It’s mid-morning until I return to my own sanctuary. Of course, Mari insisted I stay for breakfast. She tried to feed me French toast, but just like on the morning after the attack, I’m not feeling particularly hungry. I have coffee, though, and Mari packs up all the leftovers from last night and cold French toast into containers for me to take home. Some things never change. Then she leaves for her job at 1132 Royal Street, and I’m ‘allowed’ to go home. Silas is still asleep when we leave. I didn’t hear him come home last night, but it was probably late. Is this why Mari doesn’t want to call it a relationship? Because it is hard for them to spend time together with him working nights and her being busy during the day? It still seems easier than what I have with Rashid.

I unlock the door, prepared to find Bruno in a corner, half-starved – belly up, limbs outstretched, tongue lolling out of his mouth – but he’s curled up on my bed, lifting his head lazily at the intrusion and then goes back to sleep. Huh. A quick glance at his bowls tells me someone must have been in to feed him. Or Bruno went on a spontaneous diet. With my food-crazed cat, that’s highly unlikely. So, whoever that Kai person is, they seem to have taken good care of my cat. And had access to my apartment. Should that worry me? Eh, I don’t know. There are no signs of forced entry, so they probably got a key from someone official. Someone who works for Christine Claire. And I didn’t leave any dirty underwear, used condoms or sex toys lying around, so it’s all good.

I fill up Bruno’s bowls more out of habit, drink a glass of water, and set off to do my morning chores. Kai also seems to have done my evening round; everything looks neat and tidy, so I’m quick to finish. It’s only midday when I trot back upstairs to my apartment for my lunch break and to check my phone. I left it on the kitchen counter to avoid distraction. Rashid texted me last night that he arrived safe and sound in London. A few hours later I received a picture with the view of his balcony and a steaming mug of tea in the foreground. It made me smile when I saw it this morning when I woke up on Sila’s couch. My Brit is happy to be home with a cuppa. I replied with a series of emojis – a thumbs-up, a Union Jack, a cup and a blue heart. I told him Mari basically kidnapped me and forced me to stay the night.

Missing him is my constant companion again; we’re back to living in different worlds, different time zones, for the foreseeable future. Back to text messages and the occasional phone call or video chat. Every time I think of Rashid, it feels like there’s a cloud of moths trapped inside my chest. Fluttering. Flailing. Fighting. Tiny wings beating against my ribs. I wish they’d find a way out. But they don’t. They’re drawn to the very thing that’s tearing them apart.

Wishing gets you exactly nowhere. I shake my head to chase away the foolish thoughts before I grab an apple from the fruit bowl on my kitchen counter and refill my glass of water. Bruno is still launching on my bed and doesn’t seem to have moved an inch since this morning.

“You good-for-nothin’ nap machine.” I roll my eyes and flop down on the bed beside him. He squawks in surprise but settles back down closer to me. I cuddle him, burying my nose deep inside his flank, inhaling. This is when I notice the brown paper envelope that Bruno is half-lying on. I didn’t see it earlier and wrestle it free from underneath my cat.

It has my name on it, and for a brief moment I wonder if the mysterious Kai left it for me – maybe some documents that Bas Mutters wanted me to have – but then I recognise the handwriting. It’s Rashid’s. What is this? Another present? He didn’t mention anything.

“This better not be something ridiculously expensive, dear sugar daddy,” I growl. I hesitate to open it, not knowing what I’ll find inside. He’s already given me a plane ticket to London, so what else can it be? I poke the envelope lightly. Whatever’s inside is hard and square in shape. Not another ticket. More like a book? But a flat book. Not one of Daniel Molloy’s, then.

Well, I’ll never find out just from staring at the closed envelope, so I rip it open. It is a book. When I remove the paper, I first see the backside. It’s a warm beige colour with navy blue lettering across. One line is done in curved, flowing letters that are so much more beautiful than English.

جو تم تلاش کرتے ہو, وہ خود تمہیں تلاش کر رہا है.

Underneath, in a smaller font, I find the translation: “What you seek is seeking you. (Rumi)”. My fingers glide over the elegant script. They’re shaking when I turn the book around.

The front shows the picture of a coastline, the rough beauty of steep cliffs, grass flattened by the wind, and flowers of vibrant pink, white and yellow stubbornly clinging to the soil. The sea below is a mix of slate-blue and steel-grey, white foam crowning the waves. It looks beautiful, wild and serene. I know I’ve never seen this place with my own eyes, but I know where it is. This is where my man grew up, where his heart still lives, his home. This is Yorkshire.

Suspicion dawns in me. Oh no, oh gawd, Rashid… My fingers hover over the outside for a moment, prolonging the anticipation before I open it. A sheet of paper lands in my lap, and I open it to find a letter, addressed to me, in Rashid’s neat handwriting. I blow out a breath before I start reading.

میری پیاری جانو،
(My sweet beloved)

I know that things have not been smooth or easy between us lately, and I’m sorry for it. I know you won’t let me take the blame for it, not any more than I will allow you to blame yourself. I think we’re both stubborn like that. But that only means I’m not letting go of you – giving up on us – so easily.

For the longest time after I met you, after that horrible night, I didn’t want to believe there was a chance for us to be together. Not for what you were forced to do in your past. No, because of who I am. Because of who I work for. And that’s completely on me.

When I found out the Talamasca decided to recruit you after all, I couldn’t let that happen. I also couldn’t pass up the chance to finally talk to you. I told myself, deluded myself, it would help me get over you. A spectacular fail, as you would say, but I never regretted it for one second.

I can basically see you inhaling to ask, “Not even when…” and I wish I could be there to seal your lips with a kiss. No, Wendell, not even when.

Arguments happen. I’m sorry for our last one, for the way I reacted to it. I think I freaked out not only because of the lies Sam told you but also because I put you in harm’s way. I gave him the opportunity to get to you. I told him how to find you. If anything had happened to you, I would have never been able to forgive myself.

I know the things you said to me that morning were said in anger. You said you didn’t mean them, and I believe you. But I also think there was still some truth behind them. I had a lot of time to think when I stayed at the Maidstone that day. I knew there was a very good chance I would never see you again, and I tried to understand where we went wrong. I could see several reasons, and Sam was only one of them.

I don’t want to repeat every hurtful thing we said to each other. But I know what I’ve done wrong. I gave you the impression that you’re not part of my life. But you are. I heard you and I want to do better.

Sadly, I can’t introduce you to my family the way you did. Even if I had living relatives in the UK (there are a few distant aunts, uncles and cousins in Dhaka), I have my doubts any of them would approve of our “lifestyle”, and I wouldn’t subject you to their judgement. So this is the best that I can do to show you the life and the people I came from.

Thank you for letting me use your laptop for this, unknowingly. I’m glad I had most of the photos saved in the cloud, and Charlie helped with the rest.

I hope you accept this gift as the olive branch it is intended to be and a reminder of how much you mean to me.

I love you, Wendell. Please, don’t give up on us.

ہمیشہ تمہارا
راشد

(Always Yours,
Rashid)

My vision blurs when I reach the last few lines, and I have to blink several times. I wipe at my eyes frantically, suddenly afraid tears might fall onto the letter or the book and blotch it. I’ve never had anyone do anything like that for me. No one has ever written me a love letter. This is a love letter, isn’t it? And made a photo book. Am I going to see Rashid’s family? His nanu! Suddenly I can’t wait to see what awaits me inside the book, and I turn the first page.

I’m greeted by the image of a scrawny, gangly South Asian boy in a red sweater, a white polo shirt, grey shorts, black socks and shoes. His short hair is neatly combed to the side. He doesn’t smile, but his eyes are blown wide with excitement, and he’s shouldering a backpack that is almost too big for him. I don’t need the caption ‘Walkington Primary, 2002’ to know this is my Rashid on his first day of school. He looks exactly the way I thought he did at that age. I bet he was a quiet kid, hungry for knowledge and always anxious to make his parents proud.

The next page shows me a young couple: a handsome man in a black suit and a burgundy tie. His arm is draped protectively around the young woman next to him. She’s beautiful and slender, with silky hair pinned back in an elaborate bun, wearing a long-sleeved cream-coloured blouse and a knee-length skirt that almost matches the colour of his tie. She’s holding a small bouquet of white flowers, and the caption says, ‘Rohan and Naima Chaudhury, October 1997’. There’s a tiny, nervous smile on her lips – one that mirrors his perfectly. She isn’t showing yet. Not in any way that the photograph would give away. But I know what I’m looking at. First trimester. A tiny life already growing inside her.

I don’t know why, but it makes me smile that Rashid attended his parents’ wedding. In a way. I peek more closely at Rohan’s and Naima’s faces, trying to work out who he takes after more. It’s hard to tell from just one photo, but I think he definitely has his mom’s eyes. There’s something in them that feels observant, almost quietly searching. His parents are both good-looking, so that explains a lot, I suppose.

When I turn to the next page, I gasp out loud. The contrast couldn’t be greater. Where the previous wedding photo showed only the bride and groom in quiet restraint, the next one is an explosion of colours and people. It isn’t hard to miss the couple in the centre of a large group. I have no doubt whatsoever that the bride is Rashid’s nanu. Zahra Farooqi looks radiant in a bright sari of reds, golds and deep tones. She’s heavily adorned with jewellery, and her head is partially covered by a veil. I can still see a shy smile lighting up her face. Rashid once told me that his nanu was only seventeen when she got married to Ali Farooqi, who was almost twice her age. It was a semi-arranged marriage, but Rashid said he never had the impression his nanu was unhappy with the choice. Ali is also dressed in traditional attire, even a turban, and his face radiates joy and pride. Rashid’s grandfather was a quiet man who adored his young wife and would have fetched the stars from the sky for her. Even though they were nudged towards each other by their respective families, they loved each other dearly. My eyes wander to the groom in the picture, and for a moment I believe it’s Rashid sitting next to his teenage grandmother. The resemblance between his grandfather – his nana? – and Rashid is really uncanny!

The next pages contain pictures of Rashid’s childhood and teen years. There’s an adorable one of him in a soccer – football – jersey with his arms crossed in front of his chest and one foot resting on top of a soccer ball – a football ball? He’s grinning from ear to ear. In another one he’s younger still, sitting in a sandbox with a couple of other kids. A freckled, red-head boy is pulling a funny face for the camera while a blonde girl with pigtails aims a handful of dirt at a dark-haired boy. All the kids are white – with the exception of Rashid – and I wonder if one of them is Charlie. The caption only says ‘Sandbox Fun’.

“Don’t give me too much information, Chaudhury; I might not be able to handle it…” I growl at the book, only half-annoyed. I still can’t believe Rashid did this for me.

The dark-haired boy appears in a few of the following pictures; one seems to be from a school trip to Paris when they were a little older, and another one is a picture of the school’s athletic team. Five boys in gym wear, their arms around each other’s shoulders, all triumphantly showing off medals in different colours. Rashid is the one on the far left, easily identifyable, his skin tone several shades darker than everyone else’s. There’s another one of Rashid; this time he’s the one in the middle, with two other teens in dark blazers and striped ties. This time they’re holding up some kind of certificates. They all look ridiculously proud of themselves.

I understand a little better why Rashid said he sometimes felt like the ‘odd one out’ growing up. He said there was never any open racism or bullying. His parents were respected and well-liked members of their small village, but Rashid said it was hard to ignore the fact that there were no other kids who looked like him. That feeling of being different than anyone else probably intensified when he realised he wasn’t interested in girls. I think this is why he tried to ignore that part of himself for so long. Only after he moved to Oxford with its gay community and fair share of ‘bi-curious’ guys did he accept this side of him.

One of the last pictures is of a group of four young people: Rashid and the dark-haired boy in tuxedos, both looking unfairly handsome – although I know who I’d pick – and two gorgeous girls in fancy evening gowns. The caption says ‘Leavers’ Ball, 2016′. I assume it’s maybe something similar to a high school prom night. The four of them are in someone’s living room, probably just about to leave for the night. The dark-haired guy plants a big kiss on his date, her surprised shriek frozen in the moment the picture was taken. The other girl, honey-blonde waves flowing around her face, has her arm hooked around Rashid’s and smiles at him fondly. I almost want to growl and tell her to get her paws off my man when I remember that Rashid is gay but that he wasn’t out at home. He couldn’t have taken a boyfriend to a ball without word getting back to his parents.

On second thought, I almost feel bad for her. I’m pretty sure Rashid didn’t tell her he isn’t attracted to women when they agreed on this date. The way she looks at him, I’d say she definitely likes what she’s seeing. Not that I blame her. Rashid is the tallest in the picture, taller than the other dark-haired boy, or maybe it only looks that way because he stands straight, not goofing around like his friends. The picture was taken years – two, I think – before the Talamasca recruited him and he received training as an agent, but I can already see his ability to shield his thoughts and feelings. It’s something he must have learned at a very young age.

There’s still the hint of a shy smile curling his lips and a twinkle in his eye. I’m not sure what you have to do to receive a scholarship for a place like Oxford, but probably a lot more than I ever invested in school. Celebrating this achievement with his friends before starting a new chapter in his life, away from home, must have felt exhilarating. I can’t help but feel a little proud of my man. Not that I had any part in his success. 2016? I was just about to start my second year at Cypress Grove Charter Elementary School. It was also the year mom died.

My gaze lingers a little longer on the group of four hopefuls: eager, alight with anticipation and poised to take on the world. I try not to think about where I was when I was eighteen. That’s in the past and no one’s fault. I briefly wonder what happened to the rest of the group. Did they go to elite universities, too? Is Rashid still in contact with them? When he talks about his ‘friends with kids’, is he talking about them?

Apparently in the summer after graduation, Rashid went on a beach holiday in Spain, and I’m treated to some mouthwatering pictures of my man on the beach and in swim trunks. Unfortunately, they’re the big bulky kind, so very important aspects of his physiognomy are hidden from view, but the rest… madre mia – as Mari would say. At eighteen years old, his body was still somewhere between a boy and the man he is today. Limbs were still a bit gangly but already well defined thanks to years spent on the athletics team. I have to remind myself there is nothing pervy about drooling over my own boyfriend, who is actually twelve years older than me. Even though he’s barely an adult in these pictures. He’s just hot; I can’t help it. No matter how old he is.

The penultimate page shows me a picture of Rashid as a small boy again, sitting on a kitchen bench next to an older woman, her white hair tied back in a bun. His nanu. They both wear matching wide smiles as they beam at the camera. I can’t help but smile back at them. These are the moments that Rashid told me about. Sitting in his nanu‘s kitchen, doing his homework, while she cooked some food. Rainy Sunday afternoons spent on her couch with a big bowl of snacks and watching one of her seventeen DVDs.

I’m almost sad when I turn the last page and it reveals a picture of Rashid, flanked by his parents. It’s easy to recognise the young couple from the wedding picture. Rashid is in a black suit, a white bow tie and a gown. His mom is on his right, looking tired and gaunt but still beautiful, and her eyes glow with pride. Rashid mentioned that she was diagnosed with a kidney disease when he was a teenager, and she had to undergo regular treatment for the rest of her life. It was quite unexpected and ironic that in the end it was his dad who died almost ten years before her. I wonder if this picture is maybe the last one where they were all together. The caption only says ‘Oxford’.

I’m surprised to find one more page, and when I turn it, I can’t help but giggle. There’s a selfie of Rashid and my cat Bruno, clearly sitting on the deckchair on my rooftop terrace.

“You smug, furry little traitor,” I accuse Bruno and poke him in his round belly. “You knew this was happening!” He’s not showing any remorse and tries to bite my finger.

Next to the selfie, there’s an empty Polaroid frame with the caption “You & I”. Guess that’s a picture we still need to take.

I let myself keel over on my mattress, clutching the photo album to my chest. For a while, I just lie there, breathing, while the weight of this gesture slowly sinks in.

Rashid and I have been dating for fifteen months now. Even if it’s long-distance and it’s not the same as ‘normal’ dating, it’s still not nothing. I accused him of not letting me be a part of his life. And he listened. He took my concern seriously. And he gave me this. It’s not the same as introducing me to his family – or his friends – but it’s a start. And for someone who is so secretive about his private life as my Rashid, this is a huge step. And he took it. For me. Because I asked for it.

It blows my mind, to be honest. I know I flung those words at him, but I didn’t think anything would come of it. I was just angry at him. Well, terrified of losing him, of being hurt. I would have said anything to make him leave. Because I thought if I were the one driving him away, it would hurt less. Wrong. But he listened to me and took me seriously.

He takes us seriously.

Not that it was ever just a fling for me. The first few months, I freaked out over so many things: Was he even into me? Would he be disgusted by my past? One by one, we ticked all of these questions off. Not easily, not without some collateral damage, and I’m sure going forward, there will be more, but… going forward? Is this… what’s happening?

I never thought much about my future. When I was a kid, I probably had the same stupid dreams every kid has. Become like Daredevil and fight for those who can’t fend for themselves. Or maybe become a rockstar, rich and famous like Lestat. But most of the time I just took things as they came. Hoping my dad would have a good day. That I wouldn’t have to go to school with a black eye, pretending I fell off my bike. Got hit in the face by a ball. When I met Remy, it was so easy to get lost in a dream world where it was just the two of us. No past, no future. Just us in the present.

And then I lived on the streets, and the moment was all I had. There was never a guarantee that I would live to see another day. Violence was a fact of life. Violence amongst ‘our kind’. Fighting over scraps of food, a threadbare blanket or a sleeping place. Sometimes just looking at someone funny could earn you a shiner. For a while a girl named Kari worked the same corner I did. I didn’t mind. She was fun to be around, and we hardly fished in the same pond. But she showed me some nasty scars that were left on her lower abdomen when some other hookers didn’t like her hanging around. Violence could also come from outside. I didn’t see it, but I heard the story of Old Herb. Some drunk fucks doused him and his meagre belongings with gasoline before tossing in a match.

Surviving this hellhole for as long as I did… I know I was damn lucky. But it made imagining a future almost impossible. I was happy to be alive. I had Josie and my princess. A place to come home to. Then a job and my own four walls. And then there was Rashid.

I love Rashid. I want to be with him.

I never allowed myself to dream of a future with him because it seemed so utterly impossible. The rent boy and the spy? Sounds like a cheesy romance novel. The ones where you read the blurb on the cover and roll your eyes because clearly the author lost the plot. I remember the morning after our first kiss, after the first night we spent together – only cuddling in case I had a concussion. You know the story. We’d only been dating for a few weeks, and Rashid was called back to London by the motherhouse. He promised me to come back because he wanted to explore where we could be going. He wanted to give us a chance.

And now, a year later, he’s giving me this. The man who hardly talks about his family or friends. Who never introduced me to anyone, not even in a phone call. Whose apartment is bare of any family photos or personal items. He gives me a book full of pictures of himself as a kid, his parents, and his grandparents.

I hug the book tighter to my chest. What does it mean?

I’ve always known Rashid to be a very private person, even from our very first conversations that we pretended were still recruitment meetings. It’s just who Rashid is, and it also ‘comes with the job’. He said that to me the first time we went for a morning run on the day my twin nephews were born, and I awkwardly tried to find out if he was into dating men. ‘You’re hard to read,’ I told him, and he affirmed it.

He never came out to his parents, so introducing any of his boyfriends – Luke and the ‘other one’ – was out of the question. Keeping secrets comes as naturally to Rashid as breathing. He’s divided his life into separate rooms: his family, his friends back home, Oxford, the Talamasca, and now me. Each carefully kept apart.

Until now.

Now he’s quietly opened a door and invited me inside.

Suddenly my studio feels too small, the walls too close. I push myself off my bed, snatch the thin blanket from the couch and head outside. I need open space. I need air. I curl up on my deckchair, the cushion still warm from the midday sun. I pull the blanket up to my chin, more for comfort than warmth, and watch the clouds drift lazily across the sky until the harsh light softens and the shadows begin to stretch across the rooftops.