The Quiet Arrival
The city of Chittagong was breathing through a humid, golden evening when Nabil stepped off the bus, his laptop bag feeling heavier than usual. It had been a long week of deadlines and demanding clients, but as he turned the corner toward his apartment, his pace quickened. He wasn't thinking about his promotion or his paycheck; he was thinking about Habiba.
They had been married for four years, and if you asked Nabil, he'd tell you he was still in the "honeymoon phase." If you asked Habiba, she'd laugh, roll her eyes, and say, "He's just obsessed with making sure I've eaten my vegetables."
But today was different. Today was the kind of day that tests the silent machinery of a marriage—the small, uncelebrated gears of care and intuition.
Nabil entered the apartment quietly. Usually, he'd hear the hum of a podcast or the rhythmic chopping of vegetables for dinner. Today, the house was draped in a heavy, unnatural silence.
He found Habiba in their bedroom, curled into a small ball under a duvet, despite the evening warmth. Her face was pale, and her breathing was shallow. A migraine—the kind that didn't just hurt, but stole the world away from her—had clearly taken hold.
Nabil didn't flip on the lights. He didn't ask, "What's wrong?" because he already knew. Instead, he set his bag down with the grace of a cat and moved into "caretaker mode."