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Amazon First Novel Award

I’m ready to let the lines between dreams and reality dissolve

I’m ready to let the lines between dreams and reality dissolve

ILLUSTRATION BY MELIKA SAEEDA

Published 6:30, April 30, 2026

A NARROW STRIP of wooden planks on the sand leads us to the sea. We leap along the boards. We are a group of university classmates who have come to the north of Iran on a loud bus ride. Hiding smiles whenever our eyes meet is a secret game Amir and I play. Standing together at a respectful distance, we take a group photo. In the picture, Amir is leaning slightly forward, a mischievous smile on his face. I’m wearing a straw hat over my black scarf, holding it in place against the wind. There are only two people between us. Years later, when I pull this photo out of the box of pictures I brought with me to Canada, the distance between us is two continents.

I check my phone, where my Instagram page is still open; there are no new notifications, just an announcement about yet another lockdown in Ontario. Gatherings of more than five people are now banned. I get up and gently close the bedroom door so I can hear my own thoughts over the sound of the children’s online classes. I take another photo from the box. It’s a group picture of our entire class standing in front of the theatre building.

It is the first time after twelve years of school that we are sitting with boys in the same classroom. Saying “hi” takes a kind of courage that only some of us have. Writing letters is the only way we know how to communicate. The first love letter is received by my beautiful friend in the first term. She calls us all to read and discuss it together. Surprised by how casually she treats the whole situation, and with a mixture of guilt and curiosity, we all settle into a quiet corner to listen to her. With every sentence she reads, our laughter grows louder, and everyone tries to outdo the others in mocking the writer with greater creativity. But the letter is filled with beautiful lines: “I should stop reading the news and I must only think of you.” I feel envious of her for being indifferent to such romantic words. Amir doesn’t have significant features, but he is well read and has already shown himself in classes. His writing is honest, raw, and impatient, exactly how a love letter should be.

In the following weeks, more letters arrive from Amir. My excitement about reading them fades. If he ever decides to write to me, I don’t want to recognize the same sentences. Once my beautiful friend realizes we’re no longer intrigued by the letters, she moves on to her next love interest. But Amir has become a companion to our girl group to stay close to her. He knows he doesn’t stand a chance with her, and we treat him kindly for that very reason. Every day, he arrives with a newspaper and lingers around our bench. We sit in the courtyard between classes, reading the news and talking about politics, movies, and books. I realize I have so many things to say to him, but his gaze is always elsewhere.

Summer arrives. Students who had come to Tehran from other cities return home. Amir goes back north. I stay behind with the girls. Without them, life seems impossible now. We walk through the empty corridors of the faculty, our laughter echoing off the walls. We take photos next to Mash Esmaeil’s bronze statue, the famous goat. In the afternoons, we sculpt........

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