Ahmad's Journey in NAKTASHIF — Chapter Three: The Step He Put Off
Editorial text
On the night he was supposed to expand his project, Ahmad discovered that stepping back could be harder than moving forward.
Inspired by a true story. Some characters, situations, dialogue, and chronology have been reimagined or combined for narrative purposes.
Inspired by a true story. Some characters, situations, dialogue, and chronology have been reimagined or combined for narrative purposes.
Ahmad had been staring at one sheet of paper longer than any sheet deserved.
At the top, in bold handwriting, he had written: “The next step.” Beneath it were ideas that, a few weeks earlier, had seemed like the natural way forward.
He had come home from work that evening after a long day that had started early. The day still sat in his shoulders, even after he took off his shoes by the door.
He could have left the page until morning. But he knew what “tomorrow” did when the project was on his mind: it grew, filling the space he was supposed to leave for sleep.
In a corner of the house, he arranged his notebook and pens, then brought the page out again. He was not so much looking for a new idea as trying to decide which ideas should wait.
He wanted to see the project grow. He wanted to add things that gave people more reasons to return and brought it closer to the big picture he carried in his mind.
Wanting it was not the problem. The problem was that every addition came with a cost, and the cost did not always end at the moment of starting.
On the page, the additions sat neatly beside one another. In his life, they never weighed the same.
Some needed money; some needed time he could not easily spare. Each promised something good if everything went as it should.
But “if everything goes as it should” was no way to plan. He had learned that a project could not live on enthusiasm alone.
He sat at the table in the small villa. Night had settled over the house, leaving him with the room’s light, the page, and the sound of his pen touching it.
His wife sat across from him. Ahmad wore a plain grey shirt and dark trousers; she wore a muted blue house dress, her wavy hair falling to her shoulders.
She studied the page, then looked up at him. She did not ask about the names written there, but about the look he had been wearing since he started thinking about the decision.
She asked:
“Have you decided which one to start with?”
He rolled the pen between his fingers as if waiting for it to answer.
“I know which ones I want. I just don’t know if this is the right time.”
She did not tell him to stop, or to push ahead. She knew neither answer would resolve the question in front of him.
He turned the page toward her. His ideas were clear to him: more content, games, a store, and steps that would make the experience broader.
He did not explain how he would build any of them. That was not what needed explaining tonight. He needed to face what each one would ask of him.
He said:
“Every time I add something, I tell myself the project has to grow. Then I find out that growth opens another door to more costs.”
His wife nodded slowly. She did not look surprised. She knew how much Ahmad wanted to see an idea made whole, even before he knew what it would take from him.
“And if you wait?”
He looked at the words. In his mind, waiting felt like leaving a door open for someone else to reach first. On the page, it looked like postponing one line.
He said:
“I’m afraid I’ll find out later that I could have started, but scared myself out of it.”
She was quiet for a moment, then said:
“And I’m afraid you’ll start everything at once, then spend all your time trying to cover the costs until you have no time left for it at all.”
There was no objection to the dream in her voice. There was worry about how the dream might consume everything around it.
He lowered his eyes to his notebook. On earlier pages, he had written what the project needed to keep going: commitments, running costs, and things that did not disappear just because he did not want to think about them.
There were no large figures in front of him just then, and no new surprise. Just little things that kept recurring, and hours that could not come from somewhere else.
He had grown used to treating his energy as if it could not run out. If he got tired, he would find another hour. If he fell behind, he would push harder.
But the page was not asking whether he could push harder. It was asking whether he could keep going.
He picked up the pen and wrote “now” beside one of the additions. Then he stopped before writing it beside the next.
If he started everything, he would feel good that night: movement, progress, a small victory over a long list of hopes.
But what came after that? He did not know. Admitting that he did not know felt heavier than writing the word “wait.”
His wife said:
“I’m not asking you to make the project smaller. I just want it to have a tomorrow.”
His eyes stayed on the pen. It was not a grand statement, and it did not try to decide for him. Still, it shifted something pressing on his chest.
He thought about the distance between the project he imagined and the life unfolding around him. Between what he wanted to build and the home that needed him present.
The problem was not that the project was big. The problem was that he wanted to ask himself to carry all of it at once.
He reached for the page. He folded it once, then tucked it under his notebook instead of leaving it open in front of him.
That was the decision: to postpone the costly additions and take care of what he had already begun before asking the project to grow.
He did not smile like someone who had solved a problem. He simply set the pen aside and looked at the folded page.
His wife said:
“Hard?”
“Harder than I expected.”
She gestured toward the page.
“But it’s not forever.”
He looked back at his notebook. The ambition had not disappeared, and the costs had not shrunk. But what lay before him was clearer now: one step, not several competing at once.
He did not claim he knew exactly when he would return to the list. He did not set a date just to quiet the silence. He left the page folded, and the decision resting there for as long as he could carry it tonight.
His wife brought out a cup and set it beside his notebook. She did not open the page or ask him to explain more. The pen stayed near his hand, and at last his fingers rested beside the cover.
The silence between them felt gentle. He did not need to fill it with a grand promise, and she did not ask him to turn the decision into an accomplishment before bed.
The project was still waiting for him in the room. So was a quiet home, and a table no longer crowded with every step ahead.
He left the notebook closed. That night, the next step was not to add anything.
