations, beautiful.”
She didn’t hide her surprise. Not many people knew what her name meant. In fact, it was one of her favourite conversation starters.
“Do you speak Arabic?”
“No. Why?”
“Why did you say that, then?”
Jason seemed to be as puzzled by his own words.
“I don't know,” he shrugged his shoulders. “Just felt like saying it.” Apparently, saying the first thing that came to mind was a common thing for Jason. Tahani wished she could say the same about herself. Overthinking every single thing that comes out of one’s mouth was so tiring, so stressing. “You were smiling, and you have a beautiful smile. I guess I was just saying congratulations on that. Sometimes I say stupid things, especially since the incident with the print toner.”
She did not ask what that incident was. For a brief moment, she considered asking Jason if he’d like to go back to her hotel room. She didn’t want to be alone, and she wasn’t sure he’d not mistake her desire for company for something of a sexual nature. They could talk for a little bit longer, maybe drink a bottle of champagne. She wondered if Jason liked champagne. She wondered if Jason had ever drunk champagne in his life.
Tahani decided against it. She needed to sleep. Maybe she would indulge a little and have that duvet day instead of going to the spa. She deserved it. She had a plane to catch in less than eighteen hours. Besides, she was sure Jason had better things to do than keep her company while she tried to figure out what to do with the rest of her life.
Because one thing was clear to her now: her life couldn’t stay the same, not after everything that had happened that night. She wouldn’t settle, wouldn’t keep pretending. Something needed to be done, some important changes were overdue, and she owed it to herself to try. There was a lot more to her than what her family had made her believe, and it was her job to find out exactly what her worth was. She had to be worth something. Jason seemed to think she was. People like to tell you what you’re going to be, and her parents had never had a problem with that. But it was not Tahani’s problem that they had been unable to see her for who she really was. It was time she let go of the voices in her head. It was time she stopped giving a damn- it was not her problem her parents had never cared enough to believe in her. She had to believe in herself. It wouldn’t be easy, she knew that. But she had to if she wanted to truly succeed and actually become who she wanted to be. She didn’t know who she wanted to be yet, but she would find out soon.
She made up her mind in the cab she took to the hotel: she would have a duvet day. Maybe she would eat something other than a salad- she was dying to try some mac and cheese. Her parents had never let her do that.
Tahani fell asleep at the crack of dawn, the ridiculously colorful business card with Jason’s number on it still clutched in one hand, a resolution heavy on her head, heavier than any of the thoughts of death and dissatisfaction she had had in the last six hours.
She would be nicer to herself.