Jadwa woke to a dull, relentless headache that had persisted for almost two weeks from the lack of sleep and restless few hours of sleep. Her body felt leaden, as though the weight of her exhaustion had seeped into her very bones. She lay motionless, staring blankly at the ceiling, the dim light filtering through the curtains uncomfortable to her eyes. Her eyes burned, gritty from the hours she'd spent staring into the dark, chasing fleeting moments of sleep that never came. With each shallow and uneven breath she took, her ribs ached and the heaviness in her chest intensified.

The throbbing in her skull became unbearable when she finally shifted, the movement sending sharp pulses through her temples. Her muscles stiffened, and a low, raspy groan escaped her dry, sore throat. She squeezed her eyes shut, hoping that staying still for just a little longer might help.

Dragging her legs over the side of the bed felt like a task. Her feet hit the cold floor with a thud, but she didn't move right away. Instead, she sat there hunched over, elbows digging into her thighs as her head hung low, her hands gripping her hair. The air around her felt stifling, heavy with her unspoken guilt. Her fingers tightened momentarily, tangling in the disheveled strands before dropping to her lap, lifeless.

She stood slowly, her shoulders hunched forward as if afraid the weight of the day would crush her completely. Her body moved with the heaviness of a person dragging unseen chains. Each step toward the bathroom felt sluggish. When she reached the vanity sink, her trembling fingers fumbled for the faucet. The censored fluorescent lights from the vanity came on making her squint her already strained eyes.

The mirror greeted her with a reflection she could hardly stand to look at, eyes swollen and red-rimmed, her complexion ashen, lips cracked and pale. She leaned heavily against the sink, her fingers gripping its edge as if she needed the support to stay upright.

Jadwa splashed cold water onto her face, the droplets trailing down her skin and silk pajamas. She gripped the sides of the sink tighter, her knuckles whitening, her gaze locked on the woman staring back at her from the mirror. Her chest rose and fell unevenly, and her lips trembled with words she could not even say aloud.

You're such a pathetic mess, she thought. Her reflection seemed to agree, the lifeless eyes looking back at her devoid of the spark she once had. She stood there for a long moment, her breath shallow, her body rigid. Her stomach churned at the sight, but she couldn't tear herself away.

The fight with Imran had unraveled her, dragging her down into a deep, dark spiral she hadn't been able to claw her way out of. It had been two weeks—two weeks of silence, of aching regret, of punishing herself over and over. Every time her own words replayed in her mind, it left her skin crawling with self-loathing. She could still hear the venom in her own voice that, she knew the way they landed, the pain that flickered across his face before he masked it with cold detachment. But she hadn't stopped. And now, it was too late. The memory haunted her, clinging to her like smoke, filling every corner of her mind until it suffocated her.

She forced herself to move, her limbs heavy as she reached for her toothbrush. Her hand shook slightly as she gripped it, she brushed her teeth absentmindedly, her mind wandered back to the morning after the fight. She had spent the entire night rehearsing her apology, whispering the words to herself through tears, her voice breaking over and over again. Her heart had pounded so loudly she thought it might burst as she waited in the kitchen for him. When he finally appeared, and she called out his name, her breath hitched. But he didn't stop. He didn't even glance her way. He walked past her, his face unreadable, his silence more damning than any words could have been.

That moment replayed in her mind endlessly, gnawing at her resolve. The sound of his footsteps fading down the hallway, the blank indifference on his face, it all haunted her. She hadn't tried again. Not since that morning. Every time she thought about speaking to him, her chest tightened, her throat constricted, and she faltered, retreating back to the isolation of her room.

She leaned against the bathroom wall now, her toothbrush held in her hand. Her shoulders began to tremble as a sob clawed its way up her throat, but she swallowed it back, biting her chapped lip hard enough to sting. The pain was grounding, in a way. She didn't deserve to cry, not after what she'd done. Crying felt indulgent, an undeserved luxury for someone who had caused so much damage.

Days after she had tried speaking to him, her desperation grew. She sent texts, long rambling messages filled with apologies, explanations, and promises. But none were read. The "delivered" notifications mocked her, a reminder that her words weren't worthy of his time. So she turned to something more personal: handwritten letters. Seven of them. She left them everywhere he might see in his office, on his desk, on his nightstand. She imagined him reading them late at night, perhaps even softening. But they remained untouched, each one exactly where she had placed it.

Imran had perfected the art of avoidance, turning it into an unspoken routine. Every morning, he left the house before seven, and he returned late at night. On the rare occasions she stayed awake, hoping to catch a glimpse of him, he would breeze past her without a word. His face remained a mask of indifference, devoid of emotion, as though she weren't even there.

It wasn't just painful; it was suffocating, like drowning in slow motion with no one noticing. She felt herself unraveling, her sense of self eroding with every cold glance he didn't spare her, every word he refused to speak. She wasn't just lonely, she was vanishing. It was as if the fight had erased her, turning her into a ghost that haunted their home. She wasn't his wife anymore; she wasn't even herself. Not in her actions, not in the way she spoke, nor in the duties she once performed with care. She was nothing but a shadow, fading further into obscurity with each passing day, becoming invisible in her own marriage.

But today, something in her shifted. The ache of his absence had grown unbearable, clawing at her insides like a living thing. She couldn't keep living like this trapped in the silence, swallowed by the distance between them, crushed under the weight of her own regret. It was too much to bear any longer. She had to face him, even if he turned away again, even if his silence swallowed her whole. She couldn't stay hidden in the shadows of their brokenness. She had to try, or risk losing herself completely.

She stepped into the shower, the hot water soothing her stiff muscles. As the steam filled the small space, her mind raced, plotting her approach, her every thought wrapped in uncertainty. It was past nine on a weekend—if the pattern of the last two weeks held, he'd leave soon. She held her breath, hoping, praying silently, that he hadn't already gone.

She moved quickly through her routine, her hands shaking, betraying her nerves as she reached for her favorite scented lotion. The lavender and vanilla fragrance used to be his favorite. It felt almost absurd, these small acts of care, but she couldn't stop herself. She needed to do something, even if it felt like walking into quicksand.

She chose a blue boubou, the deep shade that always seemed to bring out the warmth in her complexion, the one she knew he liked. It was a small thing, she knew, but it felt important in the moment. Not that it mattered much these days. He barely seemed to notice her anymore. Still, she slipped the fabric over her body with deliberate care, smoothing it down and adjusting it until it draped perfectly. She reached for her chiffon veil, folding it into place around her head, tucking the edges with a practiced hand.

Her reflection stared back at her—a woman trying to reclaim something lost, even if it was just a fleeting illusion. She gathered her hair into a low, sleek bun, fingers moving with an almost automatic grace, though every gesture felt heavier than the last. Finally, she spritzed herself with his favorite perfume, the warm, musky scent rising around her like an invisible barrier. It enveloped her.

As she moved towards the door, her heart began to hammer against her ribcage. Every step down the hallway felt like dragging herself through wet sand, her legs heavy with dread. When she reached his door, she froze, staring at it. Her mind screamed at her to turn back, to retreat into the hollow safety of her room where shame and regret could stay hidden. But she couldn't. Not today.

The scent of his cologne seeped under the door, teasing her with memories of easier days. Days when they'd laugh about nothing, when his warmth was her sanctuary.

She leaned forward, her forehead pressing lightly against the door, and closed her eyes. She took a shaky, deliberate breath, her lips quivering with the effort to stay composed. Her hand finally moved, trembling as she raised it to knock. She held her breath and waited, straining to catch even the smallest sound from the other side. But there was nothing. The silence dragged on, stretching endlessly, and her heart sank deeper into her chest. What if he's not here? What if he's already gone? and for a moment, she felt the sting of tears welling up. But she remained still, rooted to the spot.

Her hand hovered over the doorknob, her fingers trembling. The cold metal seemed to burn her skin, as though it knew the weight of her shame. This is your husband's room, she reminded herself firmly, her mind battling the panic coursing through her. Husband—the word felt empty, though, as another, darker voice crept into her thoughts, insidious and cruel. Is he even still your husband? Or is he just taking his time before divorcing you?

The question hit her like a blow to the chest, stealing what little composure she had left. The idea wasn't far-fetched, how could it be, after the way she had broken them? The silence, the distance, his refusal to meet her eyes. Everything pointed to a man who was slipping further and further away from her.

Her breathing grew shallow, her chest tightening painfully. What if you're already too late? What if there's nothing left to save? The thought was paralyzing. Fighting against every voice in her head that screamed for her to turn back, to retreat before the final blow could land. You came to fight for him, she told herself.

Slowly, she turned the handle, the faint creak of the door echoing louder than it should in the stillness. She pushed it open just enough to peek inside, her heart pounding so hard she was sure he would hear it.

The room looked exactly as it always did, immaculate, a mirror of the man who inhabited it. The soft scent of oud mixed with the familiar notes of his cologne pulled her deeper into the moment. Up until two weeks ago, this room had been her sanctuary, a place of comfort and intimacy. Now it felt foreign, as though she were trespassing. Her eyes scanned the room frantically, searching for him, and then they found him.

He was in the prayer corner, bowed low in sujood, his body perfectly still in quiet devotion. The sight knocked the breath from her lungs. She froze, her hand tightening on the doorframe for support as a wave of emotions surged through her.

Her throat constricted, and she couldn't tear her gaze away. His figure, so calm and steady, was a sharp contrast to the chaos raging inside her. He seemed untouchable in that moment, enveloped in a peace she could no longer claim for herself. Her breath hitched as she realized he was praying, praying to Allah, perhaps about her, about the hurt she had caused. The thought sent a chill spiraling down her spine.

The room suddenly felt suffocating, as if the air itself was too heavy for her to breathe. Guilt clawed at her insides, and a small, irrational part of her wanted to retreat, to close the door and wait for a better time. But what better time was there? Two weeks had already passed—two weeks filled with silence, avoidance, and her endless torment. Two weeks too long.

She remained rooted by the door, her body trembling. She didn't deserve to be here, in the presence of his quiet strength, not after what she had done. But wasn't that why she had come? To try to fix what she had shattered? To at least face him, even if it meant being rejected again?

She stepped inside, the soft rustle of her boubou the only sound. Her eyes drifted to his form, kneeling in prayer, his broad shoulders steady and unmoving as he bent in submission. The sight stopped her breath. There was a grace in his stillness, a calm that only amplified her own chaos.

She shifted awkwardly, her hands clasping tightly in front of her as she scanned the room, every detail was carefully in place. His desk stood neatly arranged at the corner, his files stacked with precision, coded in colors. And then she saw them, the stack of letters.

They sat untouched on his desk, exactly where she'd left them, not a single one disturbed. Not a crease, not a shifted edge to suggest he'd even spared them a glance. Her throat constricted, and a hollow ache filled her chest. He didn't even bother. It wasn't just indifference; it was rejection in its best form.

Tears threatened to spill, but she blinked them back furiously, refusing to let them fall. Not now. I can't breakdown already. Her gaze darted around, desperate to find something to occupy her hands, anything to make herself feel less like an intruder. The thought of tidying his room crossed her mind, but it was already spotless, sparkling clean.

Not knowing what else to do, she sank to the carpet, folding her legs beneath her. She kept her distance, sitting just far enough to avoid disturbing him but close enough to feel the faint pull of his presence. Her hands rested limply in her lap, fingers curling into the fabric of her boubou as she forced herself to stay still.

Her eyes stayed on him, drinking in the sight of his deliberate movements as he concluded his prayer. The way his hands rose as he said the takbeer, his forehead touching the ground with a humility that humbled her even more than she already felt. When he finally concluded his Salat Al duhaa he sat back, his posture straight and commanding, his lips began to move in dhikr. Silent, rhythmic, and steady.

She couldn't hear the words, but she knew them well. She used to join him in this, once upon a time. She clasped her hands tighter, nails biting into her palms as she waited. For what, she wasn't sure his acknowledgment, a word, a glance. Anything. But he didn't turn, didn't pause.

There was no glance. No words. No soft kiss on her forehead, not even the hand he used to place on her head as he whispered, "Allah ya miki albarka." (God bless you) The simple prayer she had grown so accustomed to in moments like this was nowhere to be found. His gaze remained fixed ahead, distant and unyielding.

Jadwa could feel her chest tightening more with each passing second. She longed to speak, to pour out every apology, every plea, every ounce of regret that had consumed her for the past two weeks. The words churned inside her, desperate to break free. But her throat constricted, a lump of fear and shame sealing them in. So she sat there silent, waiting, praying and hoping against hope that this time, he would look at her.

Biting down on her lower lip, she tried to steady her breathing. Each inhale felt shallow. Her hands fidgeted in her lap, smoothing the folds of her boubou, twisting the delicate chiffon veil she had draped so carefully. Say something, her mind screamed, just say something before it's too late.

Her mind raced, cycling through the words she had rehearsed a thousand times in her head. I'm sorry. I was wrong. Please forgive me. They sounded so feeble now, so small compared to the vast chasm that had grown between them. She wondered if words would even matter

When he finally finished, she lifted her eyes, holding her breath, hoping for the faintest trace of warmth or understanding. Instead, his gaze landed on her steady, unreadable, and questioning.

"Do you need anything?" he asked, his voice cool and indifferent.

She swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry, and shook her head silently.

"Is there anything needed in the house or for the family?" he continued, his tone neutral as ever, his patience stretched but restrained.

"N-no," she stammered, then took a deep breath, summoning courage she wasn't sure she had. "I came to apologize to you, Albi," she said softly, the term of endearment slipping from her lips like a plea.

His eyes remained emotionless, a blank canvas she couldn't decipher.

"I'm sorry," she began, her voice trembling, cracking under the weight of her regret. "I really am sorry for what I said to you. I shouldn't have said it. Wallahi, I didn't mean any of those words." Her voice faltered, and she saw the slightest flicker of something in his eyes, but it disappeared as quickly as it came.

"What I said about... the murder thing," she added hesitantly, her shame burning hotter with each syllable. "I said it sarcastically, because I was angry, and the question only triggered me more. I didn't realize how much damage it would cause." A tear slipped down her cheek, and she quickly wiped it away, but more followed, unbidden.

"I promise you, babe," she continued, her voice thick with emotion, "I didn't mean it. Not even for a second. You're the first person I've ever truly looked up to, the one who changed me for the better. Our children... I always wanted them to look up to you, to see the man who's made me who I am. I never thought about that incident again after the day we discussed it at the family house." Her words spilled out, raw and honest, each one breaking down the walls she had built around her shame.

"Your past is your past," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I had no right to bring it up, let alone say what I said. I deserve any punishment you think is fair."

Imran remained still, his composure unshaken. Finally, he spoke. "You don't need to explain yourself," he said simply, his tone even.

"I do," she insisted, her voice rising slightly in desperation. "I need to, because the guilt is eating me alive, Albi." Her hands clenched in her lap as she pressed on. "It was too much for me, and I was scared, scared of facing my own childishness and stupidity."

Imran sighed, staring at her with an intense gaze.

Her tears came faster now, spilling freely as her voice broke. "We lost our baby. And it was selfish of me, so selfish, not to tell you sooner. And then to yell at you like I did, you didn't deserve that. You've been the best husband, better than I could have ever asked for, and I betrayed you. I betrayed us."

She hiccuped, her sobs shaking her small frame. "You can punish me however you see fit. I'll give you space if that's what you need, but please... please, forgive me, Ya Imran." She clutched her chest as if trying to hold herself together. "I'm terrified, terrified of Allah's wrath, terrified of losing you. You've done everything for me, given me the best of everything, and this is how I repaid you."

Her words dissolved into muffled sobs. Imran watched her silently, his expression unreadable. Then, finally, he reached for a tissue box on the table beside him and passed her a tissue. She grabbed it, dabbing at her tear-streaked face, but her cheeks were red, her nose blotchy, and her eyes swollen. She was a crying mess.

When her sobs quieted into shaky breaths, Imran spoke, his voice soft but firm. "Allahu Ghaffurur Raheem. May Allah forgive us all."

She blinked up at him, her heart aching at the simplicity of his words.

"I also apologize," he added, standing and walking toward the fridge tucked into the far corner of the room. He retrieved a cold bottle of water, uncapped it, and handed it to her. The coolness of the bottle in her hands was a small comfort, and she sipped it gratefully, her throat raw from crying.

Before she could say anything else, his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, his expression neutral again. "Excuse me," he said quietly, picking up the call and stepping into the closet, leaving her sitting there, clutching the water bottle, her heart still heavy with the weight of what she had done and the tentative hope that perhaps, just perhaps, the first thread of forgiveness had begun to weave its way between them.