MUHAMMAD IMRAN
A tense silence followed after Jadwa's outburst, and before Imran could step out of the car, his gaze locked onto Ameerah walking toward Jadwa's vehicle with a determined stride.

The tension in the air felt palpable, and Jadwa, obviously avoiding any interaction, slipped into her car and sped off without a backward glance. Imran's hand hovered over the door handle, hesitation turning into defeat as his arm fell lifelessly to his side.

His forehead dropped onto the steering wheel, the leather pressing against his skin. His Adam's apple bobbed, choking on the lump of agony clawing at his throat as the burn he felt in his chest begin to spread across his body.

The ache spread, unbearable, like molten lava surging beneath his chest. His bloodshot eyes narrow, and for a moment, the world around him faded into a haze of despair. He could feel it, his sanity crumbling, control slipping from his grasp, every fragile piece of his composure unraveling in the silence of his car.

The music from the hall blared relentlessly, every pounding beat like a hammer drilling into his skull. He stayed frozen for what felt like hours but was no more than twenty agonizing minutes, his head still bowed against the wheel as if seeking solace there. Finally, he straightened, his movements mechanical.

With trembling fingers, Imran pressed against the buttons of his kaftan shirt, yanking the studs open in a frantic bid to cool the blistering heat twisting insidiously within him. Still yet, his body found no relief, even with the AC cranked to a high setting. Not when his eyes had turned a crimson shade, his vision hazy and distorted, the blazing orbs fixated on the spot she had occupied; where she had cried her heart out in his car, wrenching the organ that was rightfully hers and letting it shatter like fragile glass on the ground.

The ache in his chest threatened to keel him over, so intense that he could feel the physical pain radiating through his skin. Everything felt like fire, hot and consuming.

A shudder wracked through his body as a strained breath escaped him, overpowering him with its intensity, sharp in the still air of the car.

"A'uzubillah Minash-Shaytanir-Rajim!" he muttered, his warm breath blowing across his exposed neck, his appearance disheveled.

A guttural sound escaped his throat as he started the car, the engine roaring to life. He accelerated out of the venue, leaving behind the deafening music and harsh lights that made his skin crawl.

Imran drove aimlessly, his thoughts fractured and chaotic. The air around him felt heavy, pressing against his chest, while the empty roads blurred past his window. All he needed was an escape, something, anything to smother the fire raging beneath his skin and scalding the surface of it; something to take his mind off the scalding burn.

Once, that solace had always been his wife. She had been his refuge, his source of comfort in every loss, every setback, every anger and every disappointment. His solace, his peace when the world seemed unbearable. But now, she was the storm, the wound that festered, the pain that refused to be ignored. The pain, in its entirety.

Lost in the web of his thoughts, he didn't even realize how far off course he'd gone until the bright streetlights of Abuja gave way to the dim expanse of a highway. The night stretched endlessly before him, the road empty at this hour. Her face consumed his mind, her wide, doe-like eyes haunting him.

Her tear-streaked face.

Eyes that sparkled with the light of a thousand stars, owned by the most beautiful and enchanting woman he had ever beheld in his entire existence. His mind conjured vivid images of how she had looked in the lavender outfit she wore tonight. How his breath had caught in his throat, a rush of emotions flooding him the instant she appeared in his sight, radiating an irresistible allure. The emerald neckpiece she adorned made his blood run hotter; he took pride in the fact that she wore something he had gifted her out of love.

It took only one glance for Imran to notice every single detail about his wife. He observed how she had lost the weight she had gained during her pregnancy, returning to the stunning figure she had before. Whether pregnant or not, Jadwa's curves ignited an undeniable yearning within him, pushing him to the brink of a euphoric passion. Her hair, dyed the most beautiful shade of brown he had ever seen, called to him, making him itch with the need to sift his fingers through it, to caress its silken strands while cradling her against his chest. Loving her.

If only she had spared him a moment of her time. If only she had agreed to speak with him, to let him into her world; perhaps her face would have been alight with joy and pleasure, laughter instead of tears. Instead of pain. And perhaps he too wouldn't have been subjected to this unbearable agony that felt like a slice of hell.

A pained sound escaped through clenched teeth, his frustration simmering.

With a sharp inhale, he slammed his foot on the accelerator, the car leaping forward with reckless speed as his vision cleared. The hum of the engine and the rush of air did nothing to drown out her words, echoing relentlessly in his mind. The highway stretched out like a dark abyss, and if there had been any cars, his recklessness might have sent him and other drivers flying off.

Eventually, his car screeched to a halt in front of Ibrahim's house. The soldiers stationed at the gate snapped to attention, their salutes stiff and precise as he drove in, but Imran barely registered them. He moved like a man possessed, storming into the house with single-minded determination.

In the living room, he began yanking open drawers, his movements hurried and chaotic, lacking his usual finesse. Each empty drawer only stoked his frustration, his breathing growing harsher. With a hiss of annoyance, he muttered under his breath, slamming one drawer shut and striding toward Khalifa's room, suspecting his presence explained the missing item he sought. When he found no sign of him, he ascended the stairs to Ibrahim's room, his footsteps heavy and purposeful.

Pushing the door open, he found Ibrahim in sujood, his figure illuminated by the dim glow of a bedside lamp. Imran let out a long sigh, his shoulders slumping briefly. Of course, Ibrahim would be praying. It was his habit to spend the better part of his nights in worship, every single day and some days till the break of dawn.

Desperate to find what he sought, Imran moved to the familiar drawers in the room, searching methodically but with growing impatience. Still, nothing. His hand dragged across his face as he let out a low groan of frustration. "For fucks sake what's wrong with Ibrahim?" He let out under his breath. 'Of all days, Ibrahim decides to practice everything I've been preaching to him for years, today,' he thought bitterly. Another drawer slammed shut with a thud.

Finally, his fingers closed around a sleek, rectangular black box, its weight familiar in his hand. A silver logo gleamed faintly under the dim light. Relief coursed through him as he turned and made his way to the balcony.

Out on the balcony, he placed the box on the table, the air cool against his flushed skin. He retrieved a cigar from the case, the metal latch clicking as he opened it. The flame from his lighter flickered briefly, illuminating his face as he lit the cigar, its rich, smoky scent filling the air. He leaned against the railing, taking a long drag, the smoke curling from his lips and nose. The nicotine buzzed faintly in his veins, a feeble attempt to soothe him.

He had broken a decision for the first time in so long.

As the smoke dissipated into the night, her face refused to leave him. Jadwa. She was everywhere, imprinted on every thought, every breath. The nicotine stimulated his mind, but it only made one, and one face only, clearer. No matter how hard he tried, she wouldn't go away, not that he ever truly wanted her to. What was the point of fighting a war he knew he'd already lost?

His mind veered into another dimension, a memory that made his blood curdle as though it were being kindled by a blazing fire.

Abdulhakim. Imran scoffed, expelling a thick cloud of smoke into the air, his thoughts swirling with the murderous rage ignited by the sight of her ex-boyfriend standing too close, handing her an object. It provoked a fierce jealousy within him. Even now, miles away from that painful scene, Imran felt his free hand curling into a tight fist, his perfectly trimmed fingernails digging deeply into the flesh of his palm.

The sight of Abdulhakim had stirred a white-hot fury within him, especially considering that their marriage was at its most fragile state.

He closed his eyes, tilting his head back as though wanting to feel a kick of stability, hoping for a moment of peace. Instead, nothing but her voice echoed in his mind, sharp and unforgiving. Divorce.

Imran tasted the word on his lips, "Divorce," the sound harsh.

The bitterness of that word was sharper than any blade, burning more than the acrid taste of smoke on his tongue. Not even the news of any death after losing his mother had hit him like this. It was absurd. The first time she had uttered those words, he had found them ridiculous, yet it was also the very first time he had ever felt a surge of anger directed towards Jadwa since they got married.

Not when she had hidden her pregnancy. Not even when she'd cruelly asked who would ever want a child with a murderer. Him.

His thoughts spiraled back to that afternoon. He had been desperate for answers, aching for some clarity or explanation, anything! But instead, she had flung bitter words at him, tearing at his dignity as a husband and shredding the bond they had shared.

Even then, anger eluded him. He wasn't capable of it. Couldn't be. It wasn't blindness to her faults or the cracks in their relationship and nor was it naivety because he knew exactly what it was and. He saw them clearly, but he let himself remain shackled by love, bound by chains that were stronger than any power he had ever possessed. He was humble enough to admit that to himself.

He had given her space. He had given her time. He had done his part, even when he felt deserving of some explanation, but all she gave in return were apologies.

"Do you even love me?" she had asked, her voice cracking on the word "love" as though it had splintered on its way out. For Imran, it wasn't just her voice that broke, it was his heart, fracturing completely from the sharp, jagged edge of that question. He could still hear it reverberating in his mind, the sound of her voice trembling and weak.

"You don't love me, so let's not pretend this is some marriage built on love and not lust," she had added, each word felt like a dagger that tore through his chest. Those words were the most painful he had ever heard, far more brutal than when she had called him a murderer. That word, "murderer," was an accusation he had heard too many times to care about. Even when it was hurled at him fresh after the crime, even when it dripped with scorn and disgust, it never pierced him the way her words did.

Imran had always been too self-contained, too detached from others' judgments, to let them in. He lived in his own world, impervious to the noise around him. But Jadwa—his baby, his treasure, was different. She wasn't just a part of his world; she was the very air he breathed, the light in his dark existence. Hearing those words from her lips, knowing they came from her heart, stung in a way nothing else ever had. For the first time in his life, someone else's opinion mattered, and that realization cut deeper than he thought possible.

Perhaps what hurt the most wasn't her harshness but what it revealed about how she truly saw their marriage. Lust. That's all it was to her, a shallow connection devoid of the depth he had poured into it. Something physical, lacking the emotional weight that backed it. He had hoped, prayed, that her words weren't a reflection of what she truly felt. But deep down, he couldn't deny the truth. Her words confirmed what he had tried so desperately to ignore.

That night, when he slept alone in their room for the first time since she moved in, the emptiness beside him felt suffocating. He hadn't planned to stay there alone, but she had left him some space. After that, all that came were apologies; grey, empty and lifeless words that only deepened the void.

Imran's thoughts were broken by the sound of Ibrahim stepping onto the balcony. The glow of the coal Ibrahim lit for his hookah flickered in the darkness. He didn't say a word at first, only handed Imran a lighter to ignite another cigar. Imran accepted it silently, his movements slow, his gaze distant as he sank into one of the chairs. His body was there, but his mind was miles away, tangled in the memory of her words, the letters, the messages. He had read each one, hoping to find something, anything that proved she wanted this marriage, that she wanted to have a child with him. But there was nothing to salvage.

Each word, each memory, each lingering doubt made him come to one devastating conclusion: he had to start over. He had to rebuild, to abandon the delusion that she loved him too. It was a painful decision, more agonizing than anything he had ever faced, but it was the only way forward. He had to bury the past, to let go of the hope that had kept him tethered to her; that she was in love with him, and start the chase anew, a chase that felt infinitely harder than the first time he fell for her.

That first time had been all-consuming, a plunge into emotions so deep they defied explanation. Love? The word felt too small, too weak, to capture what he felt; almost like an insult to the depth of his feelings. His love for her had been more than love; it had been a purpose, a reason for being, long before she even knew he existed.

And now, the weight of failure crushed him. He had failed her, failed himself, failed the love that had consumed him for so long. It enraged him that he had done that to them, and he had no one to blame but himself.

How could he love her so deeply, so fiercely, yet fail to show it in the simplest ways? He had tried, in his own complex, roundabout ways, but it had never been enough. His love was too profound, too intricate to be reduced to mere words. Loving her was as natural as breathing, as essential as prayer. It was an obligation, a necessity. Life without her was unthinkable, a barren existence devoid of meaning. To Imran, there was no life without Jadwa. His existence will only be reduced to nothingness.

He had loved her for years and she hadn't shared his sentiments. He had gotten married to her knowing she possessed no feelings of love for him, yet he still held onto the thread of hope that it would all change. That he could teach her to love him.

Only for his love to not suffice.

He chuckled bitterly, the sound rasping in his throat as the smoke from his cigar escaped his lips and nose, making him choke slightly. His love. Loving Jadwa was like stepping on a landmine—once you stepped in, there was no stepping back. Any slight movement meant destruction. A suicide mission.

Ibrahim handed him a glass of cold ginger beer. "Is it about the loss at the company?" he asked, his voice quiet as he took a long drag from the hookah.

Imran stared at the glass, his fingers tightening around it as his thoughts shifted briefly. The fire at the rice mill and factory in Borno had been a catastrophe. The devastation it left behind was immeasurable; hectares of farmland reduced to ashes, assets lost that would take a decade to recover. It was a crippling blow, but even that paled in comparison to the loss of his baby, to his wife's health, to the loss of everything he thought he had built in his marriage. The foundation couldn't survive the quake that shattered it.

"There's so much we should be thankful for, Muhammad," Ibrahim said, breaking the silence. "You know that. You were the one reminding us of this just weeks ago. It's the Qadr of Allah. We have other investments, other farms and rice mills. They'll suffice. Let's have tawakkul."

Imran tilted his head back, his lips pressing into a tight line as he exhaled smoke toward the sky. His position, risky, could result in his blood heading north; straight to the brain.

"Jadwa," Ibrahim murmured, his voice mingling with the bubbling sound of the shisha pot.

For the next ten minutes, they sat in silence, Ibrahim watching his friend's unusual agitation.

When Imran reached for another cigar, Ibrahim pulled the cigar box away with a smirk. "Do you know how expensive this is?" he teased, wishing the disturbed expression on his friend's face would dissipate into the air, the same way the smoke was.

Imran narrowed his eyes, clicking his teeth in annoyance. "Stop playing, man."

"What happened to raining hell on me about quitting smoking?" Ibrahim asked, his tone blunt. "The last time you held one of these was eight years ago."

Eight years. Eight years since Imran had quit smoking. Eight years since Ibrahim had seen his friend wrestle with something this deeply. Something other than the sins they had committed.

"It's her, isn't it?" Ibrahim said, his eyes searching Imran's face for answers. But all he got in return was silence, bloodshot eyes staring back at him, speaking volumes without a single word.

"I thought I was your older brother," Ibrahim said quietly, his voice dropping its playful edge as he sat up straight, his face hardening.

He had noticed a pattern over the past few weeks with Imran. He had stopped blowing his ears off about marriage and how beautiful it was, and he had ceased talking about Jadwa and all the things he wanted to do and buy for her. Imran no longer returned home early or called and texted her every single minute while he was out.

Ibrahim quickly pieced together the puzzle, he found out about the miscarriage on the day the fire broke out. He had expressed his condolences to Imran, but he hadn't realised the magnitude of the damage; whatever it was. It was something so profound that it destabilized his friend and the values he held onto.

Letting out a curse under his breath, Ibrahim stared at the skies, wondering what exactly what troubling his friend.

A long silence hung in the air, broken only by the faint gurgling sound of the shisha, the tendrils of its smoke weaving into the chilly night breeze. Imran tilted his head back, exhaling a stream of cigar smoke into the sky, the glowing ember at the tip of the cigar flaring briefly in the dark. The act seemed to soothe something deep in his chest, easing the knot in his throat and steadying his nerves before he finally spoke.

"Jadwa wants me to divorce her."

The words slipped out like an ember tossed into dry grass, sparking an instant reaction.

"Huh?" Ibrahim's head snapped up so fast he nearly knocked the hookah over the hookah's mouthpiece still dangling from his fingers. He shifted it to the left, as if better positioning might help him process what he'd just heard. His brow furrowed in confusion, and he squinted at the glass jar of flavor on the table, then picked it up like a detective inspecting evidence.

"Am I high?" he muttered to himself, turning the jar over in his hand. inspecting the label like it might offer some explanation. Still holding it, he pointed an accusatory finger at Imran. "Kaman ka fara shaye shaye ko? You spiked this, didn't you? What did you put in this? Is this even grape mint?"

Then, with a sharp thud, he slammed the jar back down. "What the fuck?" Ibrahim's voice climbed, teetering between outrage and disbelief. He leaned back in his chair as if the magnitude of Imran's words had physically hit him, then tugged at the brim of his hat and flipped it backward in one fluid motion, looking thoroughly unhinged.

Imran said nothing at first, his face calm. He took another long drag of the cigar, swinging his legs lazily as though the weight of his words didn't press as heavily on him as it did on the room. The smoke curled upward, disappearing into the darkness above before he finally lowered his gaze to Ibrahim.

"She wants me to divorce her," he repeated, the words delivered in the same even tone, as though saying it twice might make it easier to comprehend.

Imran wasn't the type to open up, not easily, not often. If there was ever anyone he shared his thoughts with, it was Ibrahim and only Ibrahim. His confidant. But even that had limits now. Marriage, as funny as it was, created new boundaries, invisible but firm. Still, there were some things he couldn't keep bottled up, and as he sat across from Ibrahim, he let the words tumble out, dragging through each event slowly, as if speaking them aloud made them real all over again.

"After the argument that day..." Imran began, his voice quiet, almost hesitant. "I just went back to being normal, you know? Like how I'd be with anyone else on a regular day. Neutral. But she wasn't having it. She saw it as me completely changing, like I was ignoring her on purpose or stepping away from the marriage. But it wasn't that. Not at all." His tone carried a quiet frustration, the kind that lingered after countless failed attempts to explain himself.

Ibrahim nodded slowly, his expression steady, his silence a silent invitation for Imran to continue.

"And her apologies," Imran went on, shaking his head slightly, "they felt... shallow. Just formalities. Like she just wanted to move past what she said, as if those words didn't leave damage, as if there wasn't anything to fix."

Leaning back in his chair, Ibrahim crossed his arms, his brows furrowing slightly as he listened.

"But, as I said, I couldn't be angry, Ibrahim," Imran admitted, his voice softer now, almost vulnerable.

Ibrahim tilted his head, the crease in his brow deepening, though he still nodded, waiting for the explanation.

"I knew she was wrong," Imran continued, his gaze fixed on the table between them. "I had every right to be angry, to take action, to see it as a betrayal. But by Allah, I couldn't. Allah is my witness, I tried. I tried to feel that anger, but I couldn't even bring myself to even fight her."

Ibrahim exhaled slowly, his hand reaching for his drink. "I'm not going to lie and say I get it completely, because this... this is something else," he said, his voice low and deliberate. "I know how much you've wanted her, how much you've fought for this. But I didn't think..." He trailed off, taking a sip, clearly weighing his words carefully.

Imran didn't let him finish. "We started talking a bit," he said quickly, as if to fill the silence. "Of course, not like before. I thought we'd get closer in a few days, talk it out, move past everything. But it didn't work that way. I ended up fumbling. Really bad."

Ibrahim's sharp gaze shot back to Imran. "Whatever that fumbling is, it better not be infidelity, Muhammad," he said bluntly, his tone carrying both warning and concern.

Imran shook his head, letting out a small, bitter laugh before taking a sip of his drink. He cracked his neck as if trying to ease the weight of what he was about to say. "Khayrah came back to Abuja not long ago," he said, his words laced with tension.

Ibrahim's expression shifted instantly, his shoulders stiffening as his jaw clenched. A long, irritated hiss escaped his lips.

"Maman Rahma's cousin passed away," Imran explained, "and Khayrah came to Abuja early in the morning. She got stranded at the train station. Maman Rahma kept calling me and at first, I ignored it, as usual. But the calls just didn't stop. When I finally picked up, she was panicking, begging me to pick Khayrah up, said her phone was about to die and she didn't want Khayrah stranded."

Imran paused, running his hand through his hair, his irritation bubbling to the surface. "It was like I was cursed that day, man. Sadiq was at the hospital with Fatima for Hassan's immunization. All my drivers were off because it was a public holiday. My PA was in Maiduguri. And Maman Rahma wouldn't stop. She kept saying, 'You wouldn't let your sisters take an Uber, so how can you ask Khayrah to?'" He let out a sharp breath. "To avoid her blowing it out of proportion and making some drama to make Rahma feel distant again, I just went."

Ibrahim's fingers tapped against his glass, his frustration matching Imran's. "And then?"

"In the car," Imran continued, his voice tightening, "Khayrah brought up her PhD program again. You know how Maman Rahma keeps pressuring me to cover it, always using Rahma as leverage. I decided to end it once and for all and went to the house. I wrote a cheque, went downstairs, and..." He paused, letting the tension hang in the air before finishing bitterly, "She wasn't there."

"What do you mean she wasn't there?" Ibrahim asked, his voice tinged with exasperation.

"She was in the kitchen, and my wife doesn't play about her kitchen bro." Imran said, chuckling humorlessly.

Ibrahim's face twisted in disbelief then he let out a laugh. "I know. I suffered for it too, trust me."

Shaking his head, he remembered how he got dragged into the beautiful yet nightmare world of building that house, especially the kitchen, all those designs and layouts were far from a soldier's expertise. But it was all for Jadwa, so he had to endure it.

Imran's smile faded slightly as he continued. "So, I started asking Khayrah about her program in the kitchen. I didn't even think or care about what she was doing, I was just trying to get things over with. And that was when Jadwa walked in." He paused, exhaling. "She flipped, she was not having it."

"Of course not," Ibrahim said, a hint of sarcasm lacing his tone. "And she shouldn't have. What else did you expect?"

"I know, I know. But it still caught me off guard. They got into a little argument, and I... I froze, man. I couldn't say or do anything. All I could think about was how bad it looked, how wrong it all seemed, and how I was going to explain myself."

Ibrahim sighed heavily, rubbing his temple as he listened.

"Before I could even process what was happening," Imran said, his voice rising slightly, "my girl was throwing the hot water Khayrah had put on the stove at her."

Ibrahim's eyes widened in disbelief before he threw his head back, roaring with laughter. "She deserved it! Khalifa's mother did something similar with one of my relatives," he said, still laughing.

Imran's lips twitched into a faint smile as Ibrahim's laughter filled the room, momentarily cutting through the tension that had weighed down their conversation.

"I scolded her a bit," Imran said, his voice quieter than usual, as though he was hesitant to admit it aloud. He kept his gaze fixed on the drink in his hand, swirling the liquid absentmindedly.

Ibrahim leaned back, nodding with approval. "You did the right thing," he said, his tone calm and matter-of-fact.

Imran hesitated, his expression tightening before he spoke again. "But... everything went south from there." He paused, exhaling heavily, the memory pressing down on him. "She started suspecting I was cheating with Khayrah. And, of course, I debunked that. I told her it was the least of her worries." His lips twisted bitterly as he let out a short, humorless laugh. "Only for her to hit me in the face with Alina."

Ibrahim's brows shot up in surprise, and he leaned forward, his hand pressed against his face. "Which Alina?" he asked, his voice laced with curiosity and disbelief.

"Which other Alina?" Imran replied, taking a deep breath to steady himself. "She must have heard me on one of my calls with her," he said, his voice dropping lower. "She got so upset she straight-up implied I was taking a second wife... No, actually, she didn't even imply. She asked if I was, concluded that I was."

Ibrahim shook his head, crushing a piece of ice in his mouth before speaking. "You didn't give an explanation? An excuse? Are you normal?" he asked, narrowing his eyes at Imran.

Imran sighed, leaning back in his chair. "I didn't say yes, but I didn't say no either," he admitted. "I just said In Shaa Allah."

Ibrahim groaned, his frustration evident. Pushing forward in his seat, he thundered. "Fucking hell! Do you know what you did? You messed up. That was where you completely messed up." His eyes shot laser beams at Imran, narrowing to slits. "Are you actually considering the thought of taking another wife?" His sharp gaze bored into Imran with the intensity of a predator.

"Am I crazy?" Imran replied, a fleeting smile breaking through the usual seriousness of his demeanor, softening him in a way that felt unfamiliar. For a moment, he seemed almost boyish. Then, as if confessing a secret even to himself, he added quietly, "But I have to admit... seeing her jealous made me very happy. I had to try so hard not to show it that day."

Ibrahim's eyes widened in disbelief, and he let out a short laugh. "You're unbelievable," he said, shaking his head.

Imran's gaze turned distant, his voice softening as he continued. "It made me feel like... she cared? Provided me with relief, like maybe it wasn't unrequited after all." He paused, his fingers tapping the glass in his hand. "As unhealthy as it sounds, it was reassuring, in a way. So I dragged on the pleasure of it for a bit." He shrugged, a shadow of vulnerability crossing his face. "You know the circumstances of our marriage. It was always just me... one-sided."

Ibrahim shook his head again, exhaling deeply. "It's not," he said firmly. A knowing smile tugging at his lips as he took another drag of his hookah. "But you, my friend, are very much crazy. Look where you've landed yourself now. Have you at least cleared things up?"

Imran's fleeting smile faded, replaced by a somber expression. He sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. "It got way worse than I was expecting. It caused more damage than I thought. She's not fine, man. Not at all. She's hurt, so much. She's completely broken."

Ibrahim leaned back in his chair, his gaze softening as he watched his friend wrestle with his emotions. He took a slow drag from his cigar, letting the smoke curl into the air before speaking. "Of course, she's broken. Have you seen yourself when you're with her?"

Imran's brows knit together in confusion, his lips pressing into a thin line as Ibrahim leaned forward, his voice calm but pointed.

"You don't see it, do you?" Ibrahim began. "With her, you're not the same stoic, reserved man the rest of the world sees. You're different. You're alive. Happy. Always talking, always laughing. She brings out the brightest parts of you, the Muhammad that no one else gets to see. But here's the problem: she doesn't know the version of you the rest of us do. She only knows the man who loves her. So when you act neutral, when you go back to that quiet, 'detached' way you are with everyone else, it's not normal to her. It feels like a wall, like a door closing. To her, it's heavy. And clearly very hurtful and heartbreaking."

He paused, letting the words hang between them like the weight of unspoken truths. "Cut her some slack, man. This girl is young," Ibrahim reminded him. "I warned you so many times, before the marriage and even not long ago! she's not going to think like Rahma, let alone you, who's more than a decade older than her."

Imran stayed silent, his jaw tightening as he listened. He swirled the ice in his glass, the sound soft against the depth of Ibrahim's words. He knew better than to argue or interrupt. This was Ibrahim, when he spoke like this, you listened.

"Jadwa has made mistakes, yes," Ibrahim continued, his voice growing more stern, "But what made you think things would just fall back into place when you were clearly hurt by them? Without talking it out?" He paused, fixing Imran with a firm stare and getting up his chair, hovering over Imran. "As much as I'm not happy with Jadwa, you've got a crippled way of dealing with disappointment or anger, Muhammad. You shut down. You withdraw. And that's not helping anyone."

Imran said nothing, his gaze fixed on his drink, but his silence was telling.

"Muhammad Imran, you're better than this," Ibrahim stated, placing a hand over Imran's shoulder. "You're in love with this girl to the hilt. How many years now?" He shook his head, exhaling deeply. "I didn't even think it was humanly possible to feel the way you do for her." He stepped away, feeling his own muscles straining.

Imran's throat worked as he swallowed hard, his emotions threatening to surface.

"Muhammad, you're the man in your relationship. This girl is young," Ibrahim said again, his tone sharp carrying the unmistakable edge of reprimand. "She's still learning, still figuring things out, not just about you, but about herself, about life, about marriage. You can't expect her to handle everything perfectly, especially not with someone as painfully undisturbed as you are when you are not on the best terms with someone, I know you very well." He fixed Imran with a sharp look, his brow furrowed in frustration.

Imran nodded, his grip tightening around his glass, but he didn't look up.

"There's got to be something deeper here, something that made her act the way she did," Ibrahim ground out, his tone still sharp but laced with an edge of understanding. "Yes, she was wrong. Hiding the pregnancy? That was reckless, selfish even. But people don't just make choices like that for no reason. There's always something underneath. And it's your responsibility to figure out what it is. Not hers, yours. You are her husband."

He jabbed a finger in Imran's direction, his voice rising slightly, firm and unyielding. "You don't get to brush this off like it's some silly mistake. It's not. She's your wife. Her mistakes, her fears, her feelings, they're tied to you now. I know you've asked yourself this but I'll repeat it; you have to ask yourself why she felt like she couldn't tell you, why she thought she had to handle it on her own. Because as wrong as she was, you've got a part in this too." The stern look in his eyes cut Imran from speaking, from daring to say anything to interrupt him.

Ibrahim strode closer to Imran, lowering his voice to a menacing tone. "If you want this marriage to work, you need to stop focusing on why you failed and start looking at why she failed you and did what she did. Find the reason. Fix it. Dammit! And make damn sure she knows you're her husband and she can't just handle things on her own, and get away with it. No matter what her reason is, she must turn to you as long as you are her husband. Look... I've forgotten what having a wife even feels like but you are an intelligent man, you know how to handle your home."

"But," Ibrahim continued, his brow raised up. "If you want to take a step back..."

"I won't," Imran said quickly, cutting him off. His voice cracked slightly, and he looked away, taking a long drag from his cigar. "I can't, man." He snickered, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand.

Silence fell between them, broken only by the faint howl of a bird in the distance.

"Malam," Ibrahim finally said, his countenance intimidating. He waited for Imran to look at him before continuing. "Your wife loves you, that much is obvious to everyone who has seen you two together. Go and get your woman, don't sit around here wallowing in self pity over what could be amended."

Imran stared at him for a moment before nodding, his jaw set with determination fuelled by Ibrahim's words.

Standing beside Imran who had gotten up his seat, Ibrahim snapped shut the metal box of his special Ghurka Royal cigars, regarding Imran with an imperious look in his eye, as though daring him not to.

"I will," Imran said softly, extinguishing his cigar in the porcelain ashtray, his mind wandering to a thousand thoughts.

The two men shook hands, and Ibrahim pulled him into a firm, brotherly hug, wishing him well in his endeavour.