I kept telling myself these things so I wouldn’t fall apart inside.

Life seemed determined to fight me.

Why?

All I wanted was to become someone special.

I wanted a purpose that was different from everyone else’s.

So what had happened? Why had the entire universe decided to break my horns?

It kept taking every opportunity away from me without warning.

First my parents, and now…

It wasn’t a fair fight.

Most women my age had followed a clear, predetermined path. Everyone was more or less the same.

They ran the same race, got degrees, learned how to charm, married, had children, and…

I hadn’t done any of those things.

I had chosen the harder road.

I wanted to become someone worthy of having been born.

Had I misunderstood everything?

Maybe the doctor was right.

Maybe there was no special mission waiting for every human being.

Fine.

If that’s how it was, I surrendered.

Where was I supposed to sign to declare a ceasefire?

I talked to myself as I walked, and I don’t know how long I had been walking before I found myself back where I started.

I was standing in front of Sina’s door.

I was out of breath, wondering when I had decided to come here.

My heart no longer obeyed me.

It had taken control of everything.

I knocked.

He must have been standing right behind the door, because he opened it almost instantly.

When he saw me, he looked relieved.

“I was coming to look for you,” he said.

He was no less distraught than I was.

The moment our eyes met, my sobs broke loose.

I had come to say I surrendered.

He stepped aside and I entered his apartment.

Now I could finally see the whole place and satisfy my curiosity.

But it was too late.

He was leaving.

A large whiteboard was mounted on one of the walls, covered in tables, graphs, numbers, and half-finished calculations.

And among all those lines and scribbles, I recognized my own name.

In the middle of my tears, I suddenly laughed.

He understood what I was laughing at.

He gave a faint smile too.

It said: “Mahta, the incomparable.”

I was freezing.

I pressed myself against one of the radiators.

He went over and turned on the kettle.

As I warmed up, I looked around the apartment as far as he allowed me to.

It was as though I were still searching for some trace of myself, some sign that might make me feel better.

Then why was he leaving?

Could there be another woman named Mahta?

I couldn’t believe the ceasefire could have been declared so quickly.

In a voice made nasal and ridiculous by crying, I asked, “Is there someone else named Mahta?”

With a calm smile that shook me to the core, he said, “No. Your name is Mahta.”

He brought me a chair and placed it beside the radiator so I could sit.

A little farther away, opposite the radiator where I had been standing, was a large desk with a computer and two laptops, all three switched on.

He went and sat in his chair behind the desk.

He took off his glasses and turned them in his hand while he thought.

Maybe he was giving me time to look around.

He had never been in a hurry to begin a conversation.

In fact, he was never in a hurry about anything.

I, on the other hand, was in turmoil, desperate to say something but not knowing what to say or where to begin.