Basma likes Fendi

38 | Why Love Is Not A Person

•Bashir

In your breathe I live, I keep writing your name with the ink of my blood so, even if for one day you'd just have looked at me, the way you look at him, maybe I would've stayed.

Basma. She was the first person I saw when I opened my eyes in the hospital. I was admitted here because of my regular seizures that I used to get since I came back from Morocco. The window was open and she was looking straight outside. I called her name and she ran towards my bed—how selfless of her.

She stood before and was chatting enthusiastically but none of her words found their way to my ears. Her smile was bright and her cheeks shone a pink color that only made me want to lower my gaze because if I kept looking at her I might want to touch her face.

Her hands were now moving vigorously in front of my face and I wondered if something was wrong with me now. Was I dead? In Jannah maybe? Or maybe I was lost in my train of thoughts but I feel conscious but can only seem to work my cognizance in my subconscious. Am I even was conscious?

I felt dizzy and soon everything went black but as soon as I opened my eyes I was back in my house with Mariam watching over me from the comfort of a carpet beside my mirror with her back to the wooden extension of it.

"You're awake."

"Do you want to talk about it?" Her voice goes an octave lower.

"About what?"

Today was a great day and Insha Allah no thought of Basma was going to destroy it. I was in love, still in love and praying to fall out of this love that has me caged.

The security guard calls my phone to tell me there's a woman at my doorstep who's crying and I'm just as confused as he is when I ask for her name and he tells me Nafisa. The name sounded familiar but I couldn't remember where I'd heard it before.

"Sir, she said you know her husband."

"Ask her who her husband is."

"She said Salman Rabo."

Hey, Salman? What is his wife doing here?

"Let her in. I'm coming now."

I rush downstairs to meet her outside. She was a petite woman who was lean and dark skinned, very pretty of course and she reminded me of a certain someone.

"Good morning." She greeted.

"Good morning. How may I help you?"

I felt like I was being rude but I wasn't in best head space now and her surprise was unexpected so I wasn't happy with that plus I didn't want to allow a married woman into my house.

"My husband."

"What happened?"

"He's been missing for days. He told me that he was traveling for work and that if he doesn't come back I should find you."

Why me? Fareed and Al-Hassan were there. I left them a long time ago so why did he ask her to find me?

"I'm sorry but I can't help you."

"Please." She knelt down, "A man came yesterday and said that the house we're living in was sold to him about a week ago and he wanted me and my daughter to move out as soon as possible. I don't want to go to my parents because they warned me about him and I refused to listen. You're all I have."

"Salman never told me he was married but I'll help you since he was once a friend."

"Thank you." She wiped her tears.

"Stand up. You don't have to kneel. Just come back in 24 hours and meet the security guard."

I never liked the house anyways—Jameel have it to me—I believe I can also give it away since it's mine.