The Language of Care
True partnership isn't always about grand declarations; more often, it's about the things you don't say so the other person doesn't have to speak.
" Nabil moved through the house like a shadow. He drew the blackout curtains tighter, ensuring not a single sliver of streetlamp glare could pierce through. "
He turned off the humming refrigerator—a sound Habiba once mentioned felt like "drills in her ears" during a migraine.
"He went to the kitchen, cracked open a tray of ice, and wrapped a few cubes in a soft, lavender-scented muslin cloth. He returned to the bedside and gently pressed it against her forehead."
" He placed a glass of water with a pinch of salt and lemon on the nightstand, knowing she'd need it the moment the nausea subsided."
Habiba shifted, her eyes fluttering open just a crack. "Nabil? You're home early."
"Shh," he whispered, sitting on the edge of the bed and brushing a stray lock of hair from her damp forehead. "I'm here. Everything is handled. Just breathe."
As Habiba drifted back into a fitful sleep, Nabil realized it was their "Monthly Anniversary"—a silly tradition they'd kept since their dating days where they tried a new recipe together. He looked at the calendar. He had promised to make a complicated Lamb Rogan Josh tonight.
He knew Habiba would feel guilty if she woke up to find he hadn't eaten or that the day had passed without a "celebration."
So, Nabil got to work. But he didn't cook the heavy, spicy lamb. Instead, he prepared a "Healing Menu":
To settle her stomach.
Clear Chicken Broth: Light, nourishing, and easy to digest.
Just a hint of comfort.
He moved with deliberate slowness in the kitchen, ensuring the clink of a spoon against a pot was muffled. He was a tall man, often clumsy, but for Habiba, he became a master of silence.