Of all things.
My fingers hovered above it, afraid to touch something so beautiful.
"Haider..."
He remained silent, watching my reaction with an unreadable countenance.
Along with my gratitude that I failed to express, my happiness was beyond compare.
"How did you...?"
I held his gaze as he prepared himself to explain.
His smile softened, and the arms he had wrapped around himself effortlessly slackened at his sides.
He cleared his throat several times before suddenly finding the ceiling far more interesting than me.
His grey sleeves strained against his arms, and there was a fearful flicker in his irises.
"You... used to raise some back in school."
My eyes shot up with surprise, and apparently, I had also forgotten how to speak. Instead, a nervous laugh escaped me, and I began to titter under my breath.
He also let out an awkward chuckle, knowing how bizarre his explanation sounded.
Before I could attempt to question him further, his fingers traced their way onto mine.
He intertwined our hands, his touch hesitant despite the confidence he usually carried.
He slowly lifted our joined hands towards his face, his worried regard remaining fixed on me.
I expected a casual squeeze, or perhaps the familiar brush of his hand as we walked, but instead, he paused.
No sooner had I registered the sudden stillness than he dipped his head and pressed his lips tenderly against the back of my knuckles.
A sharp shockwave pulsed right down to my toes, and my chest seized as if all the air had been instantly pulled from the room.
The reverent, tender weight of that single act felt like something that only existed within fantasies.
The delicate and unhurried warmth that lingered against my hand felt as though he were lending me a fragment of himself.
There were emotions that a person could never dream of describing, and in those moments, a simple action could relay those immeasurable feelings.
I could sense a lingering flutter within my stomach, whilst I could only stare into his deep, doe-like eyes.
Then, after that brief tranquillity, he moved once more. This time, he pressed his forehead against the same place his lips had touched moments ago.
Ah- I knew what he was doing.
It was the traditional way of conveying his dedication towards me, a tenderness so deep that pride could shatter and be forgotten.
Humility and reverence were all expressed through one singular courtesy. An affection so profound that pride seemed insignificant, like a mere grain of salt in an ocean.
He was giving me himself.
The gift today was not only the necklace in my grasp, but also the man I had tied my very life to.
His devotion.
His sincerity.
The sentimental silence took my very soul. The grip of his hands was cooling and soothing, carrying a piece of fervour within their gentle touch. Every emotion stirred synchronously with the relentless beating of our hearts.
I appeared calm, but beneath the twinkles of the night, fading and clouding just like my heart, it was all too beautiful to fathom by myself.
He and I shared the same red string, tied to the rings resting upon our fingers. Matching and glistening, they remained as proof of our betrothal.
Gradually, his hands loosened, and he picked out a familiar book from the desk. His rhythmic movements wavered, most likely due to the sheer fluster of the moment.
He spread the book across the table, revealing the Arabic words:
نور حياتي
A book filled with heartfelt poems and stories, shifting between reality and fantasy.
It was handwritten. Every piece within the book was like a love letter, each filled with hopeless yearning.
To the writer of this book, their commitment to their muse meant that if you became the living muse of a writer or an artist, you would forever live on until their final stroke.
A blessing so sweet that it was ethereal, exquisite.
They finally find you- the dearest love, the breathing essence of the perfect one. Billions couldn't compare, and millions wouldn't look, but I would only stare.
I would lock them back, sit down, and simply watch- a venom so sweet I crave it.
My fingers fondled the Arabic ink marks, written with such precision and steadfastness.
Every line had been thought out, felt, and written down to be remembered.
It was almost a shame that the one who was meant to read this had never laid their eyes upon it.
The light of my life.
Oh, Nur Hayaati, how blessed you are to have felt such a love.
أجمل شيء في حياتي هو أنت.
The most beautiful thing in my life is YOU.
My heart felt squishy, and my eyelids closed on their own, absorbing the brief moment I had to myself.
An emotion you wouldn't know because you haven't come across it before. A man who lived so far away, yet somehow felt so close.
If they had known, what would they have said?
What would their reply have been?
Something so fleeting, vanishing, yet cherished.