"It's in the silence between us that I realized I needed to speak the most."

~Unknown

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The first thing I noticed was the headache—a pounding, relentless ache that throbbed behind my eyes. I blinked against the dull light seeping through the curtains, groaning as I tried to lift my head. My mouth felt dry, and the taste of regret lingered on my tongue.

What the hell had I done?

The events of last night came crashing back in a series of jumbled memories—Asif's sharp words, the drinking, the weight of it all pressing down on me. And then... Amira. Her face, her wide eyes filled with worry, her soft voice calling my name. The way I had tried to speak to her, but my words had failed me, slipping into the haze of alcohol.

I groaned again, turning over in bed. My body ached in ways that weren't just from the drinking. The emotional weight of the past few weeks had left me exhausted. I wanted to shut it all out, to crawl back under the blankets and pretend like the world outside didn't exist. But I couldn't escape what I had done.

As I slowly sat up, the room spun for a moment before settling. I rubbed a hand over my face, feeling the stubble that had grown over the past couple of days. The tension between Amira and me had reached a breaking point, and instead of fixing it, I had drowned myself in alcohol – Pathetic.

With a deep breath, I pushed the blankets aside and stood, wobbling slightly before steadying myself. The bedroom was eerily quiet, and for a moment, I wondered if Amira was even home. I didn't know how I could face her after last night.

I had wanted to tell her everything. The truth is that I didn't want the divorce, that I was terrified of losing her. But the words never came, lost in the fog of drunkenness. And now, I had no idea what she was thinking.

I padded across the room to the door, opening it quietly. The hallway was empty, and I strained to hear any sounds from downstairs. Nothing.

With a sigh, I made my way to the bathroom. The mirror reflected back a version of me I barely recognized—tired, pale, and worn down. The circles under my eyes were darker than I remembered. I splashed cold water on my face, hoping it would wash away the guilt clinging to me. But it didn't.

It couldn't.

As I got dressed, my mind kept drifting back to the conversation I had overheard between Amira and Samad Bhai days ago. She had mentioned the divorce, and said it might be the best option. It had torn me apart to hear her say it, but I had convinced myself it was what she wanted. That it was inevitable.

But now, standing here, I wasn't so sure anymore. What if I was wrong? I shook my head, pushing the thought aside. No. She had made it clear enough, hadn't she? This was what she wanted. What we both needed.

I was halfway down the stairs when the smell of cooking reached me. My stomach churned at the thought of food, but I forced myself to keep going. As I entered the kitchen, I saw her—Amira—standing at the stove, her back to me. She moved quietly, methodically, as though she had done this a thousand times. And maybe she had.

For a moment, I just stood there, watching her. My chest tightened at the sight of her in the soft morning light. I wanted to speak, to break the silence that hung between us like a wall, but the words were stuck in my throat.

What could I even say?

Before I could find the courage, she turned, her eyes meeting mine. She froze for a second, her hands still holding the spatula, as if unsure of how to react.

"Good morning," I mumbled, my voice rougher than I intended.

She nodded slightly, her eyes flickering with something I couldn't quite read. "Morning," she replied, her voice soft. Then, after a pause, she added, "How are you feeling?"

"Like I got hit by a truck," I admitted with a grim smile, rubbing the back of my neck. "I... I'm sorry about last night."

Her eyes softened, but she said nothing. Just a small, almost imperceptible nod as she turned back to the stove. The silence between us stretched again, heavy and uncomfortable.

I took a step closer, feeling the weight of everything unsaid pressing down on me. I wanted to reach out, to close the distance that had grown between us, but I didn't know how. The divorce loomed over us like a dark cloud, tainting every moment.

"I... I didn't mean for things to get this bad. I am sorry for last night," I found myself saying, my voice quiet.

She didn't respond immediately, just kept stirring whatever was in the pan. Finally, she spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. "I am used."

The words hit me harder than I expected. Neither of us had meant for this, but here we were, standing on opposite sides of a chasm we couldn't seem to cross.

Amira turned off the stove and set the spatula down, her back still to me. "I have university," she whispered, her voice thick with something I couldn't quite name. The unspoken word hung between us: divorce.

I took a deep breath, gathering whatever courage I had left. "Amira, I—"

But before I could finish, she turned around and left. My heart twisted painfully in my chest. I wanted to say no. I wanted to tell her that it wasn't too late, that we could still fix this. But the weight of everything that had happened held me back. I wanted to reach out to her, to pull her into my arms and tell her everything would be okay. But I couldn't. Instead, I walked out of the house, leaving behind the one person I couldn't seem to let go of.

As I stepped outside, the cool morning air hit me like a slap in the face. I closed my eyes, trying to steady my breathing, but all I could think about was the look in her eyes—the pain, the regret, the confusion. And I realized, with a sinking feeling, that maybe I had been wrong all along. Maybe she didn't want the divorce after all. But now, it felt like it was too late to turn back.

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The day passed in a haze. I went to work, forcing myself to focus on the tasks in front of me, but my thoughts kept drifting back to Amira. I replayed every conversation, every moment we had shared over the last few weeks, and I kept coming back to the same conclusion: I had misunderstood everything.

By the time I came home that evening, I was sober and more exhausted than I had ever felt. I entered the house, the silence greeting me like a heavy weight pressing down on my chest. I looked around, my eyes scanning the empty living room and kitchen, but there was no sign of Amira. A sense of panic began to build inside me, gnawing at my gut. Had she left? Had I pushed her too far?

I rushed upstairs, my heart pounding in my chest, but when I reached our bedroom, it was just as I had feared—she wasn't there. The bed was made, untouched. For a moment, I stood there frozen, the room spinning around me as a million thoughts raced through my mind. What if she had left for good? What if she was done with me, done with this marriage?

As I stumbled back down the stairs, I ran into Mom, who was heading toward the kitchen. She looked at me, her expression calm but knowing, as if she had seen this scene play out a thousand times before.

"Ali, you're back," she said softly, her eyes scanning my face. "Come, sit. You look like you haven't eaten all day."

I followed her into the kitchen, my mind still racing, but I couldn't bring myself to say anything. I sat at the table, watching as she placed a plate of food in front of me. The smell of the warm meal hit me, but my appetite was nowhere to be found.

She sat down across from me after keeping the plate in front of me, her gaze steady but gentle. "I don't need to know what's going on between you and Amira," she said after a moment, her voice calm. "But I can see that something is troubling you both."

I nodded slowly, not trusting myself to speak. The lump in my throat made it impossible to form words, and I stared down at the plate of food, feeling the weight of her gaze on me. She has always guided me for the right thing but I wanted to handle this one thing by myself.

She continued, "Most of the problems in relationships come from miscommunication, Ali. From not trusting each other enough to say what's really on your mind. If there's something between you and Amira that needs to be said, you need to talk to her. You can't keep letting the silence grow between you two. Don't think that I haven't noticed your avoidance game."

Her words hit me hard, and I felt the guilt settle deeper in my chest. She was right. I had been avoiding the conversation for too long, pretending that it would somehow sort itself out. But it wouldn't. Not unless I did something about it.

"Where is she?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

Ayesha smiled softly. "She's in the guest room."

The relief that flooded through me was almost overwhelming. She hadn't left. She was still here. I nodded, feeling a glimmer of hope in the midst of my confusion.

"Thank you," I muttered, pushing the plate aside as I stood up.

Ayesha watched me for a moment, her expression soft and knowing. "Just talk to her, Ali. It's never too late to fix things, as long as you're both willing to try."

I gave her a small, grateful nod before making my way up the stairs. The guest room door was slightly ajar, and I hesitated for a moment, my hand hovering over the doorknob. What if she didn't want to see me? What if this conversation would only make things worse? But I couldn't keep running from this. I couldn't keep avoiding her.

I pushed the door open gently, peering inside. Amira was there, curled up on the bed, her back turned toward the door. She was already asleep, or at least pretending to be. The sight of her lying there, so small and fragile, tugged at something deep inside me.

Without saying a word, I stepped into the room and quietly closed the door behind me. I stood there for a moment, just watching her, trying to figure out what to do next. The tension between us had been building for weeks, and I knew that we couldn't keep going like this. We had to face it.

I slowly made my way over to the bed and sat down on the edge, careful not to disturb her. The room was dark, illuminated only by the soft glow of the streetlights outside, casting long shadows across the walls. I sat there in the quiet, my heart pounding in my chest as I struggled to find the right words – But no words came.

Instead, I slid down onto the bed next to her, lying on my side, facing her back. I could hear the soft, steady rhythm of her breathing, and for the first time in what felt like weeks, I felt a sense of calm wash over me. I didn't need to say anything right now. Just being here, next to her, was enough.

I watched her in the darkness, my thoughts racing. I had been so focused on what I thought she wanted—the divorce, the distance—that I hadn't taken the time to ask her what she really felt. I had let my own fears and insecurities guide my actions, and it had nearly destroyed everything.

As I lay there, the silence between us no longer felt so heavy. It wasn't a barrier anymore. It was a fragile peace, one that I wasn't sure how long would last, but it was a start. I knew we had a long way to go, but for tonight, this was enough. This moment, lying here beside her, was enough.

I closed my eyes, my heart finally starting to slow, and for the first time in days, I allowed myself to hope. Maybe Ayesha was right. Maybe it wasn't too late. Maybe, if we were both willing, we could still find a way through this.

With that thought, I drifted off to sleep, the warmth of Amira's presence next to me offering a small sliver of comfort in the midst of the storm we were navigating.

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