Her beauty drowned me. As I sat in front of her I felt I would do anything mad for her, anything she asked of me.

—

The flames from the fireplace in the living room twitch and twist in his eyes. He's sitting on the blanket in place of the rug, leaning against the couch. Without the coffee table in the center, the room looks empty but spacious. Waleed was quick to clean the area.

His dinner lies half eaten on the floor beside him. He forks at it absent-mindedly, his attention stuck on the woman praying in the corner. Burq has to force his gaze to stay on the fire— anything to occupy his thoughts but her. He fails miserably when he gives up and looks at her.

She's like a blurred photograph in his head, missing proper outlines. He tries to figure out her details but there's always something absent— something crucial to complete the image. She frustrates him in a way where he wants to hold her in his hands until he has figured out every detail, but then she slips through his fingers like desert grains, leaving him like an inferno with a consuming yearning.

"Stop destroying me, Leyla," he mumbles to himself.

She goes into prostration and his eyes follow her movements unwavering. She is using his keffiyeh again instead of a prayer mat since he still doesn't have one. Her forehead rests on the keffiyeh on the ground for a moment before she sits up.

He needs to buy a prayer mat, he thinks.

She raises her hands to her face as she prays. He cannot help wondering what she's asking God for. Does she pray for him?

He stares at her until she's done and gets up. She picks up his keffiyeh and folds it, tugging to loosen her headscarf and taking it off, folding it too. She walks towards him and places both the things on the couch before going to sit near the fireplace opposite to him.

Leyla finally meets his gaze and smiles.

He doesn't smile back— he cannot— too lost to react. Her voice pierce his reverie when she asks him, "Why are you not eating?"

He blinks, gathering himself, and looks down to his plate. "I'm done eating."

"You've barely eaten enough."

He ignores the unwanted discussion to come and questions her instead, "What did you pray for?"

She hugs her knees to her chest and rests her chin on them. "A lot of things."

He notices her hands rubbing her shins up and down through the material of her clothing, the thin purple veins prominent under her pale skin.

"Does God listen to your prayers?"

She smiles at him again, softly as if amused by his query. "He always does, to everyone's prayers, even if they keep them in their hearts and never bring them to their tongues. Sometimes words are not enough for a prayer anyways."

He ponders over her words. "Then does He grant your prayers fulfillment?"

"Yes. And when He doesn't, He grants me something better."

He remains silent, back to forking his food. Then he asks her quietly, "Do you find peace in worshipping Him?"

"Who doesn't?"

"I don't," he tells her frankly. "I feel like following an outdated routine— like a habit out of compulsion, an obligation, empty of a purpose."

Her eyes don't look at him critically, neither do they analyze him. Like always, they remain cryptic and dark.

"My baba used to say," she speaks after a long moment, "just like you feed your body to keep it healthy, you've to feed your soul to keep it healthy too. And the feed of the soul is the remembrance of God. So for the peace of your heart, you must spend some time with your Lord." She pauses to gather her hair over her back. "Now for that peace to achieve, one must invest their heart in this worship and not just their time. What is that time spent with someone void of love? Everything without an emotion becomes meaningless, Burq."

He doesn't proceed the conversation after that, neither does she. But her words like always grasp the deepest, most dormant parts of him. It's like every little piece of her everytime is rooting within him firmly. He cannot believe once he thought her to be a foolish woman living in a fantastical world. In fact, he has been been the one lost living to waste this temporary life for nothing.

He extends his hand to her and she wordlessly takes it into in hers. Her hands are cold, as he had predicted. He gently tugs her towards himself and she silently scoots to his side. He rubs hers hands in his and she bites her lips as they curl up.

"Why won't you eat your dinner?" she inquires again.

"Why can't we move on from dinner?"

"Because you've me worried." She gently takes her hands back from him and picks up the fork, holding up the bite to his mouth. "Come on now."

His memory flashes like a current.

"I thought we could go out to eat together, Doha?"

"Raad and I already have dinner. We left some for you; it's in the fridge."

"You didn't wait for me?"

"You were late, azizi. I'm sorry I was really hungry. Raad cooked. You never told me he cooks so well."

He forces his mind back to the present and finds himself staring at Leyla's face. She arches a quizzical eyebrow. "Burq?"

"Did you have dinner yourself?" he asks suddenly.

She chuckles lightly. "Is this a trick question?"

"It's not."

She sobers up in front of his serious expression. "I got caught up studying for my exam so I couldn't eat. I had a coffee though."

He takes her wrist and brings it down since she was still holding the fork to his mouth. "Then you should be feeding yourself, habibi. Not me."

"But you need to eat."

"You too."

"I'll eat when you do."

He stares at her a moment before tearing away his gaze. "Don't care for me so much, Leyla."

"Why not?"

"Because..." he pauses.

"Because?" she urges.

"Because you've already told me that you're going to leave me. Then why do you want me to get addicted to you?"

"I intend no such thing."

"Then what do you intend on doing?"

"I only intend to love you for as long as we're together."

His eyes snap back to her. She looks straight into them. "This temporary love of yours will destroy us both, Leyla."

"Love is never temporary, Burq. No matter how much it fades with time, it doesn't fade from the memories. Now, my love for you is loud. Maybe afterwards when you're not with me, it'll be silent. That's why I want to cherish these moments with you. Is that too much to ask for?"

For the first during the night, he smiles. "You're telling me you want to become my ruination and I should let you?"

She smiles back. "Have you been reading poetry?"

He doesn't answer and she raises the fork back to his mouth. She's stubborn, he thinks. But this time, he takes the bite.

Then he takes the fork from her hand and feeds her a bite too. Unlike him, she doesn't resist and oblige with him. Why must she be so bewitching?

"Leyla?"

She looks at him, halfway in the process of chewing the bite.

"Can I tell you something?"

She swallows before nodding. "Of course."

"I think if you become my demonic obsession, I'll let you."

She grins as she shakes her head at him. "Definitely reading poetry."

"Maybe," he confesses this time, smiling again sheepishly.

She removes the tray from between them and moves closer to him. Putting her arm over his torso, she hugs him, placing her head over his shoulder.

He stiffens only briefly, hesitating a moment before putting his arm around her and hugging her back to himself. She sighs and nuzzle his sweater. Can she hear his erratic heartbeat? He hopes not.

There's a lot on his mind— too many questions to ask her, too many puzzle pieces still missing. But for now, he wants to bask in her devotion and forget about the future. She's his intangible fantasy, and he's a mess. He wants to stay like this for a while longer, for another moment, and maybe more.

"Are you cold, habibi?" he asks her as he notices her curling up her legs.

"A little. I'm just tired," she answers sleepily.

"I've asked Waleed to open the guestroom for you. You can go sleep if you want," he tells her.

"No," she refuses. "I want to stay here with you a little more." Then she looks up at him as if asking for his permission. "Do you mind?"

"I don't." He tilts his face closer to hers. "I don't think I've ever minded your company."

She smiles and closes her eyes. He reaches for the blanket lying beside him and places it over their legs. It's small and can't cover them both, so he tries to cover Leyla with it properly instead.

"I'm fine," she tries to assure him.

"I'm not as cold."

Silence settles between them and when it stretches long, he thinks she might have fallen asleep, until she calls him again, "Burq?"

His own thoughts are hazy, but for some reason hearing her calling his name feels incredibly satisfying. He must be losing his sanity, or maybe he's sleepy too.

He hums at her in response.

"How is your rehabilitation therapy going?"

"Good."

"Good," she says back. "I can't wait for you to be healthy again. We can go out together then."

"I still feel healthy, habibi. We can still go out if you want," he mentions subtly.

"I would love that."

"Then, where would you like to go?"

"Anywhere with you."

He chuckles lightly. "Really?"

"Really." She waits a few seconds before speaking again, "Can I ask you for something?"

"Anything," he's quick to respond.

"Don't be upset with Waleed. He was only trying to be considerate towards both of us by keeping our marriage a secret from you."

He frowns slightly, displeased at the turn of conversation. "Let's not talk about anything else when we're talking about ourselves. I'd rather listen to your silence in my intimate moments with you than you talking about another."

A few more seconds pass by before she agrees in a whisper, "Okay."

They both quiet down once more and his eyes fix on the fireplace that's now slowly dying down. Something within him is breaking and mending, over and over, and he's not sure what it is. He doesn't try to figure it out, too absorbed by her lying in his arms to think straight. He looks down at her again.

Her head lies at the level of his chin, her ear resting right above his heart. His heart, he thinks and a small smile graces his lips.

"Leyla?" he calls her in a hushed tone.

She doesn't respond, doesn't even stir, and he's sure she has fallen asleep this time. He nuzzles her head, burying his nose in her hair. She smells like another world.

His hand that's wrapped around her grazes up her arm and he gently nudges back her head, careful not to wake her up, so that her face is visible to him.

The orange glow from the fire strokes her pale skin with a mosaic of patterns. He watches those patterns change for a few minutes, coloring her skin, before subconsciously leaning down, angling his face with hers, until their lips graze.

How wrong could that be to kiss someone in their sleep? But she's not just someone— she's his wife.

Then as if electrocuted, he pulls back and blinks a few times.

"What am I doing?" he scolds himself in a murmur.

He then stares back at her closed eyes. Her breathing is even unlike his. He's barely able to arrange his thoughts or chain his insanity. There's something unfathomable between them.

"What are you doing to me, qalbi?"

Qalbi. My heart. He has found her a new endearment. And this time, he knows that he means it.

Leyla is really becoming his heart.

➳

➳