UNENDING

20- Torturous

-AL-QASIM-

I find myself standing in my home studio, a place I hadn't stepped into for months. The scent of paint and canvas fills the air, and it's oddly comforting, like an old friend welcoming me back. Before me stands an easel with a blank canvas, now coming to life with the strokes of my brush. I'm painting Asiya from memory, and each stroke brings her closer to me, though she remains painfully out of reach.

I need to see her so badly, to feel her presence again. My hand moves almost of its own accord. I reminisce about her—the way her scent lingered around the house, the softness of her voice when she spoke to me, how holding her as she slept was the only time I felt truly at peace. The memory of her body against mine, the softness of her lips, it all floods back, overwhelming me with longing. I hadn't realized how much I enjoyed her presence, how it had become the anchor of my life.

Guilt weighs heavily on me, a constant reminder of my failures. How could I not have noticed how miserable she was? I replay the entirety of our marriage in my mind, seeing now the sadness in her eyes, the way she spoke so little, how alone she must have felt in this massive house. Our bedroom, which should have been our shared sanctuary, had become her solitary refuge. I was too blind, too absorbed in my own world to see her pain. The realization stings like a fresh wound.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, jolting me from my daydream. Bilal's text tells me he's leaving the hospital and will be at my place soon. I reply with a simple "okay" and return my gaze to the painting. What I see stops me cold. Somehow, without realizing it, I painted Asiya with that haunted look she had in her eyes the day I found her in the bathroom. That look of despair and hopelessness that will forever haunt my dreams. My stomach twists in knots, a visceral reaction to the image before me. I cannot continue looking at it. The pain is too raw, too real. I quickly set down my paintbrush and exited the room, leaving the painting and my memories behind.

The studio door clicks shut behind me, and I lean against it, trying to steady my breath. The weight of my guilt feels almost too much to bear. I want to scream, to cry, to do something to release this torment. Instead, I force myself to move, to put one foot in front of the other. Bilal will be here soon, and I need to pull myself together. But as I walk through the house, every corner, every piece of furniture, every shadow reminds me of Asiya. Her absence is a palpable presence, a ghost that refuses to leave.

I make my way to the living room and sink onto the couch, burying my face in my hands. The memories come flooding back, and I let them. I owe it to Asiya to remember, to never forget what I failed to see, what I failed to do. I owe it to her to live with this pain, to carry it with me always. As the minutes tick by, I feel the tears finally come, hot and bitter. I don't try to stop them. Maybe this is what I need. Maybe this is the first step toward forgiveness, though I know I may never forgive myself.

I'm slumped on the couch, my face buried in my hands, the weight of my emotions crashing over me. I don't hear the front door open or Bilal's footsteps until he's standing right beside me. I look up, eyes red and swollen, meeting his silent gaze. Bilal sits down next to me, his presence a comforting anchor in the storm of my feelings. He doesn't say a word, just waits patiently as I try to pull myself together. I wipe my face and straighten up, forcing a smile that feels hollow. "I'm ready to go," I say, trying to sound more composed than I feel. Bilal nods, not pressing the matter, and we head out.

We hop into our cars, and Bilal leads the way to the facility where Mubarak works. The drive is a blur, my mind racing with a thousand possibilities. If Mubarak had anything to do with Asiya leaving, I knew I would struggle to hold back from breaking every bone in his body. The thought of him spending time with her sends me into a rage. And if he doesn't know anything, then we're back to square one. The uncertainty gnaws at me, each scenario playing out in my mind more torturous than the last.