His silence his pride ( continuation)

Second Chance

Do you think Zaid deserve a second chance?

do you want them to reunite

Days pass, and he finds himself lost in a mission he never thought he'd take on: winning back his own wife. Each morning, he wakes up early to make her tea, just the way she likes it—strong with a hint of cardamom. He places it on the table by her side, hoping she'll notice, hoping she'll feel even a sliver of warmth. But every morning, she leaves it untouched, cool by the time he picks it up.

One evening, he waits for her by the garden where she spends her time, holding a bouquet of wildflowers. They're not roses or anything grand; they're simple, delicate, like her. She finally emerges from the house, pausing when she sees him standing there, his arm extended, bouquet in hand.

She raises an eyebrow, crossing her arms. "What's this supposed to be?"He shifts, a bit taken aback by her question. "Flowers... for you."

She looks at him, unamused. "Do you even know what my favorite flower is?"

He hesitates, his face falling. He realizes, with a pang of shame, that he doesn't know. He'd spent all this time married to her, and he doesn't even know what kind of flowers she loves. The wildflowers in his hand feel suddenly foolish, like a symbol of his ignorance.

"No, I don't," he admits, feeling the weight of his failure. "But I want to learn. I want to know everything about you."

She sighs, brushing past him without taking the flowers. "It's a little late to start asking questions, don't you think?"

He's left there, standing alone with the bouquet, the faint scent of wildflowers mingling with the ache in his chest. But he's not ready to give up. Not yet.---Over the next few days, he tries different gestures, searching for ways to connect with her. He remembers how she loves books and spends hours at the local bookstore finding the ones she'd told him about years ago, novels she'd quoted from or read late into the night. One evening, he leaves a stack of her favorite books on her nightstand with a note that reads, "For all the stories we missed."

When she finds the books, she pauses, her fingers running over the spines. For a moment, he thinks he's finally reached her. But instead, she gives a slight shake of her head, almost as if disappointed, and places them in a drawer without a word.

"Do you think you can buy your way into my heart?" she asks later that night, her tone sharp. "You can't just offer me things you should have known years ago and expect me to be grateful."Her words sting, but he realizes she's right. He's been giving her gifts, but he hasn't given her himself. All the little gestures mean nothing if he doesn't face the reality of the man he was—and the man he hopes to be.---One evening, after another silent dinner, he decides to try something different. He sits down across from her, his gaze steady, unshielded.

"I know I've failed you," he says softly, choosing his words carefully. "And I know I don't deserve your forgiveness. But I'm here because I'm trying to understand. To learn how to be a better husband, if you'd let me."

She lets out a slight laugh, folding her arms across her chest. "And what do you want me to do? Just sit here, wait for you to become the person you should have been all along?"

"No," he says, shaking his head. "I don't want you to wait for me. I know I can't fix everything with gifts or gestures. But I want you to know that I'm here, willing to do whatever it takes, however long it takes."

She studies him, her expression guarded. For a moment, he feels the slightest glimmer of hope, until she speaks.

"You think it's that easy?" Her voice is cold, a shield against all his apologies. "That you can just decide to change, and I'll forget all the years of neglect? I'm not a toy, not someone you can pick up when you're finally ready to play house."

"I know that," he replies, his voice steady. "And I'm not asking for you to forget. I just want the chance to make things right."

She scoffs, her gaze hard. "And what if I don't want that? What if I've had enough of waiting around for you to care?"

Her words hit him harder than he expects. He realizes, painfully, that she has every right to feel this way. She's been patient, far more than he deserves, and the idea that she might be ready to leave him for good cuts deep.

"I'll understand," he says slowly, each word weighted with sincerity. "But I won't stop trying."She lets out a small, bitter laugh, shaking her head as she walks past him. "Try all you want," she says, her voice softer now, almost sad. "But don't expect me to just open my heart because you've decided it's convenient now."

As she retreats into their bedroom, he stands there, alone in the hallway, feeling the chill of her absence. He knows now that this isn't a battle he can win with gestures or gifts. It's a long road of redemption, one where he'll have to walk alone until—if ever—she decides he's earned a place beside her.

And so he resolves to keep going, knowing that love isn't a prize to be won but a bond to be earned, one step at a time. He understands, finally, that this journey will be about more than just her forgiveness; it will be about proving he's worthy of it—even if that means he has to live with her resentment until she's ready to forgive.