Life Without You✔️.

41: Desserts, Goodbyes and Doha

Ayman's POV
Doha, Qatar.

The city lights of Doha flickered through the tinted windows of the black SUV as we cruised past the Corniche. The air was warm, but not the suffocating heat of Abuja. It had a breeze to it, like the sea was reminding the desert it couldn't win all the time. Bibi sat beside me, head resting gently against the window, her fingers tangled in the sleeves of her abaya.

The city was lit up like a jewel, glowing under the desert sky. I'd booked a hotel with a view of the Corniche, knowing how much she would love it. From the moment we stepped out of the airport, she hadn't stopped staring out the window, like everything around her was a dream come true.

I handled the luggage and gently ushered her through the hotel lobby. Her hand stayed curled around mine, fingers soft and warm—like she didn't want to let go. Neither did I.

"Room 1809," I said, swiping the card and holding the door open for her.

She stepped in and gasped.

The room had floor-to-ceiling glass windows that looked out over the sea. The skyline sparkled beyond it—lights dancing on the water's surface. She turned to me, wide-eyed, like a kid seeing snow for the first time.

"Subhanallah, Ayman..." she whispered. "This is—this is too much."

"You deserve more," I said, stepping in behind her. "Waaay more."

She turned around, her lips twitching into a shy smile, eyes slightly misty. "You always say that."

"Because it's true."

After settling in and praying Isha, we stepped out for a walk along the Corniche. Nothing heavy. Just walking. I kept our pace slow. Her legs weren't as strong yet, and I didn't want her to strain herself. She'd tucked her hand into the crook of my arm, letting her head tilt slightly toward me every now and then. It was quiet between us—but not empty. A comfortable silence.

We spent the evening at Souq Waqif, weaving between spices, fabrics, and traditional oud stalls. I bought her a pair of earrings—gold, shaped like teardrops. She insisted they were too much. I insisted she deserved the whole souq.

We also tried food from street stalls, laughing at things neither of us found funny—just because it felt good to laugh together.

And honestly? Watching her like that—it was the dream.

By the time we returned to the hotel, she was yawning into her palm. But I saw the way she kept glancing at the balcony, like she didn't want the day to end. So I brewed tea for two, and we stepped out together under the stars, the sea below whispering like it knew our secrets.

She wrapped herself in a light shawl and leaned against the railing, silent. I stood beside her with my mug in hand and asked, "How do you feel now?"

"I'm just happy. I feel much better—if that's even possible. I... don't even know what to say. This whole place is—perfect. It's like I can finally breathe."

I nodded slowly, watching the waves reflect the city lights.

"I brought you here because I wanted you to feel that. To breathe again. To remember who you were before everything turned heavy."

She looked at me then. Full-on. No hiding. No filters.

"And who am I?" she asked.

I turned slightly, taking her face in my hands. "You're Nadia. My wife. The strongest person I've ever known. The woman I'm—" I stopped myself. My throat tightened.

She blinked. "What?"

"I'm in love with."
The words came out like a dam breaking—soft, sure, but unstoppable.