I stared at the ceiling long enough to notice the fine cracks spidering across the corner, illuminated by the dim morning light that failed to warm the room.
After Fajr, all I could do was lie on my bed, still dressed in yesterday's clothes, lacking even the strength to change into my pajamas. Along with the ache in my body from yesterday's physical labor, my heart throbbed with a heavy, suffocating pain. The guilt settled over my chest like an iceberg—dense, unyielding, and refusing to melt into the cold depths below.
I hadn't heard him get up for Fajr. He had likely prayed alone in his room.
When the clock hit seven, I sat straight up, silencing the alarm that was meant to wake me from a restful night's sleep. At least, that was how it was supposed to go.
Gazing at my reflection in the mirror, I attempted to conceal the dark circles beneath my eyes with makeup, but no amount of powder could hide the distress painted across my complexion.
Please let him be out there, I prayed silently, twisting the doorknob and stepping into the living room.
Empty.
I walked toward the dining table, a hollow disappointment sinking in as I noticed the spread laid out on the surface. Just like a month ago, fresh breakfast waited for me—but there was no sign of Haider. Not even the lingering trace of his scent.
A month ago, I would have prayed he wouldn't be sitting there when I came out, preferring the silence over the unbearable awkwardness. But today? Oh, how desperately I wished he were right there. Regardless of the silence, the awkwardness, or the tension, I wanted him sitting across from me—enjoying his meal while playing the stoic.
We were right back to square one. No progress, not even a beginning. It felt dangerously like an ending.
My breath hitched as I picked up the small note left beside the plate.
You can take the car.
Just that. Nothing else.
Even after everything, he still cared enough to wake up early, prepare a breakfast he knew I enjoyed, give me space, and sacrifice his own comfort for mine.
He had never laid a hand on me without my consent. He constantly restrained himself despite craving my closeness. Even yesterday, when his control shattered, he stopped. He pulled back and refused to force himself on me.
He had every right to demand more as my husband, yet he chose never to push me.
He was a good man, and he was torturing himself by staying married to someone like me. I loathed every part of myself that had contributed to this mess.
Tears slipped down my face, and I wiped them on my sleeve as I forced down the food he had prepared. It was still warm—he hadn't made it long ago. His keys were missing from the entryway hook, and his coat was gone from the rack. The faint trace of his hurried departure was still fresh.
He was running late, likely because he had spent his morning perfecting my meal—catering to my tastes and making the toast exactly how I liked it.
It is only when you start losing someone that you notice these quiet details. And together, they form what we call regret.
"Haider!"
I called out to the empty apartment, knowing no reply would come. But I needed to say his name. This was the call I should have screamed yesterday before he walked away, before he broke down further, before he retreated deeper into his misery.
Foolish. Blind. Cowardly.
That was what I was. An idiot who had dug her own grave.
The paralyzing fear of the moment had stolen my voice when he needed it most. I had wanted so badly to comfort him, to reassure him, but my body had betrayed me. That physical inability to reach out now left me trapped inside my own hesitation.
An overwhelming dread settled over me that a line had been crossed—one we couldn't easily step back over. I wasn't just grieving our argument; I was terrified that my hesitation had permanently altered how he viewed himself, and how he viewed my capacity to love him.
The absence of his minty scent left me with a terrifying thought: What if I never smell it again?
What could I possibly do now?
Everything had fallen into shambles, and it felt like there was no turning back. What was the right choice?
Pretend nothing happened and carry on like this?
Apologize, only to make him feel even more guilty?
Call off this marriage altogether, since I had proven to be such a fool?
I picked up my bag and paused, looking back one last time at his closed bedroom door. He had cried last night, and he was probably still carrying that pain when he left this morning.
Please, I prayed from the bottom of my heart, don't let him blame or hate himself.
I was the one at fault. He had done nothing wrong. I wanted to tell him that, yet once again, I couldn't bring myself to face him.
Words become meaningless when you don't know how to deliver them, and the same goes for emotions you can no longer contain.
Yesterday wasn't an outburst on his part. It was a cry for help.
And I had failed to answer it.