Acchuu!!!!
Even if someone had run a truck over my head, maybe it would have hurt less than sneezing five times in two minutes.
I rub my itchy nose and sniff in the aroma of masala tea right before me.
Cinnamon, cardamom, cloves, ginger, milk, sugar, poured into a white porcelain tea cup with four biscuits on a plate next to it.
This is what I call tea. After all, no matter how much I change my name and how many decades I spend here in London, my inner Indian chai lover will never die.
At least not under the watch of my friend who is currently looking at me like I have committed a crime against humanity.
"Can you stop staring at me?" I say, trying not to meet her gaze as I take the first sip of my long-awaited masala tea which warms up my soul from the core.
"Why—" She inhales sharply, running her fingers through her soft wavy black hair falling over her shoulder, her big round sharp brown judgmental eyes staring at me, deciding if she should be worried about my cold and fever or lecture me like I'm not two years older than her.
"Nini, you had the audacity to dance in the rain right after you had chilled soda. Are you crazy? Or did someone pull out your brain and shove it in cow dung?" she accuses, her arms folded over her chest, sunlight kissing her slowly honey-toned skin, her delicate fingers tapping on the wooden surface of the table.
"That's harsh. I am just a bit sick," I mumble like a scolded child, dipping my biscuit in my tea and taking a mouthful bite.
Hmmm. It hits the spot as always.
"Bit sick!" Her voice raises. I gulp nervously and let out a laugh, "It's not much!"
She stands up and slams her hands on the table. "Not much? You bloody fool! You have 102 fever, your nose is red and bruised and you are telling ME—" she leans closer, almost shoving her face right before mine as I look away, unable to say something.
"It's nothing much!! Do you want to die, you moron! And you are going to work with this fever!" She groans, throwing her head back.
I press my lips tight, trying not to smile.
"Mila, I am fine—"
"I swear if you say I am fine one more time, I am going to feed you raw carrot for the next two weeks and no one is going to save you."
I gulp and shake my head. My heart sinks at the mention of carrot.
And I know if Jamila Hassan says she will do something, she will 100% do it.
"I am not fine. I'm so sorry for being reckless and dumb. Can you please—" I lean my head back a bit, avoiding her sharp gaze, gulping in fear, "Sit back?"
Jamila looks at me annoyed but sits back in her chair anyway.
Phew. God saved me.
Jamila Hassan. 24 years old. 5'3. Wavy raven hair falling down to her shoulder, sharp round eyes and honey-toned skin, curves hidden under her layer of oversized clothes.
She came to London when she was 20 for undergrad in Law at Oxford.
Yeah, Oxford. This little fireball, my moral compass and biggest nagger of my life, is a genius who gave LNAT out of whim and got in the top 1%. By the age of 24, she is part of the British Bar.
Talented, beautiful, morally always thinking from both left and right side.
Talk to her and you will start doubting if you are the problem or if people around you are the problem, because this little girl who makes me masala chai every morning and scolds me like a kid for getting sick—basically she is scared of losing me.
She has a moral compass so clean underneath her sarcastic, nonchalant exterior, I get worried how she even survives in the most ruthless law firm of London.
Thankfully, she knows not to argue with people too big for her to handle.
She will come up with the most ridiculous yet believable excuse that even her senior lawyers, who can see through any act, will believe.
I met her in an art gallery in Paris. At first, I thought she was like a little squirrel, later it turned out she is a total scoundrel whose only fear is ending up in hellfire—so she controls her actions.
"But are you sure that guy you talked about is actually as handsome as you said?" She asks curiously, looking at me with those big round innocent eyes which disarm me every time, yet I still pamper her.
I nod, sipping my chai. "Yeah, both the name and the owner of that name are handsome yet—" I roll my eyes, remembering last night where that guy Aaron got under my skin which is thicker than Godzilla at this point.
"Handsome guy with shitty personality is the greatest tragedy created by Allah," she grumbles, rubbing her nose.
I nod and lean back. "I mean seriously, he was such a bastard! But so hot. Those veiny hands and that deep ass voice—" I bite my lip and let out an embarrassing moan.
Come on, let's not judge myself.
Jamila laughs, throwing her head back, loud and unapologetic. Isn't this why we have best friends?
With them we can be our most ridiculous version yet they won't judge us.
"Just drool over him, Nini. Don't date such brooding guys," she warns me, a bit protective, like a little sister who has seen your worst breakup three years ago which—
Let's not talk about it.
She leans forward, taking my hands in hers, she squeezes them tight. "Nini, if a man is a bastard to everyone, don't be delusional to think he is going to change for you." Her voice drops low, no teasing grin. "It's not your job to change a man. If a man wants you, he will change for you. You are the Queen, not a therapist."
My eyes soften, my heart warms up. Inhaling sharply, I nod at her words.
"I will remember that," I whisper softly.
She nods and pats my hand.
"Let's go. I will tag along with you to your office." She stands up and starts wearing her yellow blazer, leaving no room for argument.
"You act like you are older than me, Mila." I chuckle, grabbing my bag.
She shoots me a dismissive look. "If you want to be treated like the older one, start acting like one. Now, let's go." She grins, pulling me, our arms locked.
"You haven't given your daily quote, Mila," I nudge my elbow toward her.
She looks at me and blinks thoughtfully.
She always gives me a quote from somewhere she has read. I don't know why she does it. Yet over the last four years of being friends with her and sharing the same apartment for a year, I have learned one thing—
It's her way of grounding me, who gets lost in the twists and turns of the world.
Reality check mixed with concern and good intention.
She licks her lips. "Just because it's impossible to others, doesn't mean it's gonna be impossible for you too." Her face lights up, sunlight kissing her smile along with her yellow blazer and hair pulled up in a ponytail. She looks like a walking sun ball.
"So, keep being a bad bitch, Nini. What's meant for you will find you even if it's impossible."
My heart flutters at the end of her words.
I know this is probably some line she read while scrolling through Pinterest or Instagram, yet the way she says it with certainty…
I want to believe her.
What's meant for me… will find me….
Let's hope so.
After a good twenty minutes of bus ride, we get off. Passing through freshly baked cakes and cookies, we end up getting chocolate and strawberry pastries in a small cute box.
She is grumbling about her seniors being such rotten and unbearable personalities, it's a miracle she hasn't killed a few yet.
Oh I know, if she ever wants to kill someone, she can do that and no one will even know how the hell that person died.
"Call me when you are done, we will return home together. And here—" she hands me a Stanley cup in which she poured me some ginger lemon tea for the day, "Drink it. And don't overwork. Stay calm and no therapy session for broken man."
I chuckle, my throat hurting a bit from the cold. Yet knowing how she is too worried about me opening up a therapy center for a mentally unstable, brooding handsome guy, it makes me laugh anyway.
"Yes, yes. Now go. Don't kill someone at your office," I grin.
She waves me goodbye and shouts, "If I were to kill, the first person would be any brooding goblin around you. NO HANDSOME MENTALLY UNSTABLE GUY WITH BLUE EYES, OKAY?"
People on the walk give her weird looks but as if this unhinged girl even cares about it till her message is delivered.
I wave, grinning. "YES! I WILL KEEP THAT IN MIND, MILA!"
I watch her mixing into the crowd and something inside me feels sad, thinking soon the day will come when we won't be together anymore.
This little dictator with passion in everything in the world and too brilliant to stay stuck in the same firm for more than a few years—it's impossible.
Is this how fear of losing someone hits us? Me, who is too habituated with people coming and going, being taken as the strongest and calmest under pressure, yet somehow never enough to stay.
I really get emotional thinking of a future, my best friends moving out of our small cocoon and starting our own families.
I turn around, shaking my head, looking at the Stanley cup in my hand and a strange wish nests in my heart silently.
How great it would be if us four best friends fall in love with four best friends?
Silly thought…
I guess I have been becoming more emotional because of my fever and cold.
Get back on track, Nova. World won't stop for your overthinking and fear.
And like Mila said, no brooding goblin with blue eyes is worth ruining my already fucked up mental health.
With this, I start my 2nd day in Laurent & Cie, hoping, no, praying, it will be boring, unproblematic.
But who am I kidding? Since when does God hear my plea.
Standing among 30 members of M&A who have been called into Felix's office to greet our new deputy VP, I can only laugh at the irony of God and my miserable life which has no sense of consent before bringing brand new flavors in my life.
"This is Aaron Erikson, our new Deputy VP. From today, you will be getting through him before reaching me," Felix smiles coldly at all of us.
I can hear girls gasping around me. Of course, this iceberg is way too handsome—standing in a white shirt, navy blue suit and matching trousers, black hair down in a way that gives him a boyish vibe instead of the sexy alpha man I met last night.
He even had his stubble shaved and someone just tell me— we girls who spend so much money and effort behind our skin can't get such pretty skin like these guys who use the same soap to clean both their face and butt.
And as if it isn't enough to ruin my day… maybe another six months of my career,
our eyes meet.
Sunlight filtering through the glass window reflects against those cold, distant arctic blue eyes which seem to hold too much unsaid pain, history which carries lifetimes of burden.
He blinks slowly, almost reading me, measuring me.
I gulp, my palm feels sweaty, and suddenly I am way too conscious of my surroundings and myself.
This isn't right…