Life Without You✔️.

42: After The Silence

WARNING: Thi chapter contains multiple POV's. Yo May proceed💗.

Ayman's POV
Doha, Qatar

We woke up to the soft hum of the city outside our hotel window, sunlight slipping through the sheer curtains like golden threads. I turned to her, still curled under the white duvet, her lashes dark against her cheeks. For a moment, I didn't move—just watched her breathe.

We skipped breakfast in the main hall and ordered room service instead. She sat opposite me, still in her pajamas, sipping fresh orange juice while scrolling through the tour suggestions I'd printed out the night before. Her face lit up when she found a pottery and calligraphy studio just outside Souq Waqif.

"Aren't you into this kind of thing?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

She nodded shyly. "I like painting better, but... calligraphy is beautiful."

So that's where we spent most of the day. The instructor—a middle-aged woman with a calming voice and a Turkish accent—guided us through our practice sheets. Bibi was focused, so focused, her brows furrowed and lips pressed together. I kept nudging her, teasing her when I made a mess of mine. She didn't laugh out loud, but her lips twitched, and she shook her head every time I whispered something ridiculous.

When the class ended, I made her keep the piece she signed in Arabic—her full name written out elegantly in black ink. "It's a masterpiece," I said. "And I'm not just saying that 'cause you're mine."

She rolled her eyes, but I caught the small smile she tried to hide.

We returned back home after that because she was exhausted. So we stayed in, ordered room service again, and watched a movie, only occasionally getting up to pray. We ended up falling asleep very late.

The next day, we took a dhow boat cruise that evening. Just us, under a sky that turned from orange to deep navy. The breeze was cool, the sea calm, and she was wrapped in a navy blue abaya I had picked out for her from the souq.

She sat close to me on the cushions, eyes drifting across the water, but I knew she wasn't thinking about the view. Her fingers twitched when I placed my hand over hers, but she didn't pull away. I took that as progress.

"You know what I love?" I murmured. "That you don't try to fill silence. That you let moments breathe."

She turned her head, her gaze meeting mine. "I never know what to say, that's why."

"You don't have to," I told her. "Sometimes presence says more than words."

She looked back out at the sea, blinking a little fast. But when I touched her cheek, she leaned into it. I swear, I could've stayed like that forever.

After our ride, we had dinner in a restaurant before returning back to the hotel, where she fell asleep on the rug after she had prayed Isha. I picked her up, removed the outer piece of her abaya, and let her sleep in the other one as it seemed more comfortable.

Since she fell asleep early, she woke early the next morning. So we visited the Museum of Islamic Arts just after breakfast. I thought she might be bored, but she moved through the gallery with wide eyes, whispering facts about each piece she recognized from her studies. I didn't interrupt—just followed her, memorizing the way her voice softened when she admired something.

At lunch, she finally opened up a little more. She told me about her childhood dreams of becoming a writer, how she used to journal in the dark when she couldn't sleep. I listened. She barely touched her food.

"Eat, Bibi. Your food is getting cold," I urged her, and she blushed before digging in. After lunch, we took a walk down the beach and settled there, just watching the people walk around.