JADWA

After Imran left, Jadwa stood frozen, her mind slowly beginning to process what she had just done. Her entire body trembled, her breaths coming in shallow, uneven gasps. Before she knew it, she disregarded the stabbing pain in her chest and ran to the door, flinging it open as if the very act could undo her mistake. 

She bolted down the stairs, her bare feet skimming the steps, but just as she reached the bottom, the sound of the front door slamming shut echoed in her ears. She stumbled forward, her heart pounding, and yanked the door open, only to hear the roar of his car engine. Her eyes widened as she saw him speeding off, faster than she had ever seen him drive before. 

Her legs gave out beneath her as she stumbled back into the living room. She sank onto the couch, her body folding in on itself as her sobs broke free. The tears came hot and relentless, each one carving a path of anguish down her cheeks. She clutched a pillow to her chest, her cries muffled but raw. 

"I hate myself," she whispered into the silence, the words scraping her throat like broken glass. No, hate wasn't enough. The disgust she felt for herself ran deeper, twisting into something almost unbearable. 

Her breaths quickened, her chest heaving uncontrollably. Panic wasn't the right word for what gripped her now—it was as if her soul had abandoned her body, leaving her detached and hollow. She felt weightless and yet unbearably heavy at the same time. Her trembling hands clutched at her face, nails digging into her skin. What if he sends me home? What if... what if he divorces me?

The thought alone made her choke on her own breath, her throat closing up as a violent coughing fit overtook her. She leaned forward, clutching her knees, gasping for air. "I'd rather die," she muttered hoarsely. "I'd rather die than lose him." 

Imran wasn't just her husband—he was her world, the soul of her soul, her purpose for sanity. To say she loved him felt like an understatement. Her heart wasn't hers anymore; it was his, wholly and irrevocably. 

Her mind raced back to the moment she'd lost control. The bitter words she had shouted at him replayed in her head, cruel and unrelenting. How could she? How could she utter those things to him? She had shouted, raised her voice, knowing how much he hated it.
What got into me? she thought, hitting her forehead with her fists. 

Jessica entered the living room quietly, her presence barely registering in Jadwa's chaos. She placed a tray of tea and food on the table, her eyes filled with understanding. Without a word, she left, giving Jadwa the space she desperately needed. 

Jadwa glanced at the clock. It was only a couple of hours past noon, but time felt meaningless. She hadn't moved from the couch. Her hands scrambled for her phone, dialing his number with trembling fingers. No answer. She dialed again. And again. And again. The rejection was unbearable. By the time she gave up, there were ninety unanswered calls logged on her screen. 

Her stomach churned with fear. She couldn't think, couldn't move. She sat there, her mind spiraling into devastation. Please come back. Let me apologize. Please, please.

She wanted to hear him say he loved her, even once. She had yearned for their relationship to go beyond the quiet comfort of their unspoken bond. But her anger and frustration had boiled over, leaving scars she wasn't sure they could ever heal. 

And then there was the baby. Their baby. Her chest tightened painfully as she thought about the life they had lost. She had wanted that baby so badly. She had dreamed of how Imran would light up when he finds out about the pregnancy, how his beautiful smile will not leave his face for days, and when he held their child for the first time, how he'd become even more protective but excited. He had given her the world, the most expensive gifts, all the fancy things in life and all he ever wanted was children. But instead of bringing him joy, she had failed him in the worst way imaginable.  He didn't even get to be happy about their child, he only gets to grieve it.

She dragged herself upstairs, every step feeling like a punishment. In the shower, she saw the light bleeding she was experiencing. It brought everything crashing down on her, her heart feeling as if it might physically collapse under the weight of her grief. 

After drying off and putting on a pad, she left the bathroom quickly, afraid she might pass out. She fell to her knees on the carpet, clutching at her hair as she screamed into the silence. Her body shook violently, her nails raking across her arms in a desperate attempt to ground herself. The scratches left angry, red trails, some of them bleeding, but it wasn't enough to distract her from the ache in her chest. 

Maybe he's on a plane, she thought bitterly. He had only come back for her. And now... she had repaid him with selfishness and cruelty. Her words had been nothing but raw disrespect, filled with a venom she couldn't take back. 

She remained kneeling on the carpet, her head resting against the wooden edge of the bed, her legs splayed out beneath her. The hours dragged by, marked only by the sound of her shaky breaths and the endless attempts to reach him. 

Maghrib came. Then Isha. The growing darkness outside mirrored the rising tide of despair within her. 

The knock on the door startled her. She wiped her face hastily and made her way downstairs, forcing a smile as she opened the door to greet her sister, Hanan, and her brother-in-law, Amir. 

"Ya Amir," she said softly. 

"Jadwa! How are you?" Amir asked cheerfully, his smile warm and sincere. 

"Strong, big brother," she replied, her smile faltering under the weight of her lie. 

Hanan pulled her into a hug and narrowed her eyes at her. "Madam, I hope you've eaten." 

Jadwa shook her head, her sheepish smile betraying her truth. Hanan didn't need to hear anything more; she immediately sat Jadwa down and made sure she ate. 

As they talked, Jadwa nodded and laughed where appropriate, but her mind was elsewhere. Her phone was on her lap, her eyes darting to it every few seconds. When a notification came through and her phone vibrated, her heart soared for a moment—only for it to plummet again when she realized it was a random notification. 

"Where's Ya Muhammad?" Hanan asked casually. 

Jadwa froze for a split second before clearing her throat. "Uhmm... he... went out to get some medicine before you came." 

Her sister and brother-in-law nodded, oblivious to her turmoil. 

"Please," Hanan said, placing a hand on Jadwa's shoulder, "stop crying and accept Qadr. Pray, Jadu. Trust Allah's plan. We're always here for you, kinji koh?" 

Jadwa nodded, tears welling up again at the brim of her eyes. "Thank you. I love you," she whispered, hugging Hanan briefly before pulling away, afraid she might break down completely. 

The door closed behind them, and Jadwa was alone once more. She leaned against the door, her body sliding down until she was sitting on the floor. Her tears began again, silent but endless. She clutched her phone tightly, staring at the blank screen. 

She didn't need him to tell her she'd crossed the line. She already knew.

Nine, ten, eleven—and then midnight struck. Still, no response. Not a single text, no returned calls. The silence wasn't just deafening; it was suffocating. Her phone lay discarded beside her on the couch, its screen lit up with a long list of unanswered attempts.

Her chest tightened as the weight of her actions pressed against her ribs. The unanswered calls had doubled now, a glaring tally of her desperation. With trembling hands, she clutched the phone once more, her voice breaking into the emptiness around her. 

"Ya Rabb, please, if I'm under some evil spell cast by someone, grant them the ability to forgive me. And grant me healing, please." Her whispered plea cracked, because for the life of her, she couldn't understand why she made that mistake and she threw the phone aside as if it burned her skin. She inhaled deeply, but the air barely reached her lungs. 

Her body betrayed her. She could feel she was losing her mind, a slow descent into chaos. Her mind was a storm of thoughts that refused to quiet, each one darker than the last. Her chest felt heavy, as if her ribs were caving in under the weight of it all. Pain pulsed through her, physical and emotional, leaving her utterly drained, exhausted, and suffocated. 

The stillness of the room offered no solace. She pushed herself up, her legs weak beneath her, and wandered back downstairs. The house felt cold, as though it, too, carried the tension of her regret. She sank onto the couch, her body slumping into the cushions as if surrendering to the void. 

The large wall clock ticked mercilessly, its hands dragging forward. She stared at it without really seeing it, her thoughts lost in the murky depths of despair. The room seemed to stretch endlessly, swallowing her whole. Time blurred, but when she glanced up again, the clock read 3:38 a.m. 

She clasped her hands together, her fingers digging into her skin as she whispered into the silence, "Ya Allah, please keep him safe. Please... give me a chance to apologize." Her voice trembled, the prayer carrying the weight of her guilt. 

And then, faintly, she heard his car. 

She shot upright, her heart thundering against her ribcage. Her hands were clammy, and she wiped them on her sweatpants as her nerves spiraled out of control. 

The sound grew closer until it stopped. The seconds that followed felt like an eternity. Her ears strained to catch every sound: the slam of a car door, the approaching footsteps. Each one seemed louder than the last, her heartbeat syncing with their rhythm. 

The door creaked open. 

There he was, his broad shoulders filled the frame of the door as he stepped inside, the soft glow of the entryway light catching on his profile. His face was unreadable, his expression a perfect mask of calm indifference. He turned briefly, locking the door behind him with an unhurried motion, and for a moment, it seemed as if she wasn't even there. 

Her lips parted, the apology she had rehearsed a dozen times ready to spill out, but it lodged in her throat. He walked past her without a glance, his long strides carrying him towards the stairs and up the door.

"Albiii—" she managed, her voice breaking. 

He stopped in front of the door and turned to face her. The look he leveled at her was sharp, cold, and utterly unyielding. Her words died on her lips, her throat tightening as she swallowed them back. 

"You can start sorting out whatever is needed to host Ameerah and Ahmad's naming ceremony," he said in a distant tone as though nothing had happened. "I'll transfer enough money by tomorrow morning." 

Her heart crumbled under the weight of his indifference. Tears pooled in her eyes, blurring her vision. She stood there by the door and he walked to the bedside table in the he picked up the polyethylene bag containing her medications.

Wordlessly, he extended the bag to her, his eyes didn't meet hers, didn't linger on the way her fingers trembled as she took it from him. He didn't see her—or perhaps, he chose not to. She felt invisible.

And just like that, he walked back to their room. His room.

She stood rooted to the spot, watching as he disappeared into the bathroom. He left the door of the room ajar, a sliver of light spilling into the hallway. She stared at it, her feet frozen, knowing better than to enter the room. 

Time seemed to suspend itself. Her legs ached from standing, but she didn't move. She couldn't. When he emerged from the bathroom minutes later, he didn't so much as glance her way. Instead, he walked silently to the prayer mat folded neatly in the corner of the room. 

Her breath hitched as she watched him. Every movement was precise, practiced, and calm as he prepared for his nightly tahajjud. This was his ritual, his unwavering commitment to Allah, and one of the countless things she had admired about him. Now, it felt like a barrier, an unspoken message that he had retreated somewhere she could no longer reach and he didn't want her intruding. 

Her chest ached as she stood there, helpless and broken. 

This was the man who had once cared for her in ways no one else ever had. Even the smallest of her discomforts—a headache, a slight fever—had been met with his unwavering attention. He had always insisted on giving her medication himself, ensuring she took it even if he was away, watching her through video calls with the same tenderness. 

But now, the gulf between them was insurmountable. He had handed her the medication, His silence was unbearable. His indifference was a mirror reflecting her failure as a wife and as a mother.

She felt the weight of it all— her selfishness, her lack of accountability, the things she had done and said to push him to this point. Muhammad Imran, the man who had once been her anchor, now slipped through her fingers like sand. 

And she didn't know if she could ever grasp him again.

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