Murtasim had been basking in the attention for days now. He had never seen Meerab fuss over him this much — her soft voice, gentle touches, and constant concern were more than he had ever hoped for. But the more he indulged in this game of playing memory loss, the more he wanted it to last forever. She was finally giving him the attention he'd always craved.
But today, as she sat beside him, spoon-feeding him soup, something shifted. Murtasim, caught up in his little charade, let his guard down just for a moment.
“Meerab, you always make the best chicken soup,” he said, his voice thick with contentment.
Meerab’s spoon froze mid-air. Her eyes slowly rose to meet his, her brow furrowing in suspicion. “How… do you know this chicken soup is made by me?”
Murtasim’s breath caught in his throat. The spoon wavered in her hand, her eyes boring into him with an intensity that could melt steel. He gulped, his heart thudding in his chest as he tried to backtrack.
“I-I mean… you brought it for me and you are feeding it to me like a good wife does.And smells like you made it. Doesn't it?” he stammered, forcing a smile.
Meerab’s expression didn’t change. She placed the spoon back into the bowl with deliberate slowness and leaned back in her chair, arms crossed. Her silence was deafening. Murtasim shifted uncomfortably, feeling the walls close in around him. This wasn’t good.
“Smells like I made it?” she repeated slowly, her eyes narrowing. “You, who can’t even remember his wife’s name, can suddenly identify chicken soup by its smell that it is made by me?”
Murtasim chuckled nervously, his mind racing for an excuse. “Well… it’s just… instinct?” He cursed inwardly. That sounded so weak.
Meerab’s lips twisted into a half-smile, but there was no humor behind it. “Instinct, huh?” she murmured, her voice dangerously soft.
Murtasim swallowed, sensing that his little game was unraveling faster than he could control. But before he could say anything else, Meerab’s eyes suddenly softened, and she let out a long sigh, leaning back into the chair as though she had come to a profound realization.
“I see,” she whispered, staring off into the distance, her voice trembling ever so slightly.
Murtasim blinked, surprised by the sudden change in her demeanor. “See… what?”
Meerab shook her head, biting her lip as if trying to hold back tears. “I’ve tried everything,” she said softly. “I’ve been here for you, I’ve cared for you, I’ve tended to you… but maybe…” Her voice broke, and she took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, her eyes fixed on her lap.
“Maybe this is how it’s supposed to be,” she said, almost to herself.
Murtasim’s heart skipped a beat. “What do you mean?”
Meerab raised her head, her eyes glistening with unshed tears, and met his gaze. “Maybe you’re not supposed to remember, Murtasim,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Maybe this is the universe’s way of telling me… that I no longer have a place in your life.”
Murtasim’s heart plummeted into his stomach. “What? No, Meerab—”
“No, listen,” she interrupted, her voice firm but laced with sadness. “I’ve been thinking about it… maybe it’s better this way. You don’t have to carry the burden of your past anymore. You can start fresh, live a new life—”
“Meerab, what are you saying?” Murtasim’s pulse quickened, his hands clutching the bedsheets in panic.
She gave him a small, bittersweet smile, her eyes filled with sorrow. “I’m saying… maybe I should leave,” she whispered. “I’ll go away. You can start over, Murtasim. You deserve that chance.”
