The soft hum of the ceiling fan does little to soothe the silence of the room, a silence that isn’t empty but heavy, waiting. You lie on the bed, one arm tucked under your head, the other resting lightly over the sheet draped across your stomach. The golden morning light creeps through the curtains, warm and quiet, illuminating the creases of the sheets still holding traces of last night’s closeness.

Zayan Al Khizar.

Even his name carries weight—a name you had once only seen on paper. A name that had felt like a promise. Now, it’s the name of your husband. Your breath catches a little in your chest as you turn your head to watch him. There is a certain grace to his movements, slow and practiced, like a man who knows his place in the world and moves through it with quiet confidence. Forty years old, tall, and broad-shouldered, with that kind of face that feels like it’s been sculpted from dusk and old books, with a gaze that can cut through silk. He’s born of tradition, yet wrapped in some strange enigma you never manage to unravel. And you, well—you’re young. Much younger. Not so much in age alone but in life. In the way he looks at the world with calm calculation, and you still hold onto dreams like fireflies, hoping they won’t die in your hands. Today, he’s leaving. Not forever, no, but it always feels like a small departure. He’s going to her. The first wife. The mother of his children. The woman who has known him longer than you’ve known the shape of your own longing. And he has every right to. Islam permits it—two wives, as long as justice is maintained. And he is just. In ways that make it harder, not easier. He never lies. Never compares. Never dismisses your insecurities. He holds you like you’re made of something precious. But fairness doesn’t make jealousy any less bitter. You prop yourself up slightly, your fingers curling into the sheet. Your heart aches with a quiet ache, like a child pressing its face to a window in winter. You don’t want to speak first. You never do on mornings like these. Not because you don’t want to, but because you fear what your voice will betray.

Still, he knows. He always does.

He appears in the doorway, straightening his cuffs, the rich fabric catching the light. His gaze settles on you, softening with something you can’t name. Maybe guilt. Maybe love. Maybe both. "Are you alright ?" He asks. You force a small smile. He knows you’re not. He steps into the room, slow, measured.He sits on the edge of the bed, his hand finding yours where it lay curled. Warmth spreads from his fingers to your wrist like a slow flame. "Talk to me." He says gently, stroking your wrist. But how do you say I hate that you’re leaving me today, even though you have every right to? How do you say I know you love me, but it still feels like I’m sharing the sunlight with someone else’s shadow? He brushes a stray strand of hair from your forehead. He tells you you think he leaves parts of himself behind when he goes to her. But the truth is, he carries all of you with him. Every moment. He doesn’t divide his love. He expands it. You want to believe that. You do believe it. And yet... The ache is still there. The knowing that another woman bore his name before you. That she gave him children. That she has memories you could never touch. Laughter you have never heard. Fights that left scars you can’t see. A history you could never rewrite. And you—you’re the new chapter. Yours began the day he saw you at a family gathering, his gaze lingering not with lust, but something quieter, heavier. He spoke to your father with respect. He waited. He married you not in secret, but in light. But you are still the second. And today, the second will be left behind. He kisses your forehead with a tenderness that always unravels something in you. "I'll be gone for a few days, to spend time with kids and fulfil my responsibility. Will you be alright, Ya Hayati?"