He was sitting in the corner of his room, pressed against the wall. He stared at the burning candle, hoping it would ignite something deep within him. Ramy had always been a wallflower. Something about walls and sidelines made him feel safe and protected. His walls allowed him to observe the world without being noticed. Yet, little did he know that the walls he had built did not guard him; they confined him. He raised his head and looked out of the window. That night, the stars were cloaked by the foggy clouds. The sky was dark purple, and the burning candle crimson. The two colors of passion, lust, and love revivified an old memory in his mind.

Two years ago, Ramy was at a pub drinking Red Label Scotch Whisky. His eyes fell on a girl in a black leather dress entering the pub. He watched her walk towards a table where three people sat not so far from him. He studied her, from the way she talked to the way she held her cigarettes. Her laughter was louder than Amy Winehouse’s song Stronger than Me that was playing in the background. In fact, the sound of her laughter was music itself. He overheard one of her friends call her Leila. “A perfectly fitting name for a lady in black,” he thought.

His first instinct was to go and talk to her, but he immediately started overthinking, “What if she rejects me? What if I stutter while talking? She is out of my league! It is better not to humiliate myself.” Ramy had always been a prisoner to his thoughts. He was a sharp-witted young man, and maybe that was his curse. As he indulged in self-doubt and self-pity, These lyrics penetrated his ears: “You should be stronger than me; You have been here seven years longer than me, Don’t you know you supposed to be the man.”

“Yes, Amy. I am a man! But, what if…? No, no! I like her! I should at least try,” he thought. Just as he moved his chair to stand up, a man embraced Leila from behind and drew a peck on her lips. Regrettably, another opportunity slipped from right under his nose. Leila, Aya, the job offer, moving out of the country, and many other things he had missed out on because he was not quick enough to decide, or shall I say: ACT.

Sitting alone at night comforted him; but because of the nyctophobia he had developed in childhood, Ramy always lit candles in his room. The memory of Leila dragged him deep down memory lane. He became dissociated from his surroundings with a flash of all the “could haves” and “what ifs,” unaware of the candlelight fading and the wax evaporating.

A sudden pricking and numbness on his skin alerted him to open his eyes. He stood up and saw the flimsy flame fighting for its last fire. He was stunned. Tears fell on his cheeks. He talked to himself out loud: “Ramy, do something, fetch another candle, do something! Don’t just stand there, at any rate, please do something.” Alas, Ramy had never been a doer. His blood ran cold, and his hands could not stop shaking. He was now the eight-year-old kid with nyctophobia. His feeble body collapsed on the floor. “Mama, mama,” he cried. No one could hear him with all the solid walls he had built around him. He tried reaching for the candle with his sweaty hand, yet the flame died in front of his teary, petrified eyes.

Author: Chaimae El Ajjani

Editor: Hakima Choukri