Chapter 1: The Husband Behind the Curtain
The baklava was gone. Only a sticky trail of honey and crushed pistachios remained on the decorative plate, and Noor was already on her third cup of mint tea, which meant she had settled in for what she liked to call "the interrogation." Layla recognized the signs by now. The way Noor tucked her straight black hair behind her ear. The way she leaned forward, elbows on the coffee table, eyes wide and dangerously curious.
"You're stalling," Noor announced, pointing an accusatory finger.
"I'm sipping my tea."
"You're sipping your tea slowly. That's stalling."
Layla laughed, the sound filling the small living room like wind chimes. She tucked her legs beneath her on the worn Persian rug, the fabric soft from years of this exact ritual. The string lights above them cast everything in amber, making the ordinary Tuesday night feel like something stolen from a dream. Rosewater incense curled through the air, faint and sweet.
"Fine," Layla said. "What do you want to know?"
Noor's eyes lit up like she'd been waiting her whole life for this permission. "Everything."
"That's not a question."
"Okay, okay." Noor set down her tea with the gravity of someone preparing for battle. "When was the last time you saw him?"
"Three months ago."
"Three months?" Noor's voice climbed an octave. "Layla, how do you survive?"
"Phone calls. Video chats. Patience."
"That's not what I meant and you know it."
Layla raised an eyebrow, her brown eyes sparkling with something she refused to name. She reached for her own tea, taking a slow, deliberate sip. The warmth spread through her chest, and she let the silence stretch.
Noor groaned. "You're doing it again."
"Doing what?"
"That thing where you answer questions without actually answering them."
"I answered your question."
"You gave me logistics. I want details."
"Details about what?"
Noor's fair skin flushed pink. She grabbed a throw pillow and hugged it to her chest like a shield. "You know what."
"I really don't."
"The... the intimate stuff."
Layla nearly choked on her tea. She set the cup down, coughing and laughing at the same time. "Noor!"
"What? I'm twenty-one. I'm curious. This is educational."
"This is my marriage."
"Exactly. You're the only married person I know. Who else am I supposed to ask?"
Layla wiped her eyes, still giggling. The string lights swayed slightly from the ceiling fan, casting dancing shadows across Noor's determined face. Outside, the city hummed its usual nighttime symphony—distant traffic, a neighbor's television, the occasional bark of a dog.
"You could ask your mother," Layla suggested.
"My mother would have a heart attack and then arrange my marriage to the first man who looked at me."
"Fair point."
"So?" Noor leaned forward again. "Tell me something. Anything."
Layla considered this. She thought about Omar's hands—how they always found the small of her back, how they knew exactly where to rest. She thought about the way he laughed against her neck, warm and breathless. She thought about the last night before he left, how they'd stayed up until dawn just talking, tangled in sheets that smelled like jasmine.
She thought about all of it and said, "He makes really good pancakes."
Noor threw the pillow at her.
"That's not—you're impossible!" Noor sputtered. "I ask you one simple question—"
"It's not simple."
"It is literally the most basic question in the world."
"You asked about intimacy. That's not basic."
Noor flopped back against the couch, arms crossed. "Fine. Fine. New question. Do you miss him?"
The teasing quality in Layla's expression softened. She looked down at her tea, watching the steam curl upward. The apartment felt too big sometimes. Too quiet. She'd grown used to it, found her rhythm in the solitude, but there were moments—small, sharp moments—when the silence cut deeper than she expected.
"Every day," she said quietly.
Noor's face gentled. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"How do you... I mean, isn't it hard? Being alone so much?"
Layla shrugged one shoulder. "We're building something. It's temporary."
"Three months temporary?"
"He's coming back next month."
"And then what?"
Layla's lips curved. "And then I'll make him pancakes."
Noor snorted. "You're deflecting again."
"I'm being romantic."
"You're being sneaky."
Behind the balcony curtain, Omar pressed his palm harder against his mouth. His shoulders shook with the effort of staying silent. He'd arrived twenty minutes ago, suitcase in hand, ready to surprise her—ready to see her face light up, to hold her, to breathe her in after three endless months of cheap hotel rooms and phone screens that never did her justice.
He hadn't expected this.
He'd heard Noor's voice through the door and hesitated. Then curiosity had won. Now he was crouched behind a curtain like a criminal, listening to his wife deflect her friend's increasingly scandalous questions with the grace of a seasoned diplomat.
His cheeks hurt from grinning. His chest ached with love.
"Okay, different approach," Noor said, and he could hear the determination in her voice. "On a scale of one to ten, how much do you miss the... you know. The physical stuff."
"Oh my God, Noor."
"Just answer the question."
Layla sighed dramatically. "You're relentless."
"I'm dedicated. There's a difference."
"Who taught you to be like this?"
"You did. Now answer."
Omar bit down on his knuckle. His wife—his beautiful, mischievous, impossible wife—was about to say something. He could feel it in the pause, in the way the room seemed to hold its breath.
"I miss everything about him," Layla said finally. "His laugh. The way he burns toast every single time because he gets distracted. How he sings in the shower when he thinks I can't hear."
Noor made a soft sound. "That's sweet."
"I miss the way he holds my hand when we walk. I miss arguing about what to watch. I miss waking up and finding his arm thrown over me like I might disappear."
"That's really sweet."
"I miss the way he looks at me."
Silence.
"What way?" Noor whispered.
Layla didn't answer right away. Omar imagined her expression—the one she made when she was remembering something precious, her eyes going distant and soft. He pressed his forehead against the cold wall behind the curtain.
"Like I'm the answer to a question he's been asking his whole life," she said.
Noor gasped. Loudly. It was a sound Omar had heard before—a dramatic, theatrical inhalation that meant she was genuinely moved and also deeply jealous.
"That's beautiful. That's—I want that. I want someone to look at me like that."
"You will."
"But when? The men in this city are either boring or creepy. There's no in-between."
"There's an in-between. He's just not at your mosque."
Noor laughed, wet and genuine. "You're terrible."
"I'm honest."
Omar heard the clink of cups, the shift of weight on the rug. He risked a peek through the narrow gap in the curtain. Layla was refilling Noor's tea, her movements graceful and unhurried. Her curly dark hair was piled on top of her head in a messy bun, loose strands framing her face. She was wearing his old university sweatshirt, the sleeves pushed up past her elbows.
His heart clenched.
"Can I ask you one more thing?" Noor said, accepting the cup.
"You're going to anyway."
"True." Noor took a sip, then fixed Layla with a serious look. "Does it ever get easier? Being apart?"
Layla was quiet for a long moment. The fan clicked as it rotated, the lights swaying softly. Somewhere in the building, a door closed.
"Some things get easier," she said. "I've learned to be alone. I've learned to enjoy my own company. I've learned to cook for one without crying."
"But?"
"But some things get harder. I forget what his voice sounds like when he's tired. I forget how it feels to fall asleep next to him. And then I hear him on the phone or see him on a screen and it all comes back, and the missing starts over."
Noor set down her tea. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you sad."
"You didn't." Layla smiled, and it was real, if a little wistful. "I'm grateful. For him. For you. For this." She gestured vaguely at the room, the lights, the half-eaten baklava. "For nights like this."
Noor's eyes went misty. "You're going to make me cry."
"Good. You owe me for the interrogation."
"I do not—"
"You asked me to rate how much I miss sleeping with my husband on a scale of one to ten."
Noor's face went red. "Okay, fair."
Layla laughed, bright and warm, and the sound wrapped around Omar like a blanket. He wanted to push through the curtain. He wanted to sweep her into his arms. He wanted to tell her that he'd heard every word, that he'd been counting down the days just like her, that he'd driven six hours straight because he couldn't stand one more night without her.
But he also wanted to see what happened next.
"Scoot over," Layla said, and Noor shifted to make room on the couch. They settled side by side, Layla's head dropping onto Noor's shoulder.
"You know what I think?" Noor said.
"Tell me."
"I think you're the strongest person I know."
Layla snorted. "I cried last week because I couldn't open a jar."
"That's not weakness. That's being human."
"When did you get so wise?"
"I've always been wise. You just don't listen."
They laughed together, soft and easy, the kind of laughter that only exists between people who've seen each other at their worst and stayed anyway. Omar's eyes stung.
"I should go," Noor said, but she didn't move.
"You should stay."
"I have work tomorrow."
"So do I."
Noor sighed. "I really should go."
"Five more minutes."
They didn't need five more minutes. They sat in comfortable silence, the string lights humming softly above them, the city carrying on beyond the window. Omar watched his wife close her eyes, her breath evening out, and felt something crack open in his chest.
This was it. This was everything. This was why he worked in a city he hated, why he lived in a hotel that smelled like bleach, why he spent his nights staring at her photo on his phone. All of it, every sacrifice, was worth this—her peace, her happiness, her laughter filling a room he wasn't even in.
"Okay," Noor whispered. "I'm really going now."
"Liar."
Noor laughed. "I am. I'm a terrible liar."
"You're the worst."
They untangled themselves from the couch. Noor gathered her bag, her keys, her jacket. At the door, she turned back.
"Hey, Layla?"
"Yeah?"
"Thanks. For answering my questions. Even the weird ones."
Layla smiled. "That's what I'm here for."
"Tell Omar I said hi. When you talk to him."
"I will."
Noor left. The door clicked shut. The apartment settled into silence, and Layla stood alone in the middle of the living room, her arms wrapped around herself. Omar watched her through the curtain, watched the way her smile faded into something softer, something private.
She reached for her phone.
He knew, without seeing the screen, that she was looking at his picture. He knew because he did the same thing, every night, in a hotel room three hundred miles away.
Now he stepped out from behind the curtain.
"Omar?"
Her voice cracked. The phone slipped from her fingers and bounced on the rug. She stared at him—wide-eyed, frozen—and he stared back, drinking her in.
"I heard everything," he said.
"You—what?"
"I heard everything."
A beat of silence. Then another. And then Layla's face went through approximately six different emotions in under three seconds—shock, joy, horror, mortification, something dangerously close to panic, and finally, helpless laughter.
"You heard—"
"Every word."
"Omar—"
"I especially liked the part about the pancakes."
She threw the phone at him. It missed by three feet, and he crossed the room in four strides, pulling her into his arms before she could throw anything else.
"You're supposed to be in Houston," she mumbled against his chest.
"I was."
"Your flight isn't until Friday."
"I drove."
"You drove?"
"Six hours. Left straight after work."
She pulled back, her brown eyes wet and shining. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"I wanted to surprise you."
"You—" She shook her head, laughing and crying at the same time. "You absolute—"
"I love you too."
She hit his chest, but it was a weak hit, a token protest, and then she was kissing him, and he was kissing her back, and the world narrowed to this—her lips, her hands in his hair, her body pressed against him like she was trying to crawl inside his skin.
"I can't believe you," she whispered when they finally broke apart.
"I can't believe you rate me on a scale of one to ten."
"I didn't—she asked—"
"Uh huh."
"You're the worst."
"Probably."
She laughed again, the sound he'd been dreaming about for three months, and buried her face in his shoulder. He held her tighter.
"Noor's going to be so mad she missed you," she said.
"She can be mad tomorrow."
"What about tonight?"
He tilted her chin up, meeting her eyes. "Tonight, I heard my wife say she misses waking up with my arm around her. So I was thinking we could remind her what that feels like."
Layla's smile was slow and dangerous. "You heard her ask how much I miss the physical stuff too."
"I did."
"And you ran with that?"
"I'm just being thorough."
She laughed, threw her arms around his neck, and dragged him toward the bedroom. The string lights swayed. The city kept humming. And somewhere in the night, a neighbor opened a door and closed it again, oblivious to the fact that in one small apartment, three months of distance was about to be erased.
"You're cooking breakfast tomorrow," Layla called from the hallway.
"Deal."
"And you're telling Noor you heard everything."
"Absolutely not."
"Omar."
"I'm taking it to my grave."
"That's not—"
The bedroom door clicked shut. The apartment fell quiet.
And in the hush that followed, you could almost hear the exact moment Layla remembered that sound traveled through thin walls.
"WAIT—"
But it was too late.