“I’m fine,” I said, pushing my eggs from one end of the plate to the other. I had no idea if my mother knew that I had seen Zain again, but I didn’t want to risk giving her more access to my life than she already had.

“You haven’t eaten anything. Can I make you something else?”

“No. No, Ammi, I’m fine, I’m just a little tired,” I said, getting up.

“You can always talk to me if something is wrong,” my mother said softly.

I nodded and walked back into my room. I knew she could sense I was upset, but she was the last person I wanted to talk to about Zain. If I so much as mentioned his name, she would immediately call Yasmeen aunty, and I couldn’t deal with any more humiliation. If my mother had never forced me to go to that lunch, I never would have met him, and I never would have gotten my heart broken. I knew it was unfair to hold her solely responsible for what happened between the two of us, but I couldn’t help but feel that she shared at least some portion of the blame.

In an attempt to protect my fragile emotions, I decided to avoid my mother for the next week and tried everything I could to get over Zain on my own. I even pushed myself to go on a few more dates—and some second and third dates; however, my self-esteem had been so rattled, I just couldn’t think clearly. Zain remained in the back of my mind like an unwanted guest.

When I used to go out, I was mainly concerned with how much I would like my date. Now, I was petrified that he wouldn’t like me. These feelings of self-doubt consumed me entirely, and I resented Zain for that. Each time I met a potential suitor, I felt like I had to try extra hard to come off as smart and witty because I desperately needed validation. I needed to prove somehow that Zain had made a mistake. But even when a date would express interest, I instantly assumed there was something wrong: if I wasn’t good enough for Zain, then anyone who did think I was good enough must be substandard. I knew my thinking made no sense, but nothing made sense anymore. My life had been reduced to mere contradictions. I hated Zain, but I also secretly wished he would call me so everything could go back to the way it was that night at the jazz club. With each day that passed, though, the silence on his end eventually started causing me to hate myself. I hated that I felt so powerless over the situation. I hated how crappy I felt all the time. But most of all, I hated that I had allowed myself to yearn for the one guy I couldn’t have.

* * *

“Would you like more biryani?” my mother asked at the dinner table Sunday evening. My date had just called to cancel because of a work emergency, and I was relieved at the opportunity to just spend a mellow night in. My father nodded as she heaped a generous helping onto his plate.