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18|Feef and Dan

The phone slipped from Dan's fingers, clattering against the hardwood floor. The screen remained lit, displaying the damning images—his wife, his Feef, tangled in the sheets with another man. The video that followed was worse. It captured that same night when Feef had slipped out to meet Mustafa, while Dan had stood frozen like a statue. The sounds, the whispers, the way she touched him—it shattered something deep inside Dan, something he hadn't thought could break.

That night, he had dreaded imagining what his wife was doing with Mustafa after they rode up in the elevator. Though his gut screamed at him, he ignored and denied it. When he heard her creep back into their room at dawn, he'd been too cowardly to even turn his head, to voice the question burning in his throat: "Where were you?" He had lain stiff in bed, eyes shut, breath steady, playing dead—a pathetic wuss, too terrified to face the truth. Because if he asked, she might tell him. And if she told him, it would become real.

Instead, he had shut his eyes like a pigeon hiding from a hawk, praying ignorance would save him. He never questioned her when she slid into bed that morning. Wide awake yet pretending to sleep, he let the moment pass because closing his eyes was easier than confronting her.

While men in Pakistan killed their wives in the name of ghairat, he was a  baghairat— na-mard— who couldn't muster the courage to demand where his wife had been. He feared the truth, feared losing her, feared discovering their family was a lie.

Then came the message from an unknown number:

"You should get a paternity test. Just to be sure."

The words blurred. His chest caved in.

The living room was dark, the only light coming from the streetlamp outside, painting the walls in sickly yellow. Dan sat on the couch, his phone in his hand, the weight of what he’d seen and read crushing his chest. 

The front door opened. 

Feef stepped inside, her heels clicking against the hardwood. She sighed, dropping her purse on the counter as she turned on the light. “Dan? Why are you sitting in the—” 

Then she saw his face.

Her breath hitched. 

Dan held up his phone, the screen glowing with the video—her and Mustafa.

Her skin went pale. 

Dan’s voice was a whisper, broken.
"Tell me it’s fake."

She didn’t speak. 

"Feef, please." His hands shook. "Look at me and tell me this isn’t real. Tell me it’s AI, photoshop, some sick joke—and I’ll believe you. I swear to God, I’ll believe you over anything."

Feef couldn't help but look at him helpless. Torn. Her lips parted, but no words came. 

Dan stood, his legs unsteady. "Just SAY IT!" His scream tore through the room. "Lie to me! LIE TO ME, FEEF!"

She flinched, tears spilling over. "I… I can’t."

The words shattered him. 

He stumbled forward, gripping her arms. "Why? Why him? Why anyone? Wasn’t I enough?" His voice cracked. "I loved you since we were kids. I built my life around you. And you—" He choked. "You let me put my hands on your stomach. You let me talk to our baby. Was any of it real?"

She looked away with tears spilling out of her eyes. 

Dan’s knees gave out. He sank to the floor, his sobs raw, like an animal in excruciating pain.

He clutched at her. "Just tell me the baby’s mine. Just say it. Please. I’ll forgive you. I’ll forget any of this ever happened—just SAY IT’S MINE!" He sobbed looking up at Feef with bloodshot eyes, tears streaming down his face. He had never begged anyone in his life like he was begging Feef. He didn't care how pathetic he looked. He just wanted her to wake him up from this nightmare, cradle him up in her lap and tell him what he saw wasn't real. It was a terrible nightmare, a cruel joke. Anything but the reality.