Her blonde hair is a bit greasy, and looks cute against her pale complexion. Her skin is spotless and reflects my image; an image I tend to shun away from. This is half the reason why I avoid remaining focused on her face. The other half is her penetrating eyes, which burden me, and her silence, which gives me options. I hate options. I never know how to work with them, and often end up choosing the wrong one. But she does not know this about me, and I'm sure does not intend to give me options by remaining silent. She is just a quiet girl with hard-to-match intelligence, that makes her silence all the more uncomfortable to bear. She is contemplative, soft spoken and hard working. She is fiercely competitive and takes her work extremely seriously. Tell her she is less than excellent, and she will disappear just to return with near perfect updates. Although she does not stand being inferior to others, she remains patient and elegant. While she keeps quiet in face of others taking over, she never stops fighting for her way back to the top, which she believes is achievable only though hard work.

We are coming back from a class in the Hague and are sitting next to each other on a train to Utrecht, where we both live. We have about an hour of time to fill, sixty minutes of silence to kill. Thankfully she is a little hungry. So, she takes out a slice of pumpernickel bread to snack on, which pleases me. I am pleased because eating dulls the thorns of interaction. Even the scariest of interactions are less scary when the participants are engaged in it over food. I am not sure why, but it may be because when we eat, some of our cognitive capacity is dedicated to processing the often-pleasurable task at hand, which means there is less left for scrutiny and focus. Even if my theory is wrong, this is what I think happens, which is what matters. Eating has two other advantages too. It kills a bit of time, and gives people something to talk about, which is exactly what Hermione chooses to do. She momentarily lets me loose from the grips of her eyes, and tells me she finds it funny that the supermarket she shops at somehow knows what she likes, and gives her a discount on her membership card every time she buys the items. She giggles when she tells the story. I love her giggles, because they sound like they come from a cartoon character. Their cuteness aside, her giggles soften the intensity of her sharpness, which is an additional source of help to someone like me. They always make me feel comfortable in her presence. Perhaps she knows this herself, and that is why she tells funny stories every now and then.

Her bread, story and giggles have been successful to ease my discomfort to an extent. But I am still a tad nervous and I don't show it. I am skilled at not showing my anxiety. Being nervous most of the time, I have developed effective skills to hide my stress when talking to people. The problem is that I have only managed to hide it, not to diminish it, or to demolish it; so it continues to roam freely in my psyche. I don’t know all the reasons why I am nervous when interacting with people, but I do know part of it is because I feel obliged to fill the silence with words, and I often choose the wrong words for the purpose. That said, it helps that Hermione is exactly the opposite. Unlike me, she is very good with silence. When surrounded with it, she remains calm like a little bird in her natural habitat. She just remains as she is, and lets you remain as you are. So in our trip together, we fill half the time with her snacking and telling me funny stories, and I, continuing the conversation based on those leads. We remain silent for the other half. When we get to our stop, I get up first as I have the isle seat, and she follows me towards the exit, in silence. Then we walk up to a point where we need to depart, and stop to break our silence and say goodbye. We then go our separate ways.

We are a week away from our second term’s exams. Most of my classmates are stressed, but I am paralyzed with it. I don’t take stress very well, perhaps because I am always under its influence. If we imagine a scoring system for stress level, I am on a number three out of ten on a given day, when I have no deadlines and the sun is shining and my immediate world is in peace. If I am faced with a task that increases stress level, say by five points, I reach all the way to level eight, whereas a normal person would reach the middle point. Under this level of stress, I become blind to my surroundings and find it hard to connect events to each other, let alone detect opportunities. My inability to read people’s intentions and interpret their messages get worse. Talking to people and bonding with them become a waste of time, because the little capacity I normally have for interactions, is overwhelmed by preoccupations that are demanding resources from my communication faculties.

The next day, I see Hermione in class again. After class, we walk to another building where our classmates often gather to study. On the way, she tells me about her plan to visit her family in Germany for the holidays, after I ask her about it. Not realizing the inappropriateness of my following question, I ask her if her boyfriend will join her. As far as I know, Hermione has a boyfriend, but she seldom talks about him. I don’t think this is because there is a problem between them, but because she is generally a little private. She keeps her stuff to herself and only shares what is relevant in the moment and to the person she talks to. But I bring it up today without giving it much thought. Perhaps I do it because, statistically speaking, the prospect of seeing a partner makes people feel good, unless there is a problem. I want to make her feel good, and I want her to start talking about how good it is, so I can just listen for the rest of the way.

“We broke up”, she tells me. I did not expect this, and do not know how to respond to it. It seems, after all my effort to remain distant, I have unintentionally gotten myself into a trap once again. It often happens as soon as I feel comfortable, and let myself be myself. But the damage is done, and now I have to say something appropriate to counter my inappropriate question. “I am sorry”, I say. “Thanks”, she replies. To my relief, and as far as I can tell, she does not seem to be troubled by it very much. My assumption is that the decision has been in the making for some time, and now that it is finalized, she is accepting of it. Or maybe she is not and doesn't show it, or she is showing it and I am not seeing it because I am busy finding a way to get away from the topic. I am too nervous to decide. So, I just quickly get back behind the wheel with sharpened focus, and move back to her vacation plans without further mentioning of the now ex-boyfriend. This way it is not obvious that I am changing the subject, while I move away from the sore spot. I am sure she notices it though, considering her intelligence. When we get to the building, I breathe a sigh of relief, and we choose a spot to work on our stuff, which means justified silence is in order now.

After three hours, she starts collecting her things and gets ready to go home. She stands up, I look at her with a smile, we say goodbye and she departs. I am left with excessive stress about my upcoming exams, and the dread of walking into a dark empty home that offers me no comfort. I gaze out the window for some time trying to gather motivation to stand up, and reluctantly get up and go home to my empty world filled with stress. When I get home, I have dinner, vape, have some fruits, vape, have tea, vape, and gaze into the air while doing all that. That night, my daydreaming is abruptly disrupted by an imaginary conversation I have with my mother. I imagine her telling me her breasts have some issue. But the thought is so irrelevant to the moment and so unexpected, that I quickly suppress it and go back to my original dreams, which often entails going over the conversations I had during the day. I do this to rewrite the conversations of the day based on the things I wish I had said at the time. Normally, this is not a big problem. On normal days and with normal conversations, I replay them on my mind a few times, change the scripts according to my ideals, and replay them a few more times, before letting go of them. But some days and some conversations are not normal. During these abnormal days, my attempts to express my thoughts and emotions are nullified by the difficulties I am going through. As a result, the gap between what I wish had happened, and what actually happened widens, which means the the script must undergo significant changes. What is worse, is that some of these changes can make all the difference in the outcome of the conversation, which make me cringe at how easy and obvious it was to achieve the desired outcome, and how I missed my chance. When this happens, I fail to stop replaying the modified conversation on my mind, although no subsequent replay makes me feel any better compared to the previous. Despite its uselessness, I leave it to play on repeat, until I collapse and fall asleep. Exam times are one of those abnormal days, because of the stress they induce in me. But thankfully, I am not engaging in much conversations these days. So, I have little to play and hence little to replay.

With all the strength I can gather, I finally succeed to pass all my exams. And to celebrate, I join everyone else in class on a bouldering trip, although I have no intention of actually bouldering. I just join them to drink a cup of coffee, and to partake in the ritual after an alleged triumph of passing my exams. But Hermione intends to boulder. When we get there, she changes into appropriate clothes, which comprise of a red top, black tights, and rented bouldering shoes. She finds it fun it seems. After climbing a few walls, and falling a few times, she approaches me with chalky palms and invites me to join her. I refuse, because I know I will have cramps for a few days after. And since I am not planning to continue coming back, I see no point in suffering the pain. I also hate to wear rented shoes, unless I am equipped with an extra pair of socks, which I am not at the moment.

In retrospect, what I did not realize at the time was that there was much more to that moment than my stupid socks and cramps. What I did not realize at the time, was that her invitation and my refusal would remain etched on my mind for years to come. I have no idea why, but I guess it may be because when I revisit the experience in my mind a couple of years later, and zoom on her face and gestures, I sense some frustration in her invitation. She was frustrated by my lack of engagement perhaps, and this was reflected in her tone. If not in reality, certainly in the mental image I will later reproduce from the experience. But I may very well be wrong. After all, reading people’s faces is not my forte, especially after a couple of years. I will realize all this later, but right here and now, I do not read much into things and the issue is dropped with no one seeming to care about it, in my crooked understanding at least. After a couple of hours, people get tired of climbing and falling, and we get ready to go home. We all walk to a point where we have to go our separate ways, and we say goodbye. We then get on our bikes and go our separate ways.

To finish the term, we have one last presentation to do, and then we are all off for the summer. So, the next day we all go to our rendezvous to work on our posters together. Ramona joins us too. She is our classmate, but she has two kids, so she only joins us when it is her husband’s turn to look after the kids; and this time, it is. We all start working on our presentations, and occasionally break the silence by talking about random stuff. On one of these occasions, the topic of conversation, picked by Ramona, is relationships. So, people start talking about their partners, and generally about relationships. We all have half of our attentions on our work, and the other half on what is being said. Multitasking is not my strong suit either. So, I keep switching back and forth between my work and the dialogue at hand. In the process, and in a moment I am focused on my work, Ramona puts me under the spotlight and asks about my relationship status. I almost get diarrhea with stress, not only due to the nature of the question, but because it was my work's turn to get my attention. I quickly switch to conversation mode, and tell her I am single. She asks whether I am looking. I say I am. She then pushes me to a point where I share more than I like. “People I like are either taken, or don’t like me back”, I tell her. “Hermione is single!”, Ramona is quick to reply.

I freeze. Too much information to process. First of all, there is no mistaking that the two statements, mine and Ramona’s, are to be consequential. Also, by all imaginable accounts, her statement created an expectation for me to say something like, “But Hermione will not take me” to push the conversation forward in expectation of Hermione saying "I would", or "I wouldn't". The problem is, I notice none of these accounts in real time, because I am busy deciding whether this whole ordeal is approved by Hermione. You see, Ramona is a sort of person who takes the initiative to make matches. I can totally imagine her do that without Hermione’s consent, but out of kindness nonetheless. It is also possible that they talked about this before, because if it was not with Hermione’s consent, why did she not object. To find the answer, I continue to drown myself deeper and deeper in imagination. I think to myself that Hermione is a kind of person who does not firmly object to something like this, even if she has objections. That just follows from her patience and elegance. It may also be to save Ramona’s face, or to save me from embarrassment. It can also be that deep inside, she does not mind for the match to be made. Then I start imagining about the prospect of this becoming real. I imagine the horrible person I become under stress. I imagine my failure in my marriage, and how my character was not mature enough to save it from falling apart. Then I get into a vicious circle of analysis and paralysis, and decide to snap out of it before I am entirely lost.

By the time I bootstrap myself out of the bottomless pit I am drowning in, the conversation has long moved on, and the moment is long lost. I don’t know how long I was away for, but when I come to, people are busy normalizing the situation created by Ramona, and I am in cold sweat. But the moment is too far behind to revisit, and every second that passes, it becomes more and more elusive and thorny as a subject. I always wish I was street wise. I envy people who can think on the spot and respond in the heat of the moment with a witty remark. But I am not that person, and the skill is not something I can acquire, of that I am sure. I have tried. For better or worse, the topic is dropped and we all get up and walk to a point where we should go our separate ways. We then say goodbye, and go our separate ways.

On the day of the presentation, we all appear, present our beautified nonsense, then walk to a point where we should go our separate ways for the summer. We say goodbye, and go our separate ways. I am travelling back home tomorrow, so I have a lot to do. I go back to my empty apartment, sit for a little while to gauge the depth of my loneliness, and start packing. I make sure that all the items on my mental list are checked, in the same order; and after making sure they are, prepare to sleep. The next day I go to the airport and travel to Iran. I get home, get a shower and take a sleeping pill to be able to sleep, because I normally can’t sleep after a certain hour.

I start the next day with the usuals. I have breakfast, go to my bathroom to vape, come out, make a cup of coffee and sit in the living room with my mom to see what has been going on. We talk from here and there, and we quickly land on the issue with her breasts. I am in no way, shape or form superstitious, but I have no doubt that I knew about it from my imaginary conversation with her. No doubt. It appears, right at the moment I had my mental conversation, my mom was having a surgery, and was hiding it from me not to impact my performance at school. When I ask her why, she says "you were coming in a week anyway". I feel a wave of anger rising inside me, because we had an agreement to keep each other updated no matter what. But I am a little hazed with the news, and see no point in quarrelling. So I ignore the wave and tell her about my mental conversation instead. She smiles. She does believe in superstitions, and hence casually accommodates the experience, as if it is something that happens. But then again, the problem is serious enough not to allow further concentration on whether I am a medium or not. She tells me about her schedule for chemotherapy and the process we have to go through to get things done. It seems there is a lot to do. Later I realize the volume of the work was nothing compared to the trauma we, and especially my mom, were about to go through.

Every three weeks, we have to go to her doctor, whose office looks like a shelter for flood-stricken victims squeezing next to each other due to shortage of space. Thankfully, post-operation patients are prioritized. So, we go there every three weeks, get a prescription and go home with an acceptable amount of hassle. The day after, I wake up at 5 am, get the prescription, and go to her insurance office to approve it. The place makes the doctor’s office look like Stonehenge on a rainy workday. I get there at six just to be the 50^th person in line. So I wait in line along with people who are equally angry, frustrated, and impatient. But we are all desperate, since there is no other place to get the medication even if we decide to pay for it. So we tolerate each other and wait. After getting the approval, I walk across the street to a specialized pharmacy to fill the prescription, which is the scariest of all stages. With Trump pulling out of the Nuclear Deal with Iran and reinstating sanctions, the possibility of the medication becoming scarce is a reality lurking in the corner. Thankfully, the medication is available for the first two rounds, but to my dread, the original medications are not available for the third round. The pharmacists tells me he has the Indian version, and asks me whether I want it or not. I tell him I do not know, because I have no idea how different they are. He assures me there is no difference, so I take the medication and go home.

The next morning we go to the hospital, my mom receives the medication, and they are different. The moment she is done with her chemo and we get on the lift to go to the ground floor, my mom bends over with pain, and starts squeezing and twisting her knees begging me in fear to stop the elevator. I have never seen her this scared in my life. I ask her what’s wrong, but she does not have time to explain. She just tells me "toilet". So, I press number two, and thankfully get the button just in time. The lift stops, I rush out to look for a toilet because she cannot see clearly. I quickly find the toilet, and guide her towards it. She goes inside without saying a word, and I freeze outside with fear. Things are absolutely fine if side effects are limited to a rush of diarrhea. But what if there are other side effects? How do I find out? I think and think, trying to avoid accepting there is no way to tell except to wait. But that seems to be the only viable way. So, I reluctantly accept to wait and try to stay, or pretend to be calm, which is something I am good at. So, I just do that. Thankfully, the remaining three times I fill her prescription, the medication becomes available again, and I quickly forget about it.

After three months, my mom’s treatment is almost complete and things look relatively under control. So, I do not contact my professors to tell them I will be a bit late, or that I will take classes online. I don't, partly because I am tired, and partly because my brother is taking over. He is scheduled to arrive a day after I leave. So, things work out fine and I prepare to go through another year of stress and loneliness.

During the second year, the program requires students to choose a track, which means I do not see others as often as in the first year. But I see Hermione almost every day, because we choose the same track. That is no cause for celebration though, because my mind is even more absent than in the first year. Even the idea of asking her out is nowhere to be found on my mind. I am certain my experience in the summer had some impact on me distancing myself from the thought. I was extremely distressed during the summer and do not want to continue being stressed by committing to a relationship now, especially when I have plenty to freak out about ahead of me. This is specially the case because I need active mental and physical participation if I decide to be in a relationship. There is always a part of my resources that must be designated to these mental and physical activities. Whatever that is left over, which is often not very much, can be allocated to enjoying the relationship itself. This is often the reason why I find my relationships tiring, and have the urge to periodically step away from them. Not leave; just step away from them for a while.

In general, I see interactions and relationships as effortful processes that need to be supervised, checked and refined. Even with such meticulous maintenance, I often fail to keep them from falling apart. But this is the only way I know how to have a relationship. It is like having an out of the body experience, even when I have someone else’s skin next to mine, which should naturally warrant an automatic and instinctive presence. But a part of me somehow manages to watch from above, always. Knowing all of this, I decide against challenging myself with a relationship, and begin looking for further justifications for the decision by thinking about Hermione’s character.

I focus on the fact that she is competitive, and conclude we cannot be together, because I despise competitions. I think people should not need to compete with each other if access to opportunities and resources are distributed equitably. In such a society, only those compete who enjoy what they do, and that is not because they want to be better than others, but because they want to be better than themselves at what they enjoy doing. But I also think my judgment is muddied by the atmosphere prevailing in our class. My classmates are extremely, and I even daresay sickly, competitive. They do not share their notes and works, they tend to hide things they find, and never volunteer to help each other if the outcome is determinant of their superiority. I don’t think highly of myself in general, but I can claim with confidence that I am not like that.

One one occasion, Zuzana, a classmate whose mother passed during the first term, contacted me on the day an assignment was due. In fact, she contacted me an hour before the deadline, and told me she had completely forgotten about the assignment, and asked me whether I would be willing to share mine with her. I sent it to her from my phone, so I would not keep her waiting until I get home. And unlike others in class who, in a situation like this, and in their most helpful mood, would give her hints on how to answer questions; I sent her the complete thing, with my answers and everything. The next day we went to class, Robin, who I call Mr. Fox because he is foxy clever, took the initiative to apologize to Zuzana for not seeing her message in time. I then realize she had gone to Mr. Fox first, but he left the message unread until the morning after. I took that conversation as yet another proof for the fact that the atmosphere in our class is toxic. But I did not realize two things until I replayed everything in my head later that night.

The first thing I noticed was that Mr. Fox did not know I gave her my work, otherwise he would not have brought it up in front of me. The second thing I discovered was that I was not Zuzana's first option. This is not surprising though. Not caring about ranks and grades, I freely talk about my inabilities, incapabilities and grades in class. Even at times that I do not get a chance to update everyone on my absence of skills, professors do that for me. I remember when I first failed a test, our professor came to class and announced it aloud in front of everyone. I guess this may be a cultural difference between people from the Middle East and Europe, because no one reacted to the news. I don’t think this would happen in Iran to begin with, but even if it did, people would react to it for sure. I did not mind it very much though. But I am certain that the announcement made it common knowledge that I am at best an average student. Although I am perfectly fine with being average, I found it a little disturbing when I discovered I was not Zuzana's first option. I found it disturbing because I had no way of finding where on her list I was. When I thought about it a little more, I realized the only reason she left asking me to the last, was that she was certain I would not hesitate to share my work with her. This is also common knowledge in class. So, I was a sort of insurance to her, and probably not on her list at all. But I sincerely hope that she stuck with my answers, because I received a full mark on that assignment.

A couple of weeks later, Zuzana and I got in the same group to provide consultations to bachelor students who were having difficulty with their work. This was a requirement of our course. After each consultation, students were supposed to fill out a form, which we then needed to hand in as a proof of providing consultation. At the beginning of our session together, I asked her whether she preferred that we saw students separately, or together. To my satisfaction, she preferred we simultaneously provide consultation to the same student. I liked the idea because it would lower my stress of having to be the sole communicator in the meeting, and would also improve the outcome as there were two brains working on issues rather than one. So we got on with it and provided consultation to three students during the session. The problem was that we needed to somehow divide three forms by two, since it was not recommended that we put both our names on each three forms and hand them in together. But I did not say anything, expecting after what I had done for her, she would offer me two and get one herself, or at least leave distribution to me. And I expected this because it had no implications whatsoever on the grade we were going to get. It was just a formality to indicate we did give consultations. And as long as our names appeared once, we were fine. So, I waited for the nice gesture, and waited some more. But she was holding the forms and was about to leave with no indication at any point that she was planning to share them with me; not even one, let alone two. So, I saw no choice but to remind her of it. She then reluctantly gave me one of the forms and left. My point with this story is not to convey Hermione is the same, because she is not. However, I can’t help but to be under the influence of the toxic culture prevailing in our class, and to see her in the same light, although I am sure she is much more moderate that the rest of the people in class.

Right or wrong, I use such alibis to battle my temptation to approach her, at times that my awareness of my shortcomings loose its colour. This way I have a backup plan to stay clear of trouble. So, my relationship with Hermione remains limited to seeing her in school and sharing an occasional train with her. On one of these train trips, she gives me the good news that she has been accepted to a PhD program in Germany, and that she is thinking of accepting the offer. She seems happy and proud, especially by the idea that she is going to be a doctor. She finds it hard to believe though. But I congratulate her, and invite her to see how she is exactly right for the title. A week later, she tells me she accepted the offer and is bound to start in July, which is a couple of months after we finish school, and three months from now.

It is the beginning of May, and I am under a lot of pressure to write up my thesis and hand it in. Not seeing an easy way through, I close my eyes, hold my breath, dive under water and come out at the end of May, with my thesis handed it and defended. I do not get an excellent grade, but I am glad that it is over. When done, I do not say a compassionate goodbye to my classmates. I never do, because I do not like the experience of saying goodbyes. So, I just leave with a casual goodbye, even though I know I am not coming back for my graduation ceremony. I immediately get a ticket and go back home to bring my mom to visit my brother and his family, who live half an hour from me in the Netherlands. My sister, niece and nephew will be joining us from the US too. When I get home, I make all preparations, make sure she has all the medications that she needs, and bring her to the Netherlands to see her her children and grandchildren. My mom is thrilled to be with all of us. I am happy we are all together too. But deep inside, I am suffering greatly. Once again, I am faced with a decision to make. During the first year of my degree, my application for residence in Canada was approved. Being an Iranian during Trump's presidency, it was natural for me to have a plan B. If for any reason I do not manage to get a position in the Netherlands one year after my graduation, I will have to leave the country and go back to Iran, which I do not like to do. But the downside is that I have more options now, and I hate options. I spend the entire summer deciding what to do, and releasing my stress via online shopping, which not only does not relieve my stress, but mixes it with guilt.

Summer passes much more quickly than I expect, which brings me face to face with my inevitable decision before I am ready for it. I take my mom back to Iran, and spend a couple of more months thinking about, and discussing my situation with others in hope of making the best decision. After much agony and pain, I decide to immigrate to Canada for three main reasons. One is that in the Netherlands, people are not accommodating of foreigners anymore. This statement needs to be taken with a huge grain of salt, because Dutch people are notoriously direct, to a point they are considered rude. This means they have no inhibition to show their dissatisfaction with you as a foreigner, if that is how they feel. On the other hand, they are extremely fair as a people. Even if they dislike you and your presence, they abide by the law and remain fair in their efforts to uphold the law. But since I have the option, I choose Canada because I think it is more welcoming to immigrants. With the country being run by immigrants, I imagine it should be more accommodating to foreigners than the Netherlands. The second reason for my decision is that I will be away from my brother and his family. Although I hate the idea of being away from them, I think my presence makes turmoil and crisis inevitable eventualities regardless of my efforts to avoid them. This is a general fact, and not necessarily related to my brother. But it is worse when it comes to him, because he has grown sensitive to my idiosyncrasies, which causes us to have frequent ugly fights. So the farther I am, the better it is, for both of us. The last reason is the security that my Canadian residence provides me with. To be able to remain in the Netherlands, I need to fulfill certain requirements, such as being employed by a company that can apply for my visa, and maintaining that job for four consecutive years. Canada on the other hands, does not have any requirements other than my presence for three out of five consecutive years, employed or not. This is good because it removes the stress of loosing a job and not being able to find another in three months, which is grounds for deportation in the Netherlands.

So, I decide to pack my belongings and travel to Canada with nowhere to go and no plans in mind. I arrive in Toronto, get an Airbnb for three nights, and use the time to rent a condo as they call it. I spend the first couple of months finding my way around town, locating shops, libraries and the rest of amenities that I need. Then I gradually start applying for jobs, but to no avail. A friend recommends me to register with some recruitment agencies in Toronto who help job seekers with their job hunt. I do that. They review and update my CV and wish me good luck. Then I am sent on my way to look for a job on my own, but do not manage to get so much as a decent reply. The experience is not normal, so I start asking around. I find many with the same frustration, and start developing some theories based on my experiences, especially in comparison to the Netherlands.

With immigrants forming communities in Canada, the job market is mostly network-based, which means you have to find the right connections in order to get a job. Without a connection, finding a job is an uphill battle. This is because many of the people in companies already have friends and family members looking for positions. So, while HR departments take all CVs as required by law, they prioritize recommended applications. The consequence is that many of the people who apply without knowing anyone on the inside are disappointed, even though they have the merits. This is true even of PhD programs. Although it is not officially a requirement for many institutions, it seems contacting a professors prior to sending your application makes all the difference in determining your success. It just seems to be a prevalent culture in Canada, that to get inside, you should let someone on the inside know you will be knocking. And again, I am comparing it to the Netherlands, where personal connections have no, or very little impact on the outcome of your application.

The second major difference is the hidden side to the absence of prerequisites for citizenship of Canada. This means the state does not have a calculated plan for what every immigrant is going to do when they arrive. Although as a skilled immigrant you get your residence because you have certain skills, and although it helps if you already have a position secured, it is not necessary for you to have an offer before you are admitted in the country. The downside to this system is that you are left to your own demise to find a job, while your expenses increase many-folds. Accommodations, internet, utilities, mobile plans, and many other things in Canada are among the most expensive in the world. So, if you do not have a plan before you get in, you may very well be walking into trouble. And walk into trouble, I did.

The third difference between Canada and the Netherlands, is that people in Canada have less inhibition to cheat, with insufficiently strong system or culture to counter it. As a few examples, I have seen people fabricate experiences on their CVs to get the positions they want, I have seen people jump the line to get a COVID shot by telling a lie, and I hear people forge income slips to get a mortgage. This could in part be the consequence of desperation resulting from the high living cost, and the helplessness that people experience for not being able to enter the cycle. It may also be the backlash of Canada being an accommodating country to immigrants. With the country being open to waves of immigrants from different cultures, there is no single culture or value system prevalent in the country. And not being able, or not feeling the need, to unify the culture, people are allowed to hold onto their ways without feeling any pressure to change. Personally, I am for diversity, but not across the board, and certainly not when it comes to the law.

For example, I have not personally seen anyone do this, but I hear there are immigrants who bring some money to get their first apartment or house in Canada. They then fabricate a document that they have an astronomical income in their country of origin; a figure that is sufficient to get mortgages for two or more houses. They then let all of those houses, and use the money to pay for their own mortgage payments and even save some, because many let their properties to more than one tenant, which means they get more than what their property is worth. It also releases them off restrictions to expel tenants, which in turn enables them to sign unofficial contracts for one year only, and to raise their rents at the end of every year. In the end, they will have a few houses, and will have paid for only one. As another example, I personally know Iranians who got their vaccine shots before it was their turn. When I ask them why, they say “everyone else is having theirs; you should go get yours too. Just tell them you have compensated immune system. They won’t ask you to sign anything.” Yet another example with Iranians is that they like to bargain to get what they want, or to get a discount on what they want. In Canada, many Iranians continue to remain this way, and in fact make progress in their lives using the same mentality. This is partly because the system allows it, and partly because Canada is filled with Iranians, and chances are they can always find an Iranian to negotiate with, and get their way. Iranians in the Netherlands cannot do this. When they arrive in the country, they try to negotiate their ways around, but they soon realize there is a brick wall ahead. So, after a few attempts and some embarrassing moments, they just blend in and change. Good or bad, I am not sure, but this is why the culture in a country like the Netherlands seems more unified.

I am also not sure if I am right, but I think the reason people from developing countries grow more inclined to cheat is to do with the weakness of state's authority and the absence of social justice in their countries. Many of us have now seen videos of kids being told by their parents not to touch something delicious in front of them, until they return. Some manage and some give in to temptation. My hypothesis is that in addition to the kid's personality, the established authority and consistency of the parent has some influence on the outcome. The higher the parent's authority, and the more consistent he or she is, the less likely it is for the child to give in to temptation. The irony is that although many developing countries are under dictatorship, the states in these countries do not have the authority that is required to maintain order. One reason for this is the prevalence of corruption in these countries. Although laws are restrictive, and the punishments are harsh, the state fails to implement the law in a unified and impartial manner, because there is often a friend or a relative of a statesman who has done it, and has been let off the hook. So, with it being public knowledge that some get a way with breaking the law, it becomes a possibility in people's mind that they may be able to get away with it too. The key is to find the right contact.

I am certain corruption is not exclusive to developing countries, and that it very much reigns supreme in developed countries alike. But there are major differences. First of all, communities are not as extended in developed countries as they are in developing countries. So, even when a politician is corrupt, he or she does not normally engage in granting favours to his first, second or third cousins; a behaviour that is not only commonplace, but somehow expected in developing countries. So, in developed countries, corruption remain in close vicinity of the elite, and is hence easier to hide and harder to see. Secondly, political scene in the first world is much more coordinated. Power is normally in the hands of a couple of factions who are friends backstage, and enemies on the stage. When one of them engages in corrupt activities, the other party starts screaming not to uphold justice, but to use it to their advantage. This marks the beginning of an alleged tug-of-war between the parties, and is often followed by a round of semi-public negotiations between the parties. Such negotiations often lead to a compromise, because factions share much of their interests, despite their use of unimportant differences to pretend they are arch enemies. So in all likelihood, and in face of a scandal, parties in power normally reach an agreement and come up with a meticulous scenario that sweeps everything under the carpet, where they are no longer visible to the public. So, before words start circulating, they are suppressed by those in power, and with the help of their allied media. And thirdly, although developed states are in actuality lenient towards the elite, they put on a show to the contrary. They summon the criminals, put them on a hot seat and question them like a teacher questions a 10-year-old kid, who is consistently disrupted in the middle of his answers. It is horrible to watch and when people watch it, they feel sorry for the kid and decide the punishment has been served. This is while the state remain ruthless towards the common population. Although the scenario is the same, it is no longer a show; and instead of going home from the hot seat, normal people will probably go straight to jail. This way the state maintains its authority and manages to stop people from making the deductive connection in one of their delusional trips that impunity is universal.

The second problem is the absence of social justice in many developing countries. With no authority to make sure justice is upheld, people see no other way but to fight for their own rights in what they view as a competition against others. For example, with no regulatory body to make sure they get a decent price on commodities, or a decent health care when they need it, people engage in activities such as bargaining to increase their likelihood of getting a fair price, or pulling strings to get the health care they need, even when they are less eligible than others in need of the service. The mentality is that you have to take it or there is no one to give it to you, provided there is enough to go around in the first place; and if you have someone who can help you get it, you are just lucky. This is often why people from developing countries, and in my experience especially those from Iran, are the first to jump a line, and also the first to detect someone who jumps the line. It is because they are on semi-survival mode. I am in no way suggesting Canada is like that, although I am certain, due to being open to immigrants, it has a higher concentration of people with such mentality, and lower pressure on them to change.

As I am developing theories about the workings of the system, and trying to detect the root cause of problems, news breaks that a pandemic has hit, and has hit hard. Initially, I, and all others in the world, do not realize the severity of the problem. But soon, we all realize that it is no joke. The government gradually starts shutting down stores and companies, and people go back to their nests scared, shocked and bewildered. I, above all, am completely lost. Before the pandemic, I received one reply for every ten or twenty applications I sent. After the pandemic, zero. I do not receive any updates whatsoever for my submitted applications. After a couple of months of shooting my CV straight into companies’ bins, and coming to terms with the new status quo, I stop sending more CVs. Gradually my life is filled with inescapable silence, and I am forced to reflect on my life. I am pressed against the wall to think about my immediate and distant past, and about what the future may hold considering the circumstances. This is the cruelest of tortures for a person like me, because I am naturally prone to over-analyzing my situation and my relation to the world. And with silence being my only companion, things quickly blow out of proportion.

I think about my mom, I think about the two years of studying prior to coming to Canada, and I think about Hermione. Endlessly. I go through my experiences with her. I revisit all of the memories I have with her. I reprint all the images I have of her in my mind and look at them with scrutiny and regret. In fact, it is during this process that I come to realize there may have been some frustration hidden in her tone when she invited me to boulder with her. This is how I realize I froze when Ramona told the group that Hermione was single. This is how I come to realize what I had, and what I lost.

Originally, I attributed some of my new feelings to the absence of anti-depressants in my system. Right before the pandemic, I decided to give them up because I really did not see any improvements in my life as a result of taking them. What I was not expecting, was how I would feel in their absence. A few weeks after giving them up, I started feeling again. Sure, good and bad came in an inseparable cluster, but I could feel them nonetheless. I could feel the urge to have sex and desired a companion. I began to fancy Hermione like I had never before. I began fantasizing about kissing her lips and touching her skin. I began imagining things I was not imagining for years. However, I soon realized anti-depressants were not responsible for everything. For example, I could not find a relation between stopping my mediation and my difficulties with interactions, especially because I still have the problem. So, I just attributed the remaining issues to social anxiety, past trauma and shyness, and continued to think about the past.

Everyday I wake up, I hope the pandemic gets under control so that I do not have to think more about my past. But the pandemic is here to stay, and I am locked in a room with my demons. So, I surrender. Every day, I look into my demons' eyes, offer them my hand and let them take me on trips to show me how I failed. After every journey, I come back beat and shattered and find it hard to think of a solution other than sending Hermione funny videos every now and then to let her know I am thinking about her. To my satisfaction she finds them funny, until one day I decide to send her a brief and not-very-funny message explaining what I am going through.

“After 9 years, I stopped taking anti-depressants two months ago. The first thing I realized was how my emotions were harnessed and toned-down by the medication; and the most troubling question roaming my mind is whether I would have ever had a chance with you if I was free of their effect and would have asked you out!”

I write the message, wait for two weeks to make sure it does not have inappropriate comments, and send it to a friend to check it. She gets back to me with encouragement to send it off. So, I send it off. Then I wait for two more weeks, and decide it is a ridiculous message. Say she says yes, what then? Do I go back to the Netherlands and ask her to join me there? Or ask her to move to Canada to be with me? Being an Iranian, I can only be in Canada, where I am a resident, or get a one-year post-study visa for the Netherlands. Technically, I could use my Dutch visa to travel to Germany, but without knowing German, chances are slim for me to find a job, and without a job, I will last as long as my visa does. And this is essentially why I left Europe in the first place. All practical issues aside, who in their right mind would relocate to another country to be with a person who, as far as they know, rejected the offer when they had a chance? And that is conditional on an offer having existed in the first place. So I decide to delete the message before it is marked as read. When I delete the message, I receive a notice from Facebook that the message may not be deleted if the recipient has seen the notification, or something to that effect. So, I hope to god she has not seen it as I no longer have a way of knowing. The message is deleted at my end and I have no way of seeing if it is read. But I guess it is, because that is the last time I receive anything back from her. I attempt to normalize the situation by sending her some more funny messages, but they remain unread although she regularly visits her profile according to Facebook.

Then I am pushed to reflect on my behaviours again. I start cursing myself for complicating everything. Why didn't I just ask her a few casual questions? Surely it was easier to handle, had I asked her how she was doing? Or even whether she was still single. As a friend, I think these questions are more normal to ask, aren't they? Then I start beating myself up, and hating myself for the stupid person that I am. I go deeper and deeper into depression and my anxiety goes through the roof until one night, I come across a video called “Could it be Asperger's” by Prof. Tony Attwood. In the video he describes the defining characteristics of autistic people, and I gradually begin to rise in my seat as I watch it. It feels like I come with a manual, and he is reading it out loud. I get confused and dig a little deeper. And the more I read, the more I am convinced I have autism. So, I contact my family doctor to refer me to a psychiatrist. She refers me to a psychiatrist, who takes two moths to contact me, and an additional 45 days to see me. I go there and she listens to my story, which I practiced telling many times prior to our session. I practice because I always leave doctors' offices frustrated for not having expressed myself the way I wanted. Sometimes, this happens even when I have practiced the conversation beforehand. But I always think it would have been worse without practice.

On the day of my visit to the doctor, I tell her about the diagnoses I have received and the medication I have used so far. I also tell her how I object to my previous diagnoses, and why I hated the medications I was prescribed. Then I use my past experiences, treatment failures, and recent research to explain how and why I think I may be autistic. I tell her that I would like to be properly diagnosed and receive appropriate medication if there is any. She listens, but does not credit my self-diagnosis and starts asking me questions. She also gives me a couple of very short questionnaires to fill out, which I find quite useless. The questionnaires include questions that have no additional value to simply asking me if I have the condition. It is like asking a patient if they wash their hands often to determine they have OCD. The difference is that the answer to questions in questionnaires are scaled, which the psychiatrist can then add up and summarize into an allegedly meaningful score. And scores are always much more trustworthy than words, aren't they? It looks much more professional to say, “you are a 7, which means you are above the threshold, which means you are high on the OCD spectrum”, than to say, “Based on what you say, you seem to have OCD”. But I fill them anyway. After half an hour of questions and questionnaires, she says, "you scored an 8 on the OCD questionnaire, which means you have severe OCD". Then she tells me that overall, she thinks my existing diagnosis of bipolarity, which I told her I objected to, is more likely than autism. She then gives me a prescription and asks me to see her again in a month.

When I leave her office, I google the medication and realize it is an anti-convulsant. But the point is I have tried anti-psychotic and anti-convulsant medications before, and I hated them and told the psychiatrist about my bad experiences with them. So I do not fill the prescription, and contact my family doctor again and tell her what happened. She recommends that I remain in touch with the psychiatrist even if I do not want to take the medication, because it is generally difficult to see a specialist in Toronto. So I keep my follow-up appointment with the psychiatrist, and go back to to tell her I do not want to take the medication, and also to try and leave things on good terms, like my family doctor advised. I manage to do neither. Although I practice what I am going to tell her many time, for some reason, I mistakenly and unknowingly use "anti-psychotic" instead of "anti-convulsant" in my mental practices. Thinking I am prepared, I get to her office and tell her that the medication she gave me is an anti-psychotic, and I do not have good experiences with them. She tells me that it is not an anti-psychotic, and I go blank. Obviously I do not realize I am using the wrong word, because I am reading from my mental scripts, and I normally make sure information included in the script for my mental rehearsal is correct, before I begin to rehearse. Apparently not this time, when I desperately need them to be.

While I am thinking, I suppress my urge to take out my phone and google the medication again, because it is quite rude I think. She is a specialist, and when she says it is not an anti-psychotic, well, it is not an anti-psychotic. The trouble is she does not elaborate further by saying what the medication is. I would immediately realize my mistake as soon as she would hit the letter "c" in the "convulsant" part of the word "anti-convulsant". But she doesn't and I remain puzzled. I am now in freeze mode because the conversation did not go according to my expectation, and I have no plan B. So, I give up control of the conversation and just answer questions. She asks me what my plan is. I tell her my plan is to specifically determine if I am autistic. She tells me she does not know a centre in Toronto where the condition is diagnosed in adults. Then she asks me whether this means I want her to close my case, and although that is exactly what I have come here to avoid, I say, “I guess so”. She says that is fine, and wishes me good luck in finding a centre that provides the service. She also asks me to let her know if I find one, in case she needs it for other patients. As I leave her office, I google the medication again because I am sure I read that on multiple pages, which is when I realize my mistake. So I spend the rest of that day, and week, and month to mentally replay my conversation with her, hoping the word anti-psychotic would somehow turn into anti-convulsant. I was really annoyed because the swap would not impact my argument one bit, but would probably change the outcome of my session.

When my mental torment of replaying the scenario gradually subsides, I begin to look for alternative solutions. After weeks, I find a centre that conducts the diagnosis and I contact my family doctor to refer me to the centre. She refers me, and they contact me after four weeks to ask me to introduce a family member they can contact as an extra source of information for the diagnosis. I give them my brother's contact details and wait for further instructions. After a few months of not hearing from them, I contact them again and tell them I am kind of desperate, and ask them about my status in line. They tell me there is at least another year of waiting before I get contacted for the diagnosis, but they provide me with contact details of some other centres in Toronto that conducts the diagnosis for a fee. I contact two of them and decide to move forward with one of them, because they offer a discount. I pay the fee and soon they arrange a meeting with me, then another one, then one with my brother, then contact me again to tell me I am close, but not autistic. The funny thing in the report is that based on my answers, I am diagnosed with autism, but based on my brother’s assessment, I am not. I did expect this to happen though; because right before my brother had the interview, he told me he would do it but he was sure I was not autistic. To refrain from pushing the diagnosis in either direction, I refused to ask him to maintain his objectivity, which I later regretted. But it then turned out he was right and I was not autistic.

So I lose all hope to have some relief from the guilt I have for the mistakes I have made in my life in general, and with regards to Hermione in particular. Now, I have to continue to be scorched under the heat of my stupidity with no escape in sight. Over the next few months, I continue going through my past experiences and adding to my self-hatred. But my problems are more detectable, now that I know more about autism. I can’t unknow what I already know, and I cannot see things but in the shadow of autism that is now lingering over my interpretations. For example, I notice that every time I talk to someone I fail to say what I want to say, because I am under stress. Every single time, I fail to express my intentions, my feelings and my requests. I always include irrelevant information in my conversations and correspondences because I cannot exclude them no matter how hard I try. This is because I don't think half-truths are worth half as much as the whole truth, especially when the left-out half is often a key determinant of the final judgment. And I care deeply about being fair in exposing myself to judgments, which seems to be a prevalent trait among people on the autism spectrum. I also get extremely nervous when I need to harness floods of thoughts coming from every direction, because I find it hard to direct them into a single pond that looks unified to onlookers. For example, whenever I take part in a debate, my mind starts racing, because the thoughts that I want to organize into arguments are overwhelmingly numerous, scattered and appearing with a higher speed than my language faculties are able to convert into words. Besides, I am often the only person who sees the link between them, as some of the links are not obvious in the world we live in. This induces extreme excitement in me because I can’t keep up with my mind in receiving, reducing and connecting its content into comprehensible and related statements with a flow that listeners can follow. This has two ramifications. The first is that people are often shocked if as an example, I start from primitive tribes in Brazil in order to make a point about sexualization of women in modern day society. The link between the two topics is clear to me, but to the person hearing me, it is anything but. So, to connect them in a way understandable to others, I feel I need to stretch myself between the two extremes, to a point that I feel my mind is tearing apart. The second consequence, which derives directly from this, is that I fail to hide my anxiety even with all the skills I have in my toolbox. My heart starts racing uncontrollably, my voice starts to tremble, I start to sweat, and a pulse visibly appears in my temple.

During the process of accumulating evidence, I also realize some of the mechanisms I use in my everyday life are unintentionally developed to overcome some of these problems. For example, I mostly ask someone to proofread my emails, or wait for one or two days before sending them, so I get a chance to read them on several occasions and under the influence of different emotions. If I find them sensitive and important, I sometimes wait for a couple of weeks before sending them off, like I did with the message to Hermione. This is hard to believe, but when desperate and conditions allow, I ask a confidant to accompany me, or even do my talking for me. I do this mostly when I have to negotiate something important.

The list of symptoms is too long to go through in full. Suffice it to say that with more educated eyes, I begin to pile up evidence that I am autistic. So, I start writing an email to the supervisor of the psychologist who diagnosed me. The process takes a week since I find it important. As always, I do not manage to exclude the whole truth, so I warn him outright that I may be seeking a diagnosis not because I have the problem, but because I am desperate. And I repeat this on three occasions using different sentences to make sure I am clear on it. Then I ask for his permission to send him the list of evidences that I have gathered over the months since my diagnosis. He replies the same day and welcomes me to do so, and replies promptly after receiving the list. Based on my email, he recommends that we meet up when things open up again. This is because one problem I had with the report was that it mentioned I had no problem maintaining eye contact, which seems to be a sign of having autism. My argument was that it is entirely different to look at a screen than into someone’s eyes. This is why the supervisor accommodated my concern and suggested we wait until we can meet in person. But that is not what I wanted, although that is certainly what my email implied, I later noticed. So, I struggle for a few days to figure out how I can explain what I want, which is to meet virtually as soon as possible. So, I write another email, wait for a day, and send it to him. He is supportive and arranges a meeting with me and my original psychologist in two weeks. We have the meeting, they ask me questions about my list and my new insights, and tell me they will get in touch with me in a couple of weeks.

While I wait, I continue sliding down into the abyss with my depression, and loose hope that I can break free from my own ruthless judgements, or proven stupidity. As if the energy I had was only sufficient to ask for a second opinion, I consider the matter resolved, and carry on looking for alternative solutions whenever I have energy to spare. Two weeks pass and the judgment day arrives and it happens to be a day I have little energy in my system. So, I reluctantly go online where my original psychologist is waiting for me. His supervisor arrives with a minor delay and has to take an urgent phone call as soon as he arrives. While he is gone, my original psychologist tells me based on his initial knowledge of me, and the additional information I have provided them with, they have concluded that I do have autism, but a mild one. I freeze. I try to answer the remaining questions they ask me without being able to figure their purpose. This is what I often do, which explains why I start answering questions with a lag. During the lag, I think about why the person is asking what they are asking, then move onto focusing on what they are asking, and then reply. But not today. Today, I just answer with the same thing that comes to my mind, and record. I record them so that I can go over them at a later stage when I am defrosted. At the end of the meeting, they give me an updated report with some additional resources I can use for support, and wish me success in getting the help I need. I hang up and don’t know what it all means.

Does this mean at least some of my mistakes can be justified? Can this mean that my condition was at least in part responsible for the intense anxiety I was feeling throughout my education? Does this mean the sub-optimal grades that I received had to do with my autism? Can this mean the PhD applications that were rejected due to my average grades, and the job interviews I did not manage to do well in, are justifiable considering I needed accommodation? Most importantly, can this mean I am not entirely stupid for failing to see Hermione’s invitation to boulder as a hint to hang out? Can this mean I am not the dumbest person on earth when I froze in face of Ramona’s comment? Does this mean I can forgive myself? Does this mean I could have a chance with Hermione now? My diagnosis may help in explaining why I behaved the way I did, but the explanation is that although mild, I have a neuro-developmental disorder. Is this any better in her eyes? And finally, whatever the cause, can this short story transfer the message to Hermione that I am sorry for missing the opportunity?