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hit on me at some time or another and the rest were so boring I couldn’t stand to even think of calling them at random. I wished sometimes that I had more friends that I had a best friend with whom I could talk openly about my life, my thoughts, and my heart. But I was remarkably aloof from people and I knew I didn’t allow people to come close to me. How I had maintained love interests and relationships was sometimes a mystery to me but then I remembered that all those relationships had ended with me being accused of being distant, cold, sometimes unfeeling. All except Anjali. And even she, I knew, struggled with my distant ways, how I lost myself in myself for days on end, how sometimes, I refused to talk. I knew it was hurting us. But I didn’t know any other way to be. I couldn’t trust my own heart enough to allow anyone else to hold it let alone dive into it. Maybe my squatting stranger could change that. I didn’t even know her and already I had hopes for her.
    I pressed a button on top of my phone so that it brightened and a dim photo of the Eiffel Tower lit up for me. Anjali had sent me the photo while gallivanting in Paris last year. I had been here, in New York City, studying for MCATs, getting drunk and getting laid while she had been in Paris taking supervised tours of Notre Dame. These were the differences between us. And I wondered for the thousand and first time how we were ever going to work.
    Anjali and I shared situations, not memories, I thought. We shared lust and chances. But it could be more, couldn’t it? I sighed. It had to be more. Because she loved me. Because I loved her. I took out my phone again and called her.
    â€œHello?”
    â€œHey, it’s me.”
    â€œHey.”
    â€œI was wondering if you wanted to come to Central Park. We could get some sushi or go to a lounge somewhere later.”
    â€œThat sounds great but I made plans. You told me you were busy today.”
    â€œI did but things changed.”
    â€œI’m sorry, Jess. I made plans with Ish and I haven’t seen her since Christmas. She’s finally back in the city.”
    Upon hearing Ish’s name, a fire rose up inside of me. It’s not that I disliked Ish…I hated Ish. I couldn’t quite define why but I was overcome with loathing whenever I saw her kohl lined brown eyes, whenever I heard her deep, raspy voice, and even when Anjali merely mentioned her name. The funny thing was (and I would never admit this to anyone, most times not even to myself), I hated the way Ish looked at Anjali. I knew there was nothing there—Ish was with Kat and they had their own very dysfunctional relationship that had lasted, despite ups downs and in-betweens, for almost six and a half-years. But my heart fought me on this, told me otherwise. It wasn’t a fair assessment but it was my assessment. If anyone made me protective of Anjali, it was Ish Mehra.
    â€œJess? You there? I said, ‘I’m sorry.’”
    â€œDon’t be sorry,” I snapped.
    â€œWhy are you so angry? You’re always angry with me and I didn’t do anything to you.”
    â€œI’m sorry and you’re right,” I said as Anjali’s voice brought me back, sobered me of my anger just a bit.
    â€œAll right, well, I’ll see you at home then. Are you sure you’re okay?”
    â€œYeah.”
    I hung up. It wasn’t that I wanted to spend the day with Anjali so much as I didn’t want to be the one asking her and being told that she had things to do. Truth was I didn’t want Ish to be around Anjali. How I could justify this sentiment I didn’t know. I myself was sauntering, waiting for my nameless photographer. But Ish…the way she placed Anjali’s hair behind her ear, how she whispered so damn close all the time, how she didn’t kiss the air by Anjali’s face when they met but actually kissed her cheek, a streak of Dior red inevitably