Threads of love

the tides of change

Chapter five

The first week felt like a fog I couldn't shake.

Every day, I woke up thinking maybe it had all been a dream, that he hadn't really gone, that he hadn't really hung up on me. But reality would sink in, sharp and unforgiving, and I'd feel that hollow ache again. I moved through the days in a daze, doing what I needed to do but barely feeling present. Layla tried to reach me, sitting quietly beside me, pressing a warm cup of tea into my hands, but I could barely manage a nod, let alone the strength to talk about it.

I wandered the town in the afternoons, walking the familiar streets and half-expecting to see him at his stall. It hurt every time I glanced over, knowing he wouldn't be there, knowing I wouldn't hear his laugh or see his smile. Somehow, I kept going. I told myself over and over,

He's really gone.

But every morning, that truth hit me all over again.

By the second week, the numbness started to give way to anger. It was like a slow burn, but every time I thought about him—about the way he'd left, the way he'd hung up on me—I felt that spark grow. How could he do this?

I'd trusted him; I'd believed him when he said he loved me. He'd promised we'd find a way, that he'd stand by me. I felt a bitter fury rising every time I thought of those promises. He'd walked away from them, walked away from me, and didn't even have the decency to let me have a real goodbye. The anger was a relief, in a way. It got me out of bed. I started helping my mother with the cooking, cleaning around the house just to keep my hands busy. I even found myself snapping at Layla once when she asked if I was okay. It was a horrible thing to do, but I couldn't help it. I hated that she had to see me like this, that I couldn't hide how much I was hurting.

The third week, the anger started to fade, and the sadness settled back in, but it was different now—sharper, clearer. I stopped going into town. There was no reason to anymore. Instead, I'd spend hours alone, sitting by the window and watching the world outside, wondering how he was able to walk away so easily. Some nights, I couldn't help myself; I'd think about calling him again, even though I knew he'd probably just ignore it. The urge was so strong, but I knew it would only hurt me more. So I'd sit with my phone in my hand, staring at his number, letting the memory of him become something I could just look at from a distance.

By the fourth week, something in me finally began to shift.

It was small at first—just moments here and there when I'd go a few hours without thinking about him. I'd catch myself smiling, laughing at something Mary said, even feeling lighter. I realised I could still have those moments, that maybe they weren't completely lost to me. I started helping my mother more and talking to my father about Farid again, not because I felt anything for him, but because I wanted to feel like myself again.

Slowly, I let the memories of Abdullah settle in my mind without letting them tear me apart. I still miss him, yes. But I was also beginning to realise that maybe I'd been holding on to a promise that was never really mine to keep. I wasn't over him, not entirely. But I could see a way through it now, a way to move forward. For the first time, the thought of a life without him didn't feel like the end of my world. It felt like a beginning.

Today was a new day. I woke up feeling lighter than I had in weeks. After brushing my hair and slipping into a new dress my dad had bought me, I felt a spark of excitement. I was finally going to see Farid again; he'd been away visiting family in another part of Turkey, and today, Ibrahim was taking me as my mahram. For the first time in days, my mind wasn't consumed with thoughts of Abdullah. Instead, I felt hopeful about my future with Farid.

As I made my way downstairs, the comforting aroma of breakfast wafted through the air. I joined my sisters at the table, and we chatted about nothing in particular while I prepared my bag. My mother came in, placing a pot covered with foil in my hands.