Blinded Marriage: Insights to Muslim marriages and love

He was always stoic and serious, but no one could deny his kindness and sensibility that can only be seen through his actions. It was the little things. How he came to pick me up when I texted him. How he asked me what kind of wedding ring I wanted. How he looked into my eyes when every time he had something important to say. How he gave me the opportunity to get out of this marriage if I wanted out...

How was it possible that I admired this man so much already? I knew nothing about him other than what I heard from his mother.

What have I gotten myself into. I didn't have the time to dwell on any of these matters because his hand was now intertwined with mine. His other hand wiping the tears off my cheeks.

It felt like a movie scene, except there were 20 soggy wet Kleenex tissues in between us.

"Zahrah... why are you crying?" He repeated softly. His thumb stroking circles in my hand and his other hand caressing my neck.

I guess this is why people get married, I thought to myself. I get it now.

My reply to his question was dumb, as usual...

"I just... am..." I moaned incomprehensively.

The doctor part of him that has to understand what mumbling drunk patients are saying must have heard what I said, because he had cracked a smile.

"Are you regretting this?" He asked pointedly, reading my bloodshot eyes. How did he know what I was thinking?

"No" I gurgled out this half-lie, half-truth. There was a part of me that was relieved and elated by his hands and wanted to shut out the part of me that was regretting my marriage decision.

His touch was a drug whose effects I never wanted to wear out.