Aaliyah Amrohi
Aaliyah Amrohi awoke to the gentle hum of traffic outside her apartment, the faint light of dawn slipping through the tall windows. She lay in bed for a few moments, eyes half-closed as she listened to the city’s distant soundscape. Morning in Manhattan was never truly quiet, but her apartment in Greenwich Village provided more serenity than one might expect. Thick curtains, plush furnishings, and artful decor reflected the comfort her family’s wealth had always afforded her.
Yet comfort was not the same as freedom.
With a sigh, she stretched and reached for her phone on the bedside table. Five missed notifications blinked across the screen. She recognized the area code for her family’s estate in Riyadh, letting her gaze linger on the unanswered call. She already knew why they wanted to speak with her—some new directive, a subtle pressure to abandon her academic pursuits and return to the fold. Even if they didn’t explicitly say so, that was always the underlying theme.
I’m not ready for their demands right now, she told herself, swiping away the missed call notification. Not today.
Aaliyah swung her legs over the side of the bed, planting her feet on the cool hardwood floor. The apartment, though generously sized for a grad student, felt minimalist: clean lines, neutral colors, carefully selected artwork. A few plush cushions added warmth, but nothing felt overdone. She’d chosen to decorate in a way that reminded her of the person she was trying to become—self-reliant and unencumbered by her family’s expectations.
Walking toward the kitchen, she passed a large mirror and paused to assess her reflection. Dark hair neatly braided last night now hung loose against her shoulders, and faint shadows under her eyes revealed her late-night study session. She had a dissertation proposal to refine, lesson plans to write for Professor Asif, and notes to review for the undergrad class she was TA’ing. The semester was only just beginning, yet she already felt her schedule tightening around her like a vice.
She flicked on the kitchen lights, filling the kettle with water for tea. Normally, she might indulge in a coffee run, but she sensed a craving for something calming—chamomile, perhaps. The counters gleamed with the sort of sterile perfection that came from having a regular cleaning service, another testament to her wealth. She appreciated the help, sure, but a small, rebellious part of her wished she knew how to struggle the way so many other grad students did. At least then she’d feel the satisfaction of building everything herself.
They’d probably call it a silly desire, but I just want my life to be my own.
As the kettle warmed, her phone buzzed again. She glanced down to see Ehsan’s name. A flicker of annoyance tugged at her. He’d tried calling yesterday too, but she hadn’t been in the mood to answer. Now, a new text flashed:
[Ehsan]: Good morning, Aaliyah. It’s been too long. Let’s have dinner soon?
She pursed her lips. Ehsan, the ex who was so adored by her family. His father owned a chain of international hotels, and everyone had once declared them a perfect match—wealth meeting wealth, tradition meeting tradition. She’d broken it off months ago because he’s too controlling, too smug, too tied to the old ways, but that didn’t stop him from hovering around the edges of her life.
Still ignoring his text, she set her phone aside and poured herself a cup of tea. She had her own day to begin, her own goals to chase, and no ex or family member was going to derail her focus this morning.
--
By eight-thirty, Aaliyah was dressed and ready to leave for campus. She wore fitted trousers, a tucked-in blouse, and low heels, a style both professional and comfortable. A gold necklace with the Arabic word for “light” rested at her collarbone, a small token she’d chosen herself rather than accept the ostentatious jewelry her parents so often gifted.
As she locked her apartment door and stepped into the hallway, she felt the familiar pang: I love them, but they don’t understand me. Her parents had always wanted her to marry well and settle into a life of luxury. Being a TA, grappling with hours of research, and living on a modest grad student stipend (albeit supplemented by trust funds she resisted using) didn’t exactly match their vision.
Stepping onto the street, she breathed in the crisp morning air. The smell of coffee and bagels lingered from a nearby cafe, and the city’s vitality buzzed around her. Horns blared in the distance; a group of schoolchildren giggled their way onto a bus. She hailed a cab, sliding into the back seat with a sense of relief that this was one part of city life she could embrace—the ability to vanish in the moving swarm, a face among millions, free.
Her phone buzzed again:
[Ehsan]: I’m in town for a few days. Your family suggested we meet. Don’t ignore me, habibti.
She rolled her eyes, heart twisting at the use of habibti. That old term of endearment felt manipulative now. Still, ignoring him forever wasn’t an option, especially since he had her family’s ear. She typed back:
[Aaliyah]: I’m busy. Maybe next week.
She hit send, inhaling a slow breath. That should hold him off for a bit.
The cab sped through traffic, heading toward NYU’s main campus. Outside, the city blurred by—people rushing, deliveries happening, life in perpetual motion. She listened to the rhythmic pulse of the engine, mentally reciting the tasks she had lined up: finalize readings for the undergrad class, meet with Professor Asif about her own dissertation proposal, and find a spare hour to respond to the avalanche of student emails.
And, yes, maybe glean a fleeting glance of the “track star girl” who’d caught her attention more than she cared to admit.
--
Her morning began in the graduate lounge, a space tucked away in one of the older buildings on campus, furnished with aging couches and half-broken desks. Sunlight streamed through tall windows, illuminating the dust motes that danced in the air. A handful of other doctoral candidates typed furiously on their laptops or skimmed thick stacks of papers.
Aaliyah found a vacant armchair near a window, setting her laptop on her knees. She pulled up her schedule:
- 10:00 a.m. meeting with Professor Asif about dissertation chapters
- 1:00 p.m. office hours for undergrad class
- 3:00 p.m. departmental research panel
Just breathe, she told herself, shifting her shoulders. You can handle this.
She opened her dissertation files, scanning the notes she’d accumulated over months of research. Her topic centered on modern Middle Eastern sociopolitical dynamics, a focus she found both personally meaningful and academically challenging. Every time she felt a wave of doubt, she reminded herself this was why I came here—to carve my own path.
A quiet voice startled her from behind. “Excuse me, Ms. Amrohi?”
She glanced up to see a first-year grad student shifting nervously, thick-framed glasses perched on his nose. “Yes?” she asked, offering what she hoped was a friendly smile.
“I heard you’re TA’ing for Professor Asif’s undergrad course. I’m thinking of sitting in. Would that be… okay?”
“Sure,” she replied, nodding. “We meet Mondays and Wednesdays at two. You’d have to clear it with Professor Asif, but I doubt he’d mind an observer.”
The student nodded, relief evident on his face. “Thanks. I really admire your work on socio-political identity in the region.”
Aaliyah’s lips twitched into a modest smile. “I’m still learning myself, but thank you.”
He scurried off, leaving her with a mixture of pride and responsibility. Sometimes, she forgot that people looked up to her. She was just a PhD student, after all. But at least I’m doing something that matters to me.
Before she could dwell on it, her phone buzzed again. This time, it was a group message.
[Malika]: We’re brunching at The Sparrow at noon. You in?
She typed back:
[Aaliyah]: Sorry, I have a meeting.
Almost immediately, two more notifications popped up.
[Nala]: Don’t be dull, come see us.
[Nashwa]: You never come out with us anymore!
Aaliyah sighed. Malika, Nala, and Nashwa—her trio of socialite friends. She loved them, but they inhabited a world of designer clothes, exclusive parties, and carefree living that she found both exhilarating and suffocating. She typed:
[Aaliyah]: Maybe another day, my schedule is crazy.
Nala replied with a string of dramatic crying emojis, while Nashwa sent a playful “boo” reaction. Despite herself, Aaliyah smiled.
They might tease me, but I know they care.
--
By mid-morning, Aaliyah found herself walking the polished corridors of the political science building, heading toward Professor Asif’s office. She passed under flickering fluorescent lights, the faint echo of voices behind closed doors reminding her how many conversations, research proposals, and debates happened in these walls.
Professor Asif’s door was ajar. She rapped lightly with her knuckles and heard his usual brusque, “Come in.”
Stepping inside, she was greeted by the familiar sight of overstuffed bookshelves and a desk cluttered with academic journals. Asif, a middle-aged man with a stern expression and thin-rimmed glasses, gestured for her to sit.
“Ms. Amrohi,” he began, pushing aside a small mountain of papers. “You wanted to discuss your dissertation chapters, yes?”
She nodded, placing a neatly stapled packet on his desk. “I’ve reorganized my second chapter to better address the interplay between historical tribal structures and modern governance. I’d appreciate your feedback.”
He glanced over the pages, fingers drumming on the desk. “I see. Good. Your approach is thorough, but I want to see deeper engagement with recent scholarship—particularly regarding how international NGOs influence state dynamics. Integrate that, and your chapter will be stronger.”
Aaliyah nodded, absorbing each critique. “Understood.”
He fixed her with a pointed look. “I also want you to maintain strict standards for the undergrad class. No coddling. These students need to learn that academic rigor applies to them, too.”
“Of course,” she said, masking a tiny smile. Her mind drifted briefly to Cruz Manuelos, the track athlete who’d stared at her like she was something awe-inspiring—and then promptly dropped her pen. Something about Cruz’s mixture of boldness and uncertainty had made Aaliyah curious.
“Anything else?” Asif asked, noticing her momentary distraction.
She forced her focus back, shaking off thoughts of Cruz. “Yes, about the grading rubrics. I’d like to add a short research assignment to help them refine their final paper topics. A baby step before the full outline.”
Asif tapped a pen on the desk. “Sounds fine, as long as you don’t let them slack. Remember, you are acting on my behalf as well.”
She nodded, her posture firm. “I won’t disappoint you.”
--
After the meeting, Aaliyah left the office feeling both validated and drained. She checked her watch—still an hour before she had to hold office hours for the undergrads. She considered stepping outside for a quick breath of fresh air, maybe grabbing a coffee.
Her phone buzzed again. This time, it was a call from Ehsan. With a sigh, she accepted it. “Hello?”
“Aaliyah,” he said warmly, as though nothing had changed since their breakup. “I’m glad you picked up.”
She said nothing, letting him fill the silence.
“I’m in the city,” he continued, his tone hinting at confidence. “I thought maybe we could get dinner tonight—talk.”
She paused in the hallway, leaning against the wall. “Ehsan, I’m busy. My schedule is insane right now. I have dissertation chapters to finalize, office hours, classes to TA…”
He cut in smoothly, “I understand, but we could do a late dinner. Or even lunch tomorrow. Your family mentioned—”
“My family doesn’t get to dictate my schedule,” she said more sharply than intended.
A momentary lull. “They only want what’s best for you, habibti.”
Her grip tightened on the phone. “I’m not your habibti anymore. Look, if I find time, I’ll let you know. Otherwise, please respect that I have priorities.”
Ehsan sighed, a quiet sound of disappointment. “I’ll be at the St. Regis if you change your mind.”
Aaliyah ended the call, heart thudding in her chest. She stood there, letting the swirl of frustration settle. Ehsan might be charming, wealthy, and everything her parents wanted in a son-in-law, but she’d learned he was also dismissive of her ambitions. Time and again, he’d tried to steer her toward giving up the PhD, insinuating she’d have an easier life if she just played the dutiful wife.
I’m not going back to that, she told herself, inhaling deeply. No matter what my family says.
She pocketed her phone and resumed walking, determined to shake off the conversation before her office hours began. She had no intention of letting Ehsan or her family’s expectations derail her academic journey.
--
At lunch, she gave in to Malika, Nala, and Nashwa’s pleas and joined them for a quick coffee on campus. They’d insisted they were “in the neighborhood,” though Aaliyah knew they typically avoided campus life for more luxurious haunts. Still, she found them perched at a chic cafe near one of NYU’s libraries, decked out in designer clothes.
Nashwa, tall and elegant in a pastel pantsuit, beamed when she saw Aaliyah. “There she is, our resident scholar.”
Aaliyah mustered a smile as she slid into a seat. “Hello to you too.”
Malika flipped her glossy hair over one shoulder. “We thought you were too busy for us peasants.”
Aaliyah rolled her eyes affectionately. “I’m never too busy, just… busy.”
Nala snickered. “Studying, TA’ing, basically living the life of a brainiac.”
“Exactly,” Nashwa teased, sipping her latte. “But let’s be real—your life can’t be all dryness and books. Spill. Any interesting new people in your classes?”
Aaliyah felt heat rise to her cheeks. She wished she could shrug off the question, but these three had a knack for sniffing out secrets. “I have a bunch of undergrads,” she started nonchalantly, “nothing special. Some are more engaged than others.”
“Uh-huh,” Malika said, arching a perfectly manicured brow. “Any of them, say, athletic and striking enough to catch your eye?”
Nashwa giggled. “Yes, Malika mentioned you said something about a ‘track star girl.’ Details, please.”
Aaliyah shot them a warning look. “I said no such thing.”
Nala waved her phone teasingly. “We have the chat receipts where you joked about a student who kept dropping her pen every time you looked at her.”
Aaliyah groaned, rubbing her temples. “It’s not like that. She’s just… interesting. And it’s not even appropriate to think about these things.”
Malika flicked a dismissive hand. “Appropriate, schmropriate. You’re a TA, not some high school teacher. She’s an adult, right?”
“Yes, but—” Aaliyah sighed, exasperated. “I’m focusing on my PhD, and on being a professional. I don’t need the complications.”
Nashwa smirked. “Your face says otherwise. Come on, who is she?”
Aaliyah hesitated, recalling Cruz’s determined eyes and cautious smile, how she seemed torn between confidence and uncertainty. Why am I even thinking about this? “She’s just a senior, I think. On the track team. That’s all.”
Nala sipped her coffee, amusement dancing in her eyes. “Well, if you ever get bored, or if you need a rebellion from your controlling family, a fling with a sporty undergrad sounds… delicious.”
Aaliyah shot them a glare, trying to mask the flicker of curiosity that made her heartbeat quicken. “Can we please move on?”
The three friends exchanged knowing glances before launching into stories of their latest social escapades. Aaliyah listened with half an ear, relieved the spotlight was off her for the moment. Still, the teasing about “Track Star Girl” lingered, a warm, buzzing hum in the back of her mind.
--
Afternoon found Aaliyah sitting in a small office designated for TAs, the walls lined with old textbooks and battered file cabinets. She’d organized her desk—piles of essays to grade, reference materials, and her laptop open to the course management system.
Students trickled in and out, most seeking clarification on readings or the upcoming research paper. Aaliyah listened attentively, offering suggestions on narrowing topics or finding reputable sources. She found genuine satisfaction in guiding them—these office hours made her feel like she was shaping young minds, even if only a little.
Yet she couldn’t help a subtle glance at the door whenever a new student arrived, half-expecting Cruz or Bobby to appear. Instead, she got a string of familiar faces, the usual suspects in search of extra credit or a friendlier ear than Professor Asif’s stern lectures. By the time her scheduled hours ended, neither Cruz nor Bobby had shown up.
She told herself it was a relief—less awkwardness, less flustered introspection. But a tiny pang of disappointment surfaced, surprising her. Why do I care if she doesn’t show? she wondered, switching her laptop to sleep mode.
As she gathered her things, her phone buzzed again. Another group text from Malika, Nala, and Nashwa:
[Nala]: Where are you? We’re having an early dinner at that new rooftop place.
[Malika]: You should come. Maybe you’ll see Mr. or Ms. Right.
[Nashwa]: Or Ms. Track Star…
Aaliyah bit her lip, heat rushing to her cheeks. They’re relentless.
She typed a quick reply, ignoring their jabs about her “crush”:
[Aaliyah]: Working late. Catch you next time.
She flipped her phone face down on the desk, exhaling slowly. Her mind flicked to Ehsan’s calls, her parents’ looming expectations, and the swirl of academic demands. The teasing from her friends about Cruz only highlighted how out of place a personal entanglement felt amidst all this pressure.
Still… I can’t deny there’s something about that girl. Something that rattles me in a way Ehsan never did.
She exited the office, the corridor’s overhead lights flickering softly. Her footsteps echoed in the near-empty hallway, a reminder that most students had already flooded out to enjoy their evenings. Tomorrow, she’d be back in the same classroom, facing the same sea of undergrad faces.
Cruz would be among them—fresh from track, probably exhausted but with that determined glint in her eye. Aaliyah tried to quell the small smile forming at the thought. No, she insisted. Focus on your own path.
Outside, dusk settled over the campus, a gentle glow falling across the buildings. Aaliyah pulled her coat tight, heading home, the words of her friends echoing in her mind. She told herself this was just a passing curiosity, an inconsequential interest in a student who’d caught her attention. But the slight tremor in her hands as she unlocked her phone and stared again at Ehsan’s unanswered messages told her that maybe she wanted more than the carefully constructed life everyone expected her to lead.