Every morning in the small blue house at the end of Maple Street, the same drama unfolded.
"Rafiq! You finished the last piece of cake!" Laila shouted from the kitchen.
Rafiq appeared at the doorway, pretending to look confused. "What cake? I thought it disappeared mysteriously in the night."
Laila crossed her arms. "Yes, of course. Maybe a ghost opened the fridge, took only the biggest slice, and washed the plate too?"
Rafiq grinned. "See? Even ghosts know how to clean up after themselves. You should appreciate such polite spirits."
That was how their mornings usually began — with playful arguments, exaggerated accusations, and laughter hidden behind serious faces.
Rafiq and Laila had been married for five years. They did not have a grand house or expensive cars, but they had something far more precious: the ability to turn ordinary days into small festivals of joy.
Their "fights" were legendary among friends.
One evening, Laila spent an hour choosing a movie. She finally picked a romantic drama.
Rafiq looked at the screen and sighed dramatically. "Again? Why does everyone in these movies cry for three hours?"
Laila glared at him. "Because they have emotions, unlike you."
"I have emotions!" Rafiq protested. "I cried when my football team lost last month."
"That doesn't count!" she replied, throwing a pillow at him.
The pillow fight lasted longer than the movie.
But their quarrels were never about anger. They were about attention. About knowing the other person would always respond.
Sometimes their playful teasing turned into tiny competitions. Who makes better tea? Who remembers anniversaries more accurately? Who apologizes first after a disagreement?
One rainy afternoon, the electricity went out. With no television and no internet, they sat facing each other in candlelight.
Rafiq suddenly said, "You know, if we ever stop arguing like this, I'll be worried."
Laila raised an eyebrow. "Why?"
"Because it would mean we stopped caring enough to tease each other."
She softened. "Our arguments are just conversations wearing funny costumes."
Rafiq smiled. "Exactly. They're proof that we're comfortable enough to be silly."
Their biggest "fight" happened on their anniversary. Rafiq pretended he had forgotten the date. All day long, he acted normal. Laila's mood grew darker by the hour.
That evening, she sat quietly, clearly upset.
Rafiq approached her and said casually, "Why are you so quiet today?"
She replied coldly, "No reason."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"Absolutely sure?"
She stood up. "Fine! If you don't remember what today is, then—"
Before she could finish, the lights turned on. The living room was filled with candles, flowers, and a small homemade cake.
"Happy Anniversary," Rafiq said softly.
Laila's anger melted instantly. She tried to look annoyed but failed. "You are impossible."
"And you love me anyway," he replied.
She nodded. "Unfortunately."
They both laughed.
Years later, when people asked them the secret of their happy marriage, Laila would say, "We argue every day."
Rafiq would add, "But we never argue to win. We argue to stay connected."
Because in their little blue house, love did not always look serious. Sometimes it looked like stolen cake, thrown pillows, fake anger, and laughter that echoed through every room.
Their quarrels were not cracks in their relationship.
They were the music that kept it alive.