What Not To Do When You're In Love

08 | Please

08 | Please

I hadn't been more than a minute out in the street, and already, I heard my name being called out - Hasan's voice booming in the restarant's parking lot so loud that I couldn't even tell if it was angry or worried.

The thing was, I was in the middle of a seemingly unstoppable breakdown.

In that moment I couldn't care about Hasan, who was probably very angry, I couldn't think of any way I could make up with him after this thoughtless, downright insulting flee; I couldn't even think of myself in a couple of hours, how I was going to go crazy wondering how I could let this happen.

All I could think of, insanely so, I'm aware, was Europe and North Asia and North America.

I was thinking about those pictures Jebrail and his friends showed us with great pride, of when they visited the mountains in Switzerland and Denmark and Germany by themselves. I was thinking of how my distant cousin whose husband had a summerhouse near one of the gorgeous beaches of Mauritius had described her time there as the most peaceful days she'd ever lived. I was thinking of the reefs in Australia, the hypnotic skies of Alaska, the serene woods of North Asia.

I was thinking of my life long dream of travelling the world, of seeing every one of the marvellous creations of Allah that I could while I was here on this Dunya . . .

. . . the dream which would probably remain just a dream now.

Because let's face it, was it possible? Wonderful as Hasan seemed, would he come along with me? And if I even dared to believe for once that he would, would it feel the same, knowing I'd have to return home one day which would be the one place I was supposed to be?

I felt like I was standing the edge of lunacy. One minute I was happy, sated with what I'd gotten . . . and the other moment, just a mention of something I'd previously wanted would begin stifling me. One moment I breathed the scent of my husband just fine while he sat next to me, accepting it and trying to enjoy it, and the other moment, it suffocated me.

Crying had never been my way of releasing frustration; I'd always known to scream and yell in distress back when I was home. But after Hasan's shadow darkened my life, it seemed I only knew how to do one thing - cry.

I was down to hiccups and snot, because of anger at myself more than sadness over my fate, when, after several minutes, Hasan finally found me in the dark lot. When he neared me, I reached out automatically to my dupatta to wipe my eyes, to face him, to apologise.

The whole lot was dark, but as Hasan came closer to where I stood, a stupid driver decided to switch his headlights on, illuminating part of the lot, and making Hasan's face visible and clear.

I had honestly expected extreme anger. Or even just coldness. But I had not expected, in the least bit, the emotions I saw on his face as he stood facing me.

He looked utterly frustrated, and by that I mean he looked completely and totally done with my bullshit.

Pained. He looked like . . . like he was helpless, like something was out of his control, and that it hurt him.

I did not want to believe his eyes as they screamed, asking me to speak. To explain. To tell him what had went wrong.

I began to blabber as soon as he was close enough.