What I Meant to Say, Was

Fahim glanced over Samara’s shoulder, careful not to wake her. The clock had just slipped past two. Her neck rested comfortably on his arm, her breathing slow and even. He stayed still for a moment longer than necessary, then slowly eased himself free, lifting her head just enough to slide out without disturbing her.

The house creaked in familiar places as he made his way downstairs, stepping around half-packed boxes filled with books, utensils, things they had forgotten they owned. The dining table was still intact, a small island in the middle of everything else already dismantled.

He opened his graph paper notebook. The pages were crowded– scribbles, crossed-out sentences, arrows pointing nowhere. He had always preferred graph paper. Something about the structure. Samara liked looseleaf, margins soft and forgiving.

It had been a long time since he’d written anything that wasn’t meant to explain, defend, or prove. This had been her idea.

“Let’s do something fun this year,” she had said a few nights ago, sitting cross-legged on the floor between boxes. “We’re running out of fancy gifts. Let’s make a rule– no money.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Besides, we’ve already spent everything on moving trucks. And nobody wants our old stuff on Facebook Marketplace.”

“I told you we could’ve just used the car.”

She laughed.

“Right. Let’s do a dozen trips and tie the tv to the roof of the car.”

Now, under the fluorescent kitchen light, Fahim pressed his pen to the page.

“Dear Samara, it’s been a lovely five years. When we—”

He stopped.

Lovely? What do I sound like right now?

He scratched it out.

“Do you remember when we stayed for the credits in the movie theater just to find the brown people’s names at the end?”

He paused.

Funny. Not romantic.

Another line, another stop.

“I’ve decided to write you a letter this evening—”

Dude. She knows that already.

He set the pen down.

Across the room, a framed photo from their wedding leaned against a box. He picked it up, brushing a thin layer of dust from the glass. Samara stood beside him in a red sari, the fabric rich and deliberate, her jewelry catching light even in the still image. She had refused the heavier makeup, insisting on something simpler. He remembered the soft rattle of her jhumkas when she turned her head, the way her eyes held his when the imam spoke.

He returned to the table.

She would finish this in minutes, he thought.

It had been years since he’d written anything that wasn’t tied to work or school. Data, models, explanations. Precision without feeling. Samara lived somewhere else entirely— books, essays, half-finished stories. When they first met, her voice had moved easily between Sylvia Plath, Mary Shelley, and Rabindranath Tagore. He used to meet her there.

He tried again.

“Samara, do you wanna—”

No.

“The last five years have been quite a ride—”

A ride? What is this, an amusement park?

“I really liked that red sari you wore—”

Liked?

He closed the notebook.

Upstairs, Samara shifted slightly in her sleep as he returned to bed. He laid beside her, careful not to wake her, his arm finding its way back beneath her head. Fahim stared at the ceiling.

I need to write this.

The next afternoon, they packed in silence broken only by tape and cardboard.

“Should we keep these?” Samara asked, holding up a set of plates still wrapped in bubble wrap.

“They’re new, no?”

“We’ve never used them. Your mom didn’t either.”

“She liked to keep things for show.”

“And we don’t?”

He smiled faintly.

“We’re trying not to.”

She moved on, pointing to a stack of textbooks.

“And these?”

“Put them with the books. I already threw the rest out.”

The tape ran out with a dry, final pull.

“Great,” she signed, “I’ll grab another roll.”

When she left, the apartment felt briefly larger. Fahim stepped carefully between the boxes. Something near the wall caught his eye— a yellow manila folder, with his name written across it in Samara’s handwriting. He opened it, inside were pages he didn’t remember writing. Old poems and letters dated years ago. The paper had grown fragile, softened at the edges. He sat down on a nearby box and flipped through them slowly.

Happy Birthday my love. Time dilates and minutes go by- it’s a privilege to spend each one with you.

Another page. When they were long distant for a little while:

A library of stories in your eyes, from Sylvia to the Iliad,

Fried chicken and Hershey Kisses on your period,

Anything for you, what a blessed experience

Others between anniversaries and dates. He felt a strange distance reading them, as if someone else had written these lines with his name attached. Voices surfaced, fragments of conversations from years ago—

“I’m serious. Mary Shelley was the real genius. Frankenstein was a menace.”

“You mean Doctor Frankenstein, and his monster.”

“You knew what I meant.”

“I still think Bayesian statistics sounds harder. What do you say in it– infinitesimally?”

“Well, how art thou believe such a false?”

“That’s Shakespeare. And wrong.”

He smiled despite himself.

Further down, he found a letter.

“Samara, what can I say? Six months flew by in six weeks, it seems like…”

He stopped reading, his chest harrowing. Not from embarrassment, but from something quieter.

I don’t remember thinking this hard back then.

He wasn’t trying to be perfect. He was just trying to reach her.

Fahim heard footsteps on the stairs and quickly slid the papers abc into the folder, returning it to its place.

Later that night, he tried again.

“Samara, these last five years flew by. But I guess that’s what happens when—”

No. This is just what I wrote then.

“I love you like the stairs in the Milky Way—” Fahim winced at his own cringe. He set the pen down.

“This wasn’t that hard back then,” he murmured to himself.

Back upstairs, Samara was already asleep. He laid beside her again, her weight settling naturally against him, not moving.

The next day, they finished the last of the packing. The apartment looked unfamiliar now— emptier, echoes where they hadn’t been any before.

“You okay?” Samara asked, tying off a box.

“Yeah,” he said. “Just thinking.”

“About what?”

He shrugged.

“About how I still haven’t finished your gift.”

“She smiled, not unkindly. “You always show up eventually.”

“Eventually,” he repeated.

“Doesn’t have to be perfect,” she added. “You weren’t trying to be perfect when we met.”

He looked at her.

“I wasn’t?”

“You were present and always there for me,” she said. “You noticed things. You said them. That was enough.”

That night, Fahim went downstairs again. The table was still there, though everything else was gone. He opened the notebook. For a while, he didn’t write.

He listened to the quiet hum of the refrigerator, the faint traffic outside, the memory of her breathing upstairs. He thought about the weight of her head on his arm. The way he had stayed still, not because he had to, but because he wanted to.

Fahim lowered his pen. And this time, he didn’t try to sound like anything. He just wrote.

In the morning, before she woke, Fahim folded the letter and slipped it into the top drawer of the dresser. He returned to bed, careful as before, easing his arm beneath her. She shifted slightly, settling into him. He stayed still.

Hey my love,

I initially thought of starting this letter formally with fancy English. Something along the lines of “My Dearest Samara” followed by “I’m smitten by your presence,” and, “enamored at every gander of you,” but I stopped myself. The other night I watched you sleep, curled up in my arms. You slept so soundly that I refused to move for the next hour, occasionally curling my wrist to avoid my arm falling asleep. I watched the clock carry on as I gazed at the ceiling.

What was that line that Tagore said? From that poem you shared with me…

সময় যদি থাকত, ভাবলাম

(If there were time, I thought)

I also thought there was time, where have the last five years gone? From the maroon waves in your hair, to the way you cut mangoes into oval esque slices, or those deep brown eyes I’d dive into in a heartbeat— I find myself falling in love with you all over again.

I spent this whole week trying to perfect this letter, as if I was putting together a meal looking for the right ingredients. You showed me it’s about spending time with them and letting it simmer. I wanted to impress you with my penmanship when you taught me it’s about showing up and being present. You always seem to reveal the beauty within the gaps, power within the lines, and the magic of being present in the noise.

Thank you for teaching me and keeping my feet on the ground.

Happy Anniversary my love.

Sincerely,

Fahim