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Chapter 23, Back To Reality
Last Updated:
2025-02-12 02:33:28
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The mall buzzed with the usual pre-holiday chaos. I was on a mission – find the perfect gift for my mother-in-law. She was a woman of discerning taste, and I wanted to make a good impression. As I browsed the jewelry store, a familiar voice cut through the noise."Well, well, look who it is," the voice sneered. My stomach dropped. It was Razan. Razan from college. A wave of unpleasant memories washed over me. Razan and I…we had history. And it wasn’t good.Back then, I was focused on my studies. I wanted to excel and I did. I was the top student back then while Razan, well, she wasn’t good at any subject and I heard she failed many tests. And for that reason, she made herself my enemy. She’d been relentlessly cruel, spreading rumors about me. She’d told everyone I was a broke orphan, I couldn't understand why she made up her mind to ruin my life. The worst was when she accused me of cheating on a test. That almost got me in serious trouble. If it hadn't been for Prof
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When I woke up this morning I found myself on my bed, but something was wrong. I was in my bed, alone. Rami wasn't beside me. A little frown creased my forehead. He’s usually an early riser, but he always makes sure to kiss me goodbye, even if I’m still half-asleep.I pushed myself up, a slight stiffness in my back, and padded out of the bedroom. "Where's Rami?" I asked the first maid I saw, a young woman named Farah."Good morning, Madam Dema," she replied, with a polite smile."Mr. Rami came home very late last night. He left very early this morning, too. He said he didn't want to disturb you.""Oh," I murmured, a little knot of uneas tightening in my stomach. "Did he say anything else?"Farah shook her head. "No, Madam. He just said he had to leave quickly."I thanked her and went to the kitchen, the knot in my stomach growing. I poured myself a glass of water and then grabbed my phone. I scrolled through my contacts and tapped Rami’s name. He didn't answer and I tried 3 t
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My shoulders slumped, the weight of my laptop bag feeling ten times heavier than usual. All I wanted was to crawl into bed and disappear. But the thought of facing the empty Bedroom, the silence amplifying my loneliness, made me hesitate. I’d tried to be subtle, of course. I casually walked past Rami’s office on my way out, hoping to catch him before he left. But his door was closed, and when I peeked in, his desk was bare. His new assistant, had said “He left about an hour ago. Big meeting with some partners. Said it was pretty important.” Important. Right. More important than a quick call? A text? Anything? My stomach twisted. It wasn’t like him. Or, at least, it wasn’t like him before. At least not since his confession to me. I’d replayed our last interaction a hundred times in my head. Had I said something wrong? Had I come across as too needy? Too clingy? I wracked my brain, searching for a clue, a hint, anything that could explain his silence. I unlocked my bedroom door, the
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The shift finally ended and I could feel the tension drain out of my shoulders. It had been a brutal shift, everyone running ragged, it's been a stressful week, I'm proud of my team for pulling through, though, as a team we always do.I glanced around at their tired but satisfied faces as they gathered their things, ready to head home.I read an article once about the effects of strees on corporations employees, as someone who used to work many overtime shifts a week I know better than anyone what stress can do to a one's health.I decided that my team deserves a reward for their hard work."Hey everyone," I called out, trying to sound casual. "Before you all disappear, I wanted to say something. You all worked hard this week. Seriously, I'm so lucky to work with such a dedicated team." They mumbled their thanks, some still half-lost in their post-shift daze. "And because of that," I continued, a smile spreading across my face, "I have a little surprise for you all. Tomorrow night. Co
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Ugh. I slammed the car door, harder than necessary, and stalked towards the building. My reflection in the glass doors did little to improve my mood. Frown lines were definitely making a comeback. I’d woken up on the wrong side of the bed, tangled in the sheets, with a heavy feeling I couldn’t shake. Even my usually reliable double espresso hadn’t done the trick.My phone buzzed in my pocket. Probably another text from Rami. I pulled it out, sighing. Yep. "Just landed. Meeting in an hour. Miss you." A simple heart emoji followed. Miss you too. Of course I missed him. That was the problem.We’d been playing phone tag for days. He was in London for this stupid conference, and I was stuck here, drowning in spreadsheets and deadlines. Every time I managed a free moment to call, he was in a meeting. Every time he called, I was in one too. The time difference was killing us.Texts were… fine. Better than nothing, I supposed. But they were so… sterile. Just words on a screen. I
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My eyes fluttered open, and before I even registered the pale morning light filtering through my curtains, it hit me. The text. The text. My stomach lurched. Last night, in a fit of… well, I’m not even sure what it was – frustration? Loneliness? A surge of pure, unadulterated stupidity? – I’d sent Rami that stupid long message. I’d poured my heart out, overanalyzed every single detail that happened, and, to top it all off, I’d ranted about how he hadn’t answered when I’d called. Oh god, the call. I’d called him twice after the initial text, hadn’t I? My cheeks burned. I scrambled for my phone on the nightstand, my fingers clumsy with panic. There it was, the dreaded message thread. My novel of a text stared back at me. And beneath it? Nothing. Just the little grey tick indicating he’d read it. He’d read it and… nothing. A wave of nausea washed over me. He was furious. Of course he was furious. Who wouldn’t be? I’d practically ambushed him with my emotional baggage. I groaned and b
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My phone buzzed, a little vibration in my pocket. I snatched it up, my heart leaping into my throat. It was Rami. Coming back tomorrow, the text read. A wave of relief washed over me, quickly followed by a pang of something… else. Disappointment? Frustration? I wasn't sure.I'd been pacing this room for the last hour, maybe more. Back and forth, back and forth, wearing a groove in the rug. I’d imagined his return a hundred times. Me, waiting at the airport, a banner in hand (too cheesy? I’d debated), running into his arms…But his next text had squashed that image flat. No need to come to the airport. My assistant is picking me up and taking me home. Just like that. Business as usual.Fine. I could play it cool. I would play it cool. I’d wait for him at the apartment. Make it special. I pictured myself in that new dress I’d been saving, something slinky and sophisticated. I'd even try my hand at that Moroccan dish he loved. I’d do it all myself.But even as the images f
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The doorbell chimed, a nervous flutter in my stomach. I clutched the gift bag a little tighter. It was a beautiful, vibrant Thobe, the one Rami had picked out himself. He’d insisted I give it to his mother, said it would cheer her up after her hospital stay. I hoped he was right.I plastered a smile on my face as the door swung open, revealing my mother-in-law. “Dema, habibti, come in, come in.” Her voice was surprisingly warm, but I knew better than to be fooled. Behind her, I saw her two sisters perched on the plush sofas in the living room, their eyes already assessing me.“Alhamdulillah, you’re looking much better,” I said, offering a small hug. She stiffened slightly, but I pretended not to notice. I handed her the gift bag. “Rami wanted you to have this. He helped me choose it.”She pulled out the Thobe, the rich colours unfolding like a peacock’s tail. She held it up, examining it with a critical eye. “Did you pick this out yourself?” she asked, her tone suddenly sharper.
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There were nights when the weight of my father’s expectations pressed down on me until I couldn’t breathe. I’d sit in the dark, wondering if I was an embarrassment to him—if I’d ever be enough. But Dema… she always knew. She’d find me, her hands gentle on my shoulders, her voice steady. "You’re not failing," she’d say. "You’re building something he’ll never understand." And somehow, just her saying it made me believe it. She never let me face anything alone. Every gala, every meeting, every public appearance—she was there, flawless, poised, making me look stronger just by standing beside me. People noticed. They’d whisper about how lucky I was, and they were right. When my mother’s birthday came around, and I was drowning in indecision, Dema took over. She planned everything—the flowers my mother loved, the guests list, even the cake from that little bakery she used to take me to as a child. My mother hugged me that night and said, "it was one of the best birthdays I've ever had."
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I stood there, staring at the half-finished rose garden, dirt smeared across my hands, sweat dripping down my forehead. I had never done anything like this before—not with my own hands, at least. My whole life, if I wanted something done, I paid someone to do it. But this… this had to be done by me. Dema had made me that sweater—knitted it herself, stitch by stitch. I still remember the way she smiled when she gave it to me, how soft it felt, how it carried the weight of her effort. I wanted to give her something just as meaningful, something that showed her I cared enough to try. But what could I do? I didn’t know how to knit, or paint, or build. I had no skills like that. Then, as I passed by the flower shop downtown, it hit me Dema loves flowers.I bought every rose they had. Red, pink, white—enough to fill the entire side garden of the mansion. When I got home, I called the gardener over. "I need everything ready—soil, tools, space. I'm doing this myself," I told him. He r
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After the storm of anger subsided, the crushing weight of realization settled over me. What had I done? The question echoed in my mind, relentless and suffocating. I had lost control—completely, unforgivably. And now, I had to fix it. But how? This wasn’t just anyone—this was her. My wife. The woman who had stood by me through every hardship, whose laughter had been my solace, whose touch had been my anchor. And I had struck her. A hard, unforgiving slap—one fueled by a rage I didn’t even recognize in myself. The moment my hand connected with her skin, something inside me shattered. I had never been the kind of man who concerned himself with the emotions of others. If I wronged someone, so what? If they resented me, it was their problem, not mine. I moved through life untouched, unbothered. But this… this was different. This wasn’t some stranger, some acquaintance whose feelings I could dismiss. This was the woman I loved. The other half of my soul. Why had I done it? The questi
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For the longest time, I truly believed our marriage was perfect—or at least, that it should have been. I thought love was simple: give her gifts, smile at her, and she’ll be happy. I told myself that if I loved her deeply, that was enough. After all, shouldn’t love mean acceptance? Shouldn’t she love me for who I am, flaws and all? But I was wrong. Looking back, I realize now how little effort I truly put into nurturing our relationship. I took her presence for granted, assuming that as long as I cared for her in my own way, she would stay content. I didn’t see the cracks forming between us—the quiet disappointments, the unspoken frustrations. Love isn’t just about feeling; it’s about doing, about showing up every day in ways that matter to the other person. And I failed at that. One of the biggest issues between us was how I acted around other women. She tried, more than once, to tell me how much it hurt her—the way I laughed too easily at their jokes, the way my friendliness som
