"You can stop interrogating me now. If you were hoping you'd get something out of me, it won't happen," Ahmed spoke in a gruff tone.

"At least I tried," I said, and sighed. Ahmed and I have been arguing for the past twenty minutes and it feels like eternity. I couldn't even get through him, I am so tired. He didn't even look at me, not even once, the whole time I was trying to talk to him - he continued reading his files. He ignored me as if I were invisible. Ahmed hasn't been talking to me for the last couple of days, well we haven't spoken to each other. I guess we were both trying to pretend like everything's okay, when it's not. Sugarcoating reality.

I am done with pretending like everything's fine, I decided it would be good if I talked to him and communicate. Instead of concealing truths that could lead to misunderstandings. But Ahmed Damari is the most difficult man I have ever met.

"Can you leave please. I have work to do," he said flatly.

"What happened to meeting half way, trust and communicating?" I said, my tone higher than his. "Sound familiar? Or maybe you just don't care enough to remember."

"Honestly Layla, say what you want to say. Believe whatever your mind makes up, I really don't care," he said and looked at me stone faced, showing no concern. Though if you scrutinized his eyes well you would see a glint of affliction.

"I don't believe that... I don't want to," I spoke, sounding rather brittle.

"I have to give it to you, you don't give up easily. What do you want? To talk about life, you want us to talk about your feelings? You honestly think that I have time for that nonsense."

"Ahmed I am your wife... legally," I spoke quietly.

"I don't need a reminder Layla. You are a reminder that I am bound to months or possibly a year of complete agony..."

"Enough," I cut him off. "Whatever problem you have with me, you can tell it to my face. Whether you hate me or not, I am your wife. I am forced to keep an act, sham whatever you want to call it. I refuse to stand here, and listen to you criticize me and disapprove of everything I have to say. I refuse to live like this because I can't. I was brought up in a family where we could talk out or issues and set things right. You can hide all you want behind your work. Pretend to not care, deny yourself of basic humanity, but I won't."

"You don't know me," he said and stood up from his seat, his hands on the desk.

"I don't think anyone does. I don't know why I care so much that I am going through all of this, maybe it's the fact we could end up in jail and Imad would be taken away. Never getting to see him again, just the thought of that is heartbreaking..." I shifted my gaze to the floor. "Or maybe I am just trying to find a friend, in my so called husband," I spoke in a low tone. I walked away, my heart feeling heavier than when I came in. Maybe I was right all along, it was all an act. Every nice and decent thing he's done or said to me was just a performance, a cruel pose to get me to abide him. A coverup...

My hand stayed still on the door knob, felt like I was frozen for a moment. I turned my head around swiftly, to get catch a glimpse of Ahmed, running his fingers through his hair. I just don't understand why he won't talk to me. I opened the door and got out, closing the door behind me.

I headed to the garden, where I left Alice and Imad. He was riding his bike. Maybe Imad could be fine without me, and he doesn't really need my attention as much. I am free most of the day, since Alice does most of the work: taking Imad to school and picking him up. Jane retired, she no longer works any more. You can imagine how boring it can get, when you don't really have many people to talk to. Ahmed hired new maids, instructed them strictly not to go to the guest bedroom upstairs, where I sleep. Every morning I have to sneak to Ahmed's bedroom and get my clothes.

He's usually sleeping when I enter the bedroom, it's after fajar prayers. Believe it or not, Ahmed looks so peaceful when he's asleep, the most meek person. Though he does tussle and turn a lot. No I do not stare at him when he sleeps. I just happen to notice...

My phone starts to ring, I look at the my screen, it's Adil. My heart sinks in my chest, now unable to even breathe properly. I haven't told him yet, about Ahmed and I. How? I can't run from this forever, I'll have to face him one day. Will I even be able to face him? The phone stops ringing, followed by notification that popped in my screen.

Adil: Assalam alaykum.

I am in Morocco now, soon we will be heading to Dubai. I can't wait to tell my mother about you.

I have missed you and I am also worried. If you need to talk about anything, I am here you know.

I opened the messages and stared at it, trying to contemplate it and think of an efficient response. I called him back... the hard part was getting myself to say something. "Assalam alaykum. Hey, I saw your text. Uh what are you worried about?" I spoke somehow hesitant, trying to hide the truth that I am breaking inside.

"Waalikum Salam. I missed your voice," he spoke in low tone. It felt wrong — talking to him. I am not supposed to be talking to him, I am married. It doesn't matter if it's for show, it's not right. I have to tell him.

"Uh thanks, you know I have to go. Actually Adil I have to tell you something..." I stopped talking, and realized how this would affect him.

"Yeah?"

"I am married," I said and hang up the phone, when all there was for a minute was silence. Oh my God, I can't believe I did that. My hands started trembling, I feel so wretched. I ran towards the stairs-case, and rushed up the stairs. Trying my very best to hold in my tears.

My phone started ringing and my heart skipped a beat, it's him. "Ow!" I stumbled on the stairs, landing on the next step. I tried to get up by supporting myself with my hand on the rail, it was painful. Every time I tried to move my leg, it hurt, it hurt so much. I think I sprained my ankle, tears streamed from eyes. Both from physical pain and abstract. My ankle hurts and I can't move. Ya Allah...

I tried breathing in and out, trying to calm myself. After that I tried getting up again but I couldn't support myself. "Help! Someone help me," I tried yelling, through my moans of discomfort. Not to forget that my phone was constantly ringing.

This is probably what I deserve. I buried my face in my hands. "Why are you crying here... on the staircase?" I look up to see Ahmed, and his reticent eyes.

I wipe my tears, my eyes trying to rid the blurriness. "I can't get up," I told him.

"You can't get up? Is this a way you thought of to get me to talk to you."

"I am not that desperate," I quickly reply.

"If I were you I'd try my best to get on my good side," he says, and an obscure smirk forms on his face.

"You think this is funny?"

"No Layla, it's not funny at all. But tell me how did you get yourself into this situation," he spoke in a know-it-all tone. Can't he just help me get me up.

"I was running up the stairs and I tripped. Now can you help me, my ankle really hurts." Ahmed sat next to me, in silence at first.

"I can carry you," he spoke in a low tone. My heart beat already escalating, my cheeks already flushed, Oh and the warm feeling in my stomach too. Yeah it wasn't going great for me today. "Or maybe..."

"Can you just help me up. My ankle hurts and you are not being very helpful," I spoke in firm tone.

"Fine if that's what you want. I'll help you up," he said and stood up. I tried supporting my self with the the rail, while Ahmed helping me up, his hand around my waist.

"Ow! Ouch. Stop, stop, I can't walk. It hurts, ow." Ahmed carries me, bridal-style. He didn't look at me, but I couldn't help but look at him. I don't want to say he swept me off my feet, but it did feel like that at the moment. I felt anxious being so close to him, to his face and his chest. I kept my arm around his neck. Ahmed didn't seem like he was bothered by the fact that he was carrying me. He didn't look sour either, just serene and disquieted. Which is odd considering our previous conversation.

Ahmed carried me up the stairs, and towards his bedroom. I opened the door, while still in his arms — carried by him. Ahmed carefully placed me on the bed, while sharing a stare. His hazel orbs, warm, brown fringed with smooth green — were anchored on me, making me feel nerveless. My arm was still around his neck, his face only a mere inch from mine, my lungs, barely getting enough oxygen. Perfect doesn't exist, but Ahmed's facial features came close to it — dark brows, a defined chin and cheekbones. I remove my arm around him and press my lips together. Well that was awkward.

"I'll call the doctor," he said, breaking the deafening silence. He walked out of the room, finally I was able to breath properly. I couldn't close my eyes, without thinking about what I had said to Adil. He didn't deserve that, nobody does. Denial, heartache and depression. I was haunted, by my own memories and actions. The door creaked, Ahmed came in. He glanced at me, before looking back at his phone. "The doctor said she'll be here in a few minutes. I ordered for an ice-pack, she said it would help with the swelling," he spoke.

"Thank you," I told him. Looking past the conversation we had earlier, he helped me.

"It's fine. It's just basic humanity," Ahmed replied, his back facing me. I softly chuckled, he's something else. There was a knock on the door, Ahmed opened the door. It was the maid with the ice-pack - I could hear her speak. He took it from her, Ahmed kept the ice pack on my ankle, and left it there. He sat on the sofa that was further besides the bed.

"And Allah said, I am with the ones who's hearts are torn," I said, watching Ahmed's gaze shift from his phone to me. He didn't say anything, but there was no need for him to speak. Sometimes when he doesn't even know it, his eyes become a gateway to feelings and words. Ahmed's eyes has its own vocabulary, it's a language I hope I get to learn. Maybe even be fluent in it.

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