I lowered my head.

Almost to myself, I said, “That was a long time ago. A lot has changed since then.”

“I’m sorry. How is he now?”

“Not well. The doctors have given up. They’ve brought him home.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t say this, but at least you had the chance to prepare yourself for losing him. I don’t mean lucky you. I mean I understand very well what you’re going through.”

We were silent for a while.

Then I remembered that he was leaving.

Why wasn’t he saying anything about it?

Was he leaving Iran—or simply this apartment?

“They want me to be with them.”

“Why don’t they come back to Iran?”

“The flight situation makes it impossible.”

Silence again.

It was an awkward silence. Anyone else in my position would probably have told him he needed to get to them as quickly as possible—especially someone like me, who had experienced the terrible loss of both parents.

But his father still had him, while I had no one.

I said, “I know you expect me to tell you to get to them as quickly as possible. Especially now.”

He gave a bitter little smile.

“No.”

We both fell into thought.

“When I leave, what will you do?”

I gave him a faint smile and said, “Whatever I’ve been doing.”

I was in a strange state.

My happiness was very short-lived.

The moment I learned that he wanted me, I also learned that he was leaving.

I wanted to ask when he would come back, but the answer seemed to be: when my father dies.

Why hadn’t he told me everything sooner?

Thunder and lightning were sounding outside.

I remembered the Qur’anic verse about rain and thunder bringing fear and hope together.

“When are you leaving?” I asked.

“Next week,” he said.

It was Monday.

Ten of the most memorable days of my life passed.

Days that were both sweet and bitter.

He had waited for me, and now it was my turn to wait for him.

The one who seemed to hold the world’s decisions in his hands had decided that I needed to learn my lesson properly.

The lesson was patience. Perseverance. Endurance.

But this time, he had written the lesson plan very well.

I loved him.

That was enough.

He left, but we stayed in constant contact through our phones. We could talk and see each other, and that made things much easier than before.

We spoke for long hours almost every day.

Everything I was, he was the opposite of—and that was exactly what we both needed.

He wanted my reckless courage so he could step away from the suffocating caution inside him and feel the thrill of life.

I wanted his calculating logic so he could become my safe place to lean on.

And what kept all those contradictions from tearing our relationship apart was love.

We didn’t merely love each other. We understood each other’s strengths and weaknesses very well.

Our love was being tempered by experience.

One day I told him how desperate I was about choosing a profession.

He said, “I don’t want to see you become so afraid one day that you give up on your dreams.”

What were my dreams?

It was strange that the more mature I became, the less clear the answer was.

Ten years earlier, if someone had asked me, I would have answered immediately.

But after trying so many paths, the answer had become vague.