Book #4 of the Fairytale series.
Can be read as a stand-alone.
What is time to a man who has loved her for five years.
Five long ones and yet making no move.
What is pain to the man who has watched her live her life whilst he waited in silence...
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"A white elephant, is she not that?" Zayed spoke, ready to loose his mind.
"Every cloud has a silver lining, mind you."
"And I can't see any. You're in love with her. Have been for years. She doesn't even know you exist!"
"You can't just expect me to kick her out of her home!"
"Oh Aliyaar you need help." He sighed, "move on mate. Get married." His own wedding band falling under the golden sunlight.
In contempt his finger's slid of course, rapping harshly into the C keys of the grand piano. Off tune, the middle C unpressed, his fingers drumming in hard and long, frustrations inching out of his skin by the minute.
"Ouch man! I'm sorry if I offended you."
"It's fine. I know it's stupid — too still — completely be in love but what can I do? It's nearly impossible for me to move on." He sighed, a calloused palm running over the tired ridges of his face.
"Aliyaar I think what you need is to go to that reunion trip in Dubai with our university batch mates. Work and family won't get your mind off of things." Zayed patted his arms, taking a sip of the lukewarm coffee.
"You're right. However, there isn't anytime." Aliyaar shook his head.
Zayed opened his mouth, soft air escaping it as his phone buzzed. "I've gotta go Aliyaar, however, I'm booking you a ticket too. We're going on this trip — don't make me call up aunty about this." His words sharp, the slap on his back warm as he left the private saloon in Aliyaar's chambers.
He pressed his fingers in the lonesome room on middle C a last time. A sad parted tone ; a joyful cry rumbled in the back of his throat. Pinching the starchy fabric of his sleeves he stood up — legs uncrossed as they stalked towards the curtains overlooking the bright gardens. Aliyaar pressed his hands into the thick velveteen curtains, a small floral print on the crushed material sank under his warm palms. Closed shut — like his heart. Orange sunlight from a thin strip fell on his skin, the gold undeniably underneath his skin glinting. His soft lips, arched, brushed against the sweet smelling fabric.
Over the upholstered crème chairs in his saloon, attached to his study and bedroom, his suit rested like a messy heap. The crook of his finger held the weight, veins on his arms throbbing with thought of what was — what would be. Trapped in his own web of thoughts still sticky with the memories of his elaborate ; non existent affair maimed him a bit more. A buzz on his phone, the snapping sounds on his iPad not enough to tear through the thick reverie as the thirty one year old stepped into his bedroom. Sunlight— filterless right before sunset, drenched his crème walls in their bright clementine color, the deep wood sharply contrasting against it.
