Patience & Faith - a journey series #1 | ✔

9: Precious

"And you will be my morning and night. My dream and my life."

The still night was showing how hot it was outside, the air conditioner blared over our sleeping forms, I felt chilly because of the temperature level but didn't move, just blinked at the ceiling in annoyance, and it had been over a month with this silent routine. Us going to our companies separately working day and night attending a few meetings together, then coming home to cruel women and being the usual. His only questions would be, "What time is it? Where's this, who's that etc.?" Or he would respond with an 'okay' or a 'hmm'. He stopped being rude, he didn't see it being necessary but just as we were to talk he would get angry and he would appreciate not looking at me. He prayed all five times a day, sometimes he prayed Tahajjud, but usually, he stuck to five prayers. He kept his distance and scolded me for touching his stuff and sometimes threatened to kick me out of the room, which I knew he would never attempt. But he preferred to stay away wholly. I didn't mind, I was okay with this routine. With each passing day, I felt close to him on an unknown intimate level, yet I felt far away from him too.

Sighing, I glanced at the clock hanging on the wall ahead of me; it was 2:15 a.m. and I knew it was time for Tahajjud prayer. Insomnia had kicked in so it was better I prayed rather than tossing here and there whilst thinking about my life.

Sitting up, I tied my bedraggled hair in a bun and glanced at the sleeping form of my husband. God, he looked so innocent and peaceful; the moon shining on his face, illuminating his beautiful features every night, but today he had a frown on his forehead. The duvet down on his waist, his bare muscular arms hugging his pillow as he slept away on his stomach. I left to perform my ablution, came back, and started praying peacefully.

Just as I was finishing my dua and tasbeeh, I heard uncomfortable grunting sounds coming from Musa. The sheets shuffling under his weight; I frowned, folding my praying mat, reciting the Aytul Kursi repeatedly as a habit of mine. I blew it over myself, across the room, and reached Musa, blowing it over his form, running a hand through his ever soft brown hair. This was the only time he was himself, unknown to what and who was around him. If only he knew how I watched him sleep, how I ran my hand through his hair, and how I prayed on him. He would kill me without a beat. He grunted again, and small beads of sweat formed on his body. Why was he sweating in this blasting cold? I touched his forehead and found how warm it was; he was getting hot by the minute and he started moving frantically in bed, shivering now and then.

Worry encased me, and I started waking him up.

"Get up, wake up." I poked him repeatedly. He grunted more and more sweat formed. Allah, what was wrong with him.

"Musa, wake up, please." I tapped him on his rough cheek, his stubble firing electric shocks to my soft palm. Touching him like this for the first time got me all worked up, if he ever touched me with feelings I knew I was going to be done for good.

"Mmm . . ." he moaned, opening his eyes.

"Wake up, what's wrong?" I asked, shaking him.

"W-what?" He muttered, blinking, and trying to get up, I helped him sit up, when he was settled I gazed at him with concern. His arms were sweaty under my hands, I was still holding him just to make sure if he was okay. He rubbed his evergreen eyes that sparkled in the night light like never, I sucked in a sharp breath.

"My head hurts." He mumbled. I touched his forehead again and found how hot it had gone.

"I think you're having a temperature." I gasped, he couldn't get sick he had such a healthy diet.

"I think it's my high blood pressure." He suggested in a daze.

"You have high BP? God, what are you thirty?" I questioned sarcastically, he threw an annoying glare that made me shut up.