•AN OBLIVIOUS ONE•

ISLAM 🤍

I pulled the chair out for him, but I didn’t wait for him to sit. I moved quickly, positioning myself across from him at the table. My phone sat on the surface, a silent witness to the conversation about to unfold. I took a deep breath, gathering my thoughts and steadying my emotions. I was exhausted—mentally, emotionally, all of it.

I looked directly at him, my voice calm but firm. "What do you want from me?"

Farid’s face twisted slightly in confusion, his eyebrows knitting together. "What do you mean?" he asked, like it wasn’t obvious.

"The question was quite straightforward," I replied, my gaze unwavering. "What do you want from me?"

He stared at me, a flicker of irritation flashing in his eyes. "You’re here to be my wife," he said flatly, as though that was supposed to explain everything.

I shook my head, not satisfied with his dismissive answer. "No, Farid. You’ve treated me like I’m just an inconvenience from the start. Like I don’t matter. You act like I’m some kind of stranger or worse, like I’m beneath you. What do you actually want from me?"

His expression hardened, his frustration clear. "What I want is for you to know your place," he spat, leaning forward slightly as if to assert his dominance. "I don’t owe you anything, Islam. You’re here because my family wanted it. You should be grateful."

Grateful? The word made my blood boil. I couldn’t hold back anymore. "Grateful?" I repeated, my voice rising with incredulity. "Grateful for what, Farid? For being treated like a doormat? For being ignored, insulted, and humiliated in my own home? Is that what you want me to be grateful for?"

Farid scoffed, leaning back in his chair. "Is it because of the education my family's paying for that you're feeling bold enough to speak to me like this?" he shot back. "You think you’re better than what I give you?"

I leaned forward, my hands gripping the edge of the table. "Let me make something clear," I said, my voice cold and steady. "You might think I’m trash or low-class or whatever your demented brain thinks, but I won’t continue to accept your trash."

His face darkened, his eyes narrowing. "You’re walking on thin ice, Islam."

I didn’t back down. "You’ve treated me however you wanted from day one, Farid. I haven’t done anything to deserve this. I’ve tried to be respectful, I’ve tried to give you space, but you’ve treated me like I’m nothing."

"You don’t know when to stop, do you?" he sneered. "Whatever it is that gave you guts this night should better be the one to save you when I pounce on you."

A bitter laugh escaped me. I couldn’t help it. The irony of his threat, the sheer audacity of it, was almost laughable. "Pounce on me? You dare not," I said, locking eyes with him. My voice was steady, my resolve unshaken. "Let me tell you something, Farid. The Islam you knew yesterday isn’t the one standing before you today. I won’t tolerate any of your nonsense, and you will not lay a finger on me."

His jaw clenched, clearly not expecting me to challenge him like this. But I wasn’t done. Not by a long shot.

"I’m not your punching bag," I continued, my voice strong. "You have one in your gym, use it. Yes, I knew there wasn’t going to be love in this marriage, but I expected at least some decency. But it’s obvious you’ve chosen what you want—drama."

Farid’s face tightened, but I pressed on, not letting him interrupt. "And you’ll get it whenever you want because I’m as hell ready for you."

He glared at me, his pride wounded. "You think you can stand there and talk to me like this?" he shot back, rising from his chair. "I am the man of this house. You think this little outburst changes anything?"

I stood up too, matching his intensity. "No, Farid. You might be the man of this house, but you don’t own me. I’m not some puppet you can control. You can treat me like a stranger all you want, but I’ll tell you this—I’m not afraid of you anymore."

He took a step closer, the tension between us thick. "You better watch yourself, Islam," he warned. "This is still my house."

"And I’m still your wife," I countered. "But if this is how you plan to treat me, then maybe it’s time you start thinking about what kind of life you really want. Because this? This isn’t a marriage. And I’m done pretending it is."

Farid’s face twitched, his anger barely contained. But for the first time, I saw something else there. Uncertainty. Maybe he hadn’t expected this from me. Maybe he thought I’d always stay quiet, always let him trample over me. But not anymore.

I didn’t even wait for Farid’s reply as I turned on my heel and walked back to my room, the sound of my flip-flops echoing through the quiet hallway. My heart was racing, but with every step, the weight on my chest lightened just a little. When I finally reached my room and locked the door behind me, I let out a long, deep sigh of relief.

That confrontation had been long overdue, but now that it was over, I knew I had to focus on something that would actually matter in my life—something for me. I had been thinking about it for a while now, and it was time to make a move. I wanted to start my own business. I had enough capital saved, and I knew exactly what I wanted: a restaurant and lounge. A place where people could gather, eat, and relax. Something I could call my own.

I picked up my phone and dialed Salma’s number, feeling the excitement bubbling inside me. The line rang for a moment before she picked up.

"Hey, Islam!" she greeted cheerfully.

"Hey, Salma," I replied, feeling a bit lighter just hearing her voice. "You won’t believe what just happened."

I quickly filled her in on the showdown with Farid, telling her everything from the dinner to my decision to finally stand up for myself. Salma was silent for a second before bursting into laughter.

"Girl, I’m proud of you! It’s about time you put that man in his place," she said, her voice full of encouragement. "So what’s next?"

"Well, I’ve been thinking… I want to start a business," I said, feeling the excitement surge again. "I want to open a restaurant and lounge. I’ve got the capital, and I think it’s time."

Salma’s excitement was contagious. "Oh my God, that’s an amazing idea! I can already see it—a place with great vibes, good food, and the perfect atmosphere. You could totally pull this off, Islam. I’ve got so many ideas already!"

We brainstormed for a bit, bouncing ideas off each other. Salma suggested incorporating a unique theme to set the restaurant apart from others in the area, and I could feel the vision coming to life in my mind.

"But," I added, "I think Farid’s best friend, Amir, might be able to help me a bit. He’s got the business experience, and honestly"

Salma agreed immediately. "Definitely call him. I’m sure he’ll be willing to help you out. Plus, I don’t think Farid can really lash out if Amir’s involved. I mean, they’re best friends."

After hanging up with Salma, I hesitated for a moment before dialing Amir’s number. I’d had his number for a while, even though I never really thought I’d need it. But now, it seemed like the perfect time.

The phone rang twice before he picked up.

"Assalamualaikum, Amir," I greeted, trying to keep my voice steady.

"Wa alaikissalam, Islam. How are you?" he asked, sounding genuinely curious.

"I’m fine, alhamdulillah. I actually wanted to talk to you about something important, but maybe it’s better if we discuss it in person," I replied, feeling a bit nervous but determined to push forward.

He didn’t hesitate. "Of course. Let’s meet tomorrow. I can pick you up from school."

"That sounds perfect. Thank you, Amir."

"No problem at all. I’ll see you tomorrow then."

As I hung up, I felt a strange sense of relief. I wasn’t sure how Farid would feel about Amir getting involved, but at least Amir was someone Farid trusted. And if Farid had any issue with his best friend showing me a small act of kindness, then that would just reveal even more about the kind of person Farid truly was.

For now, though, I could focus on what mattered—building something for myself. Something that was mine.