Uneasy Alliances
Aaliyah woke before sunrise, chest tight and thoughts in disarray. She’d half-hoped that a few nights of restless sleep might dull the memory of the near-kiss with Cruz, but it lingered like an ache just beneath her ribcage. Even in dreams, she felt that electric jolt, the rush of adrenaline, the moment she nearly lost control.
Focus on the day, she instructed herself, inhaling slowly as she pushed aside the plush duvet. She rose from bed and padded into her kitchen, flicking on the light. The luxurious surroundings—a marble countertop, a sparkling coffee machine, floor-to-ceiling windows—did nothing to calm her inner storm.
She tried to concentrate on routine: brewing her usual cup of tea, reviewing her to-do list on her phone. Dissertation chapters, a meeting with Professor Asif, the undergrad class she TA’d, and—she dreaded acknowledging it—Ehsan’s repeated attempts to schedule dinner.
The kettle hissed, steaming away, but her pulse still hammered with the thought of facing the day. She typed a quick note in her phone’s planner:
- Respond to UN contact re: Cruz’s interview schedule
- Finish drafting dissertation outline for Chapter 3
- Class at 2 p.m.
- …Ehsan?
She grimaced at the last item, an uncomfortable spike of guilt settling in her stomach. I promised him an answer soon. But I really don’t want to go.
Pouring the boiled water into her teacup, she sighed, pressing her lips together. The near-kiss with Cruz replayed in her head, uninvited. I can’t keep doing this, she thought for the hundredth time. But pushing Cruz away left her feeling hollow, and Ehsan’s presence on the periphery promised only further complications.
Taking her tea to the small dining table, she opened the email app on her laptop. Buried among academic updates and department memos, a new message from Ehsan blinked at her:
Subject: Dinner This Week?
Aaliyah braced herself, opening it:
Aaliyah,
Hope you’ve been well. As we discussed, I’m in town for a few days and would love to see you. Your family hinted it might be nice for us to reconnect—no pressure, of course, but I miss talking to you. Let me know a day that works.
—Ehsan
She closed her eyes. No pressure, he said, but they both knew the unspoken expectations: her parents constantly asked about Ehsan, praising his success and stable background, dropping unsubtle hints that he’d be an ideal partner.
She typed a single line in reply:
[Aaliyah]: Ehsan, let me think. I have a busy schedule, but I’ll let you know.
Before she could overthink it, she hit “Send,” exhaling shakily. I can still refuse later, maybe. But a part of her knew she’d have to face him eventually. And if she was being entirely honest, a small voice reminded her: He’s familiar. Safe. The path of least resistance.
Yet, the path of least resistance had never truly satisfied her. She closed the laptop, her tea growing cold on the table. Either way, I’m stuck.
--
Later that morning, Aaliyah dashed into the political science building, hair still damp from a quick shower. She navigated the corridors with hurried strides, trying to quell the unease in her stomach. Part of her dreaded seeing Cruz in class—even from across the room—knowing how strained things felt after she’d abruptly pulled away during that near-kiss.
But I can’t show it. I have to keep this together. She forced her shoulders back, adopting the calm, composed demeanor that had seen her through years of social and academic pressures.
Professor Asif’s office door was ajar when she arrived, and she slipped inside to discuss her dissertation chapter. Stacks of books and folders lined his desk, as always. He looked up from a half-eaten bagel.
“Ms. Amrohi,” he greeted. “You’re early.”
She nodded, placing her laptop on a spare chair. “I wanted to finalize the new outline with the integrated sources.”
He gestured for her to sit. They spent the next twenty minutes going over footnotes and methodological frameworks. His critiques were direct but respectful—pushing for more depth, urging her to expand certain case studies.
She tried to absorb his words, scribbling notes, though her mind drifted periodically. What if Cruz is also somewhere in this building right now? Am I being obvious if I avoid her?
“…and that’s all for now,” Professor Asif concluded, tapping a pen on the desk. “You’re on a good track. Keep refining your argument.”
Aaliyah straightened, mustering a small smile. “I will. Thank you.”
Just as she stood to leave, Asif eyed her curiously. “You seem distracted lately, Ms. Amrohi. Everything okay? Your work is strong, but your focus… it wavers.”
Her pulse jerked. Does he suspect something? She forced a placid expression. “I’ve got a lot on my plate, academically and personally. But I’m fine.”
He nodded slowly. “I hope so. You have a bright future—don’t let extraneous matters derail you.”
She swallowed. “Yes, sir. Understood.”
Walking out, she couldn’t shake the feeling that he might be sensing her internal upheaval. God, I can’t afford to let him suspect anything about Cruz. The very thought made her anxiety spike.
--
Noon came and went. Aaliyah spent her lunch break in the graduate lounge, forcing down a salad she barely tasted. She kept her phone on silent, afraid she’d see more messages from Ehsan or her parents. The tension in her shoulders refused to ease.
Sure enough, when she finally checked her phone at half past noon, she found a new message:
[Ehsan]: Any evening you’re free. I’d love to treat you to dinner. Your parents mentioned your schedule is mostly flexible in the evenings.
She frowned. Her parents again. They just can’t let me be. Yet, the guilt gnawed at her. She typed a short reply:
[Aaliyah]: Possibly Thursday. I’ll confirm tomorrow.
She hit send, heart heavy. Ehsan wasn’t a bad man, just the embodiment of everything she was supposed to want. Wealth, respect, tradition. Her parents adored him. If she’d never ventured to pursue a PhD, never encountered a thousand new possibilities, maybe she’d have seen Ehsan as the perfect match. But I’m not that girl they want me to be.
With a sigh, she shoved her phone into her purse and stared at her half-eaten salad. Appetite gone. She closed the container and made her way to the library, hoping burying herself in more research might quell the storm inside.
--
The library was quiet, the afternoon hush broken only by hushed whispers and the distant beeping of a checkout scanner. Aaliyah found a seat near a window overlooking a courtyard. She took out her laptop and tried to focus on an article about democratic transitions in the Middle East.
But her brain refused to stay on track. That moment in my office… The memory of Cruz’s parted lips, the rapid thrum of her heartbeat, threatened to unravel her composure. She rubbed her temples, fighting the wave of longing that rose.
“I shouldn’t have let it go that far,” she whispered under her breath. “If I’d kept my distance, Cruz wouldn’t be hurting, and I wouldn’t be an emotional mess.”
Yet another part of her burned with frustration. I’m frustrated with myself for not letting it happen. She wanted that closeness more than she dared admit. But she was in a position of academic authority. If anything leaked, she risked her entire future.
She opened a new document on her laptop, intending to revise some dissertation notes, but found herself staring at the blinking cursor, mind blank. Eventually, she typed a single line: Boundaries matter, but so does the heart. She snorted at her own melodrama, deleting the sentence immediately.
Before she could sink deeper into her self-reproach, her phone vibrated. She glanced at the screen: a text from Malika.
[Malika]: Dinner tonight? Just us girls? I promise no mention of Ms. Track Star… unless you bring it up.
Aaliyah exhaled, considering. She typed back:
[Aaliyah]: Thanks, but can’t tonight. Maybe next time.
She knew Malika was only trying to help, but right now, the idea of socializing felt exhausting. She needed a plan—a way to free herself from her parents’ expectations, from Ehsan’s looming presence, from the haunted memory of nearly kissing Cruz. She closed her eyes, leaning back in the library chair, the overhead fluorescent light glaring down. I can’t escape any of this.
--
By late afternoon, Aaliyah realized she’d delayed responding to Ehsan long enough. She tapped out a text more decisive than she felt:
[Aaliyah]: Let’s do Thursday dinner. One hour, somewhere quiet.
His response was immediate:
[Ehsan]: Perfect. Thank you, habibti. Your parents will be pleased.
She bristled at that term. Habibti. He still insisted on using it, as though they were a couple. But she let it slide. Causing a scene now would only fuel more drama with her family. One hour. I can handle one hour.
She refused to think about how it might look—a cozy dinner for two. The small voice in her head insisted it was purely to appease her parents, to maintain some semblance of peace. It doesn’t mean I’m reconciling with him. But the guilt still gnawed, especially when she thought of Cruz. I have no right to think of Cruz while I’m setting up dinner with Ehsan.
Her phone rang. She nearly jumped, seeing her mother’s name flashing.
“…Mother,” she answered quietly, stepping into an empty corridor for privacy.
“My darling Aaliyah,” came the warm but insistent voice. “I’ve heard from Ehsan you two are finally meeting?”
“Yes,” Aaliyah said, forcing polite calm. “Thursday.”
“Wonderful!” Her mother’s relief was palpable. “He’s such a good man, from a family we know so well. It’s time you settle down, habibti.”
Aaliyah tensed at the same term. “Mother, I’m focusing on my PhD.”
“But you’ll need a husband eventually,” her mother chided gently. “You’ll find you can pursue your studies and have stability if you choose wisely.”
A lump formed in Aaliyah’s throat. They’ll never stop pushing me. “Yes, I know you think that. Let’s not discuss it now, please.”
Her mother sighed. “Fine, for now. But Ehsan will treat you well. Don’t be stubborn.”
Aaliyah ground her teeth, searching for a calm answer. She settled on a quiet “I understand” before making an excuse to end the call. The line disconnected, leaving her quivering with resentment and shame. I can’t be the dutiful daughter they want forever.
She clenched her fists, tears pricking her eyes. If only they saw me for who I am…
--
Shortly before her undergrad class, Aaliyah slipped into the lecture hall to set up. The seats were half-empty, students trickling in. She forced a smile, greeting a few who asked about assignments. Stay composed. Don’t let them see you’re rattled.
Professor Asif entered moments later, nodding curtly at Aaliyah in acknowledgment. She returned it, bracing herself for another hour of orchestrating class discussions and trying not to glance too long in Cruz’s direction—if Cruz was even attending today. We haven’t spoken since that day in my office. The thought made her chest pang.
As the lecture progressed, she scanned the crowd for Cruz’s familiar silhouette. There she was, near the back, posture rigid, eyes focused forward. Aaliyah felt an odd mixture of relief and heartbreak at the sight. She’s here, but she won’t look at me. She forced herself to concentrate on the professor’s words, occasionally stepping forward to answer a question or clarify a slide.
Halfway through, Asif paused. “Ms. Amrohi, can you elaborate on the concept we discussed last session?”
She stepped up, voice steady as she explained the interplay of external actors in Middle Eastern conflicts. But her gaze drifted toward Cruz involuntarily. Cruz kept her eyes fixed on her notes, not once meeting Aaliyah’s stare. The cold distance sliced deeper than Aaliyah cared to admit.
When class ended, students filed out in a rush. Aaliyah’s heart hammered as she saw Cruz stand to leave, picking up her backpack without glancing once at the front. Should I—? But pride and guilt welded her feet in place. She remained by the podium, watching Cruz disappear into the throng.
Asif coughed softly beside her. “You’re quiet today, Ms. Amrohi.”
She forced a polite nod, voice taut. “Just focused on the material, Professor.”
He studied her a moment, but refrained from commenting further. With a curt gesture, he left, leaving Aaliyah alone in the vacated lecture hall, the hum of the air conditioning and the clack of her own heels echoing in the emptiness. I’m losing her, a voice whispered in her head. But maybe that’s for the best.
--
Late afternoon found her back in the TA office, trying to finalize a batch of graded papers. The dryness of academic comments—missing citations, unclear thesis statements—provided a small distraction from the emotional whirlpool.
Her phone buzzed, Ehsan again:
[Ehsan]: Reservations at 7 PM, The Arcadia on Thursday. Does that work?
She typed a slow reply, each keystroke reluctant:
[Aaliyah]: Fine. See you then.
She stared at the message after sending it. So it’s happening. Thursday would be here soon enough, and she’d be dressed in polite elegance, probably listening to Ehsan drone on about his latest ventures while she forced a smile. Maybe that was her path to peace with her family—pretend to consider him, maintain the facade. But at what cost?
A knock on the door startled her. She looked up to see a first-year student poking their head in, asking a question about the upcoming midterm. She shook off her gloom, plastering on a helpful expression. “Yes, come in. I’m just finishing up.”
--
When her TA hours ended, Aaliyah left campus, stepping into the purple haze of dusk. She walked briskly, ignoring the bustling city around her. Rain threatened again, clouds gathering overhead. Fitting, she mused bitterly. Another storm brewing.
She couldn’t resist checking her phone—no new messages from Cruz, of course, but her heart still twisted at the blank screen. What did I expect? She’d made her position clear: no crossing lines, no closeness. Cruz was only respecting that.
She took the subway downtown to her apartment, the train’s fluorescent lights reflecting her weary face in the window. I look exhausted. Her mind circled the same topics: Ehsan, the dinner, her mother’s thinly veiled insistence, the academic future she clung to. And Cruz. Always Cruz, a bright spark in her otherwise regimented world.
Finally home, she dropped her bag on the couch and sank onto it, leaning her head back against the cushions. The silence of the apartment felt suffocating. Should I text Malika or Nala? She pictured their teasing but well-meaning encouragement to break free, follow her heart. Easy for them to say—my family’s not controlling their every move.
She grabbed her phone, flipping through contacts, pausing at Cruz’s name. A swirl of longing shot through her, but she quickly locked the screen. No, she scolded herself. Stop making this harder.
--
Instead, she typed a group text to Malika, Nala, and Nashwa:
[Aaliyah]: Meeting Ehsan on Thursday. It’s just dinner. I’m not excited, but it’s easier than fighting my parents right now.
The phone erupted with pings:
[Malika]: Are you sure this is a good idea?
[Nala]: If it’s a chore, why do it?
[Nashwa]: Girl, you have better things to do than placate family demands.
Aaliyah sighed, responding:
[Aaliyah]: You know how it is. If I don’t, they’ll push harder. This might buy me time.
[Malika]: Don’t let him manipulate you into reconciling.
[Nashwa]: And don’t let your parents guilt-trip you.
[Nala]: We support you if you want an out. Fake an emergency, say your dissertation is on fire?
She smiled at the humor, though her chest remained heavy. I could always fake an excuse. But then her parents would double down, Ehsan would persist, and the cycle would continue. Better to endure one dinner and keep the peace… Right?
[Aaliyah]: One dinner. Nothing more. Promise.
--
Hours drifted by. Aaliyah tried to lose herself in her dissertation notes, ignoring the dinner looming two days ahead. She revised paragraphs, inserted references, but every few minutes, her concentration faltered.
At one point, she found herself reading the same line over and over: local agencies often overshadowed by external influences. The words blurred, morphing into a reflection of her own dilemma: overshadowed by family influences, external pressures shaping her choices.
What about my own happiness? she wondered, the memory of Cruz’s anguished face burning in her mind. Is it fair to push aside what I really want because it’s too complicated?
Yet the image of her mother’s disapproving glare, her father’s disappointed sigh, Professor Asif’s potential reprimand—those haunted her, too. She couldn’t see a path that wouldn’t end in heartbreak for someone. I’m trapped, she thought, blinking back tears she refused to let fall. No easy exits here.
--
Just before midnight, Aaliyah’s phone rang, cutting through the silence of her apartment. She frowned at the unfamiliar number but answered cautiously, expecting some telemarketer or random spam.
“Hello?”
A soft female voice spoke. “Aaliyah? It’s Sima, from the UN office. Sorry to call so late, it’s early here in Geneva. I wanted to confirm the details for the student interview you requested.”
Surprise jolted Aaliyah, and a faint smile tugged her lips. “Sima—hi. No worries about the time. Thank you for calling.”
They chatted for a few minutes, discussing the best day for Cruz to speak with the field worker. A date next week was proposed, aligning with the worker’s availability. Aaliyah jotted it down, relieved that at least one good thing was falling into place.
After details were set, Sima paused. “So, how are you? It’s been a while since we talked. You sounded stressed in your email.”
Aaliyah swallowed, not expecting the personal inquiry. “I’m… I’ve been better. A lot of family pressures. Academic challenges.”
Sima’s voice softened. “I get it. Listen, if you need someone to vent to, I’m here. Don’t let the weight of expectations crush you.”
Aaliyah fought back a sudden swell of gratitude and emotion. “Thanks. I appreciate that.”
They exchanged goodbyes, and Aaliyah ended the call, staring at her phone. She tapped out a quick email to Cruz, attaching the finalized details for the interview:
Subject: NGO Contact – Scheduling
Cruz,
My friend Sima confirmed a date next week for you to speak with her colleague at the UN. Here are the details. Let me know if this time works with your schedule.
-Aaliyah
She hovered a moment before hitting send. I hope this helps her research. And maybe, just maybe, it signaled she still cared about Cruz’s success, even if she couldn’t offer anything more personal right now.
--
The next day, Wednesday, passed in a blur of lessons, grading, and polite avoidance. Aaliyah and Cruz didn’t cross paths except during class, each keeping a respectful, aloof distance. Inside, Aaliyah’s heart hammered whenever she spotted Cruz among the rows of desks, but she forced herself to remain composed, answering students’ questions with no hint of personal tension.
When evening arrived, she found herself restless in her apartment again, meal untouched on the counter. Tomorrow is the dinner with Ehsan. An uneasy feeling gnawed at her—she sensed that the short meeting wouldn’t be as harmless as she hoped.
She picked at her phone, contemplating a text to Cruz—some reassurance that their near-kiss didn’t invalidate all their shared intellectual ground. But she stopped herself. That would only confuse her more, and me as well.
With a resigned sigh, she draped a blanket over her lap and scrolled through notes on her laptop, forcing her brain to concentrate on dissertation tasks. Outside, the city lights glimmered, oblivious to her turmoil. One foot in front of the other, she told herself, repeating the mantra that had carried her through countless family battles and academic hurdles. Just get through tomorrow.
--
Thursday dawned gray and cold. Aaliyah rose early, heading to campus for a brief meeting with another grad student. Her mind replayed the day’s schedule: wrap up office hours, finalize lesson plans, then dinner with Ehsan. She repeated it in her head like an itinerary, hoping the routine might numb the anxiety swirling beneath the surface.
Throughout the morning, a faint drizzle set the mood, pattering against windows in a soft, ceaseless rhythm. Aaliyah pressed on, greeting students who came by with last-minute paper questions, maintaining her usual air of polite efficiency. But an undercurrent of dread pooled in her stomach, growing heavier as the clock ticked.
By late afternoon, her responsibilities on campus wrapped, she changed in the TA office—slipping out of her usual slacks and blouse into a simple, elegant dress. Nothing overly formal, but enough to appease the sense of decorum her family and Ehsan likely expected.
She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the office mirror: anxious eyes, a tightness in her jaw. She took a breath, smoothing her hair. It’s just one dinner. I can do this. She pictured the restaurant Ehsan had mentioned—The Arcadia—a tasteful place known for its romantic ambiance. A pang of discomfort twisted her gut.
No. I’m doing this for my family. She glanced at her phone: nearly 6:30 p.m. Time to go.
--
With a last check of her reflection, Aaliyah switched off the lights and left the TA office. The corridor was nearly empty at this hour, the muffled hum of campus life fading as evening set in. She walked briskly, determination masking the swirl of apprehension inside.
Stepping into the building’s lobby, she braced herself against the chilled air that rushed in through the glass doors. Here we go. She’d meet Ehsan, endure polite small talk, keep the dinner short. Her family would breathe a temporary sigh of relief. Then I can go back to my real life, she told herself, though she wondered what her “real life” even was now. A swirl of half-finished dissertation chapters, lingering guilt over Cruz, and familial obligations.
Outside, the city lights flickered in the oncoming dusk. She flagged a cab, sliding into the back seat with practiced elegance, stating the restaurant’s address to the driver. As the cab pulled away from the curb, she stared out at the passing streets, mind racing. She tried to ignore the pang in her chest when she thought of Cruz’s face, the heartbreak in her eyes.
I hope tonight won’t cause more harm than good. But the seeds of miscommunication were already in motion—though Aaliyah couldn’t possibly know how it would unfold. For now, she focused on the immediate challenge: dinner with Ehsan, an alliance of convenience to keep her parents off her back. Just one evening. She watched the city race by, oblivious to the storm quietly building.