In Her Own Footsteps

XII

She was in mourning.

Aanya could see the life she had built for herself from the ground up, slipping away. She had done it against all odds. There were not many who believed in her. In fact, there was a time when she herself didn't. She had shown defiance when her dreams were doubted. She made it happen, mostly on her own. She had learned to love and respect herself when she did not have anyone else to do it. She had been everything she ever needed. Finally, right when everything was about to start materializing, she met a wall.

Connor was away at work. After weeks of hoping, they had given him a night shift this week. Aanya preferred it this way. She had been feeling weak and vulnerable ever since she opened the email a few weeks ago. She wasn't ready to share the alarming news with him.

She wanted to try her best to figure out something. Better it be good news, than bad news. She felt like she had some tough choices to make. Her life was crumbling in secret. She opened the second drawer of her dresser, where the TV sat in the living room. In a withered plastic folder, were all her documents. She had the thought of cross-checking her visa on her passport. She had options to consider, and one of them was a tough one.

She had almost another year left on her visa. All the stress was leading her to a very particular decision, one she was not sure how to make. Aanya calmed herself down. She remembered all the times in the past when she thought the dream had come to an end. There were more instances than she could count on her fingers and every time, she surpassed it long enough to face a new challenge.

"You always figure something out," she reminded herself.

A homemade envelope fell out of the folder. She would sometimes make those when she wanted to make a greeting art or store photos away. She picked it up. The white construction paper felt porous in her hands. The envelope smelled like the rest of the art materials, the heavy smell of acrylics lingering. On the back, she had attempted to write in cursive. Conner J and Aanya J. It stood for Connor James and Aanya Janak. Aanya always saw it as a sign that they had similar initials.

She opened the letter and in it were all the treasure polaroids they had taken together since moving to their apartment in 2022; their first home together. Aanya flipped through the square-shaped pictures. Everything was labeled. The first pet. The first Birthday. The First Dinner. The first Box. It was all so new, so full of wonderful prospects. They had both dreamed of this life. Droplets began falling on the pictures she was holding in her hands. Her vision got blurry. She didn't even realize she was crying. She carefully put the pictures away. She wanted this life so much. She did not use to yearn for it this much before she met Connor. Their life was peaceful, comfortable, and content. She wanted to experience it fully, grow old together sitting on a porch – the stuff of movies.

Aanya crumbled to the floor. Her old rug felt rough against her knees. The tears began flowing, unstoppable. She did not want to be robbed of her life with Connor. She didn't want to be robbed of a life intertwined with love and family; Connor and Indigo.

The difference between this time and the challenges she had faced before was simple but significant: she had more to lose now, and that realization only deepened her despair.

Alarmed by her human's loud sobs, Indigo inched closer to inquire. Aanya did not even notice her gentle steps until she felt her body jump onto her lap. With puffy eyes and tear-stained cheeks, Aanya chuckled a little. She then abruptly hugged Indigo before crying some more. Indigo as if understanding her human's needs, decided to stay in Aanya's embrace calmly instead of squirming.

It wasn't until her eyes and head started hurting that Aanya began to calm down. She had gotten the emotions out of the way. She would need to come up with a game plan. Tucked in the corners of the blue sofa, Aanya's phone buzzed and her phone lit up. It was a message from Connor.