CHAPTER 8 #2
The history of abuse.
The village.
Work.
The networking dinner.
The arguments.
The week of space.
By the time she finished, the therapist looked tired on her behalf.
"You carry a lot."
Safiya shrugged. "Everybody says that."
"Do you know why?"
"Because there's a lot to carry."
"That's not what I asked."
Safiya frowned.
"Why do you believe it is your job to carry it?"
That question irritated her more than any relationship advice could have.
"If I can help, why wouldn't I?"
"Helping and overfunctioning aren't the same thing."
They talked about hypervigilance. About how uncertainty made Safiya search for clues. About what happened when she felt abandoned.
"I chase understanding," Safiya admitted.
"And what happens when the other person feels chased?"
"They pull away."
"And then?"
"I chase harder."
The therapist nodded.
Safiya hated seeing the cycle reduced to something that simple.
"So I'm the problem?"
"No. You're one person in a pattern. We can only work on the person sitting in this room."
That sentence gave Safiya back some dignity.
She could own herself without owning everyone.
That night she returned to The Ideal Muslimah.
Not as a wife-in-training manual.
As a mirror she was allowed to argue with, research around, learn from and put down when she needed qualified guidance instead of interpretation.
She underlined less.
Thought more.
For the first time, the book belonged to her journey with Allah rather than her performance for Solomon.
? ? ?
On the fourth night, Safiya wanted to call Solomon so badly she wrote his number on paper just to have something physical to be angry at.
She did not call.
Instead she prayed Isha.
Then Witr.
Then sat on the rug staring at nothing.
Her phone remained silent.
She opened a notes app and typed:
Dear Solomon,
The letter poured out.
I miss you.
There are so many things happening that my first instinct is still to pick up my phone and tell you.
I am scared about my family. I am scared about us. I am respecting your space even though every part of me wants reassurance.
I understand now that I embarrassed you at the dinner. I thought I was joking. I did not intend to make you small. But you told me how it landed, and I believe your experience even if hurting you was never my intention.
I also understand that my fear around Zahra is not the same thing as proof.
I do not know what is in her heart.
I know what was in mine.
I was lonely.
Overwhelmed.
Tired of helping everybody.
Tired of hearing about our private world through somebody else.
Tired of finally getting a few hours with you and realizing those hours already belonged to a problem.
I wasn't trying to get rid of Zahra. I was trying to find my way back to you.
Safiya stopped typing.
There it was.
The wound.
The truth.
She continued.
I needed the car rides. The videos. The prayers. The stupid jokes. The future talk. I needed to feel like what we were building had walls around it strong enough to keep it from becoming everybody's meeting place.
You said we are not building right now.
You were right.
I was right too.
We stopped building us.
If we find our way back, I don't want normal. Normal was exhausting us.
I want better.
I want honesty that doesn't require interrogation. Space that doesn't feel like abandonment. Closeness that doesn't require either of us to disappear into the other.
I want Allah in the middle again.
I want you.
But I am learning that wanting you cannot mean abandoning myself.
I love you.
She stared at the final line.
Then saved the note under a title:
FOR LATER, MAYBE NEVER.
She did not send it.
Instead she returned to the prayer rug.
"Ya Allah," she whispered, "everything I want to tell him, help me learn what belongs with You first."
That was the hardest boundary of the week.
Not every feeling needed immediate access to Solomon.
? ? ?
There were still good nights.
That mattered.
One Sunday Solomon cooked while Safiya sat at the counter reading questions from a couples card game she had bought because the internet promised it would create emotional intimacy.
Solomon distrusted anything described that way.
"Question twelve," Safiya said. "What is one thing your partner does that makes you feel loved?"
"Feeds me."
"I don't feed you."
"Exactly. We got work to do."
She threw a card at him.
"Answer seriously."
He stirred the pan. "You research things I mention once."
Safiya stopped.
"What?"
"I can say something random and three days later you got twelve links and a spreadsheet."
"That's romantic to you?"
"It's how you love."
She looked down at the cards.
"Your turn," he said.
Safiya thought.
"You see me."
Solomon's hands slowed.
"Even when I don't want you to."
He turned off the burner.
Safiya continued before she lost nerve. "Sometimes I hate it. But... I spent a lot of my life feeling like people only saw what I could do for them. You notice when I'm scared. Or lying. Or tired. Or pretending I don't care."
"You do all those things a lot."
"And the moment is over."
He laughed and came around the counter.
They stood too close.
Safiya looked up at him.
"We said boundaries."
"I know."
Neither moved.
"Solomon."
"I'm standing here."
"That's the problem."
He smiled.
The kiss started softly and became the kind of kiss that made both of them forget the card game, the food and several promises they had made when desire was not in the room.
Later, the quiet felt different.
Not shame exactly.
Awareness.
They sat apart on the couch.
Safiya stared at her hands. "We keep talking about halal like wanting it is the same as doing the work."
Solomon leaned forward. "I know."
"I don't want Allah to be something we remember after."
He looked at her.
"Me neither."
They made ghusl separately. They prayed. Neither gave the other a speech.
The next morning, Solomon sent her a message before work.
We don't quit trying because we messed up.
Safiya saved that one too.
? ? ?
Zahra noticed the change before Safiya admitted there was one.
They were sitting in Zahra's kitchen while a pot simmered on the stove.
"You've been weird."
Safiya looked up. "I'm not weird."
"See. Weird."
"What did I do?"
"You answer me like customer service now."
Safiya laughed despite herself. "What does that even mean?"
"Like, 'Thank you for your concern. Your friendship is important to us.'"
"Girl, stop."
"I'm serious."
Safiya stirred her drink.
Zahra watched her.
"Is this about Solomon?"
There it was.
Safiya's shoulders tightened.
"What about Solomon?"
Zahra leaned back.
"That."
"That what?"
"Why you acting like I said something crazy?"
Safiya exhaled.
She had promised herself she would communicate directly.
This was the opportunity.
She hated it.
"I think some boundaries got blurry."
Zahra's expression changed.
"With me and Solomon?"
"Yes."
"How?"
Safiya chose her words carefully.
"I don't think you're trying to do anything with him."
"Okay."
"I need you to hear that first."
"I'm listening."
"But sometimes you know things about him before I do. Sometimes y'all talk and I find out afterward. Sometimes I'm trying to get time with him and you're there."
Zahra frowned.
"You've invited me."
"I know."
"And half the time I'm there because we're all doing something."
"I know."
"So what exactly did I do?"
Safiya felt the conversation slipping.
She wanted Zahra to understand without making her defend every individual event.
"It's not one thing."
"Then what is it?"
"It's the amount."
Zahra became quiet.
Safiya continued.
"I helped create it. I'm not putting all this on you. I made us a village. I asked Solomon to help. I wanted us all cool."
"Okay."
"But I don't want to feel like I share my relationship."
Zahra's eyes flashed.
"I never asked you to share your man."
"I didn't say you did."
"It sounds like you are."
Safiya closed her eyes briefly.
This was the exact place where fear usually made her manipulate.
She could bring up Zahra's boyfriend.
She could mention something somebody else had said.
She could stack evidence until Zahra felt cornered.
Instead she tried the vulnerable truth.
"I miss my friend too."
That stopped Zahra.
Safiya's voice softened.
"Before Solomon came home, me and you talked about everything. Now half our conversations somehow involve him."
Zahra looked down.
"And I don't like what it's doing to me. I don't like wondering when y'all talked. I don't like feeling jealous of my own friend. I don't like being irritated when you need help because there was a time I wanted you to call me."
Zahra's eyes filled.
Safiya continued.
"I love you. That's why I'm saying it before I start acting like I don't."
For a long moment Zahra said nothing.
Then: "I love you too."
Safiya nodded.
Zahra wiped under one eye.
"I really do see him like a brother."
"I believe you."
"And sometimes I call him because I don't want to dump everything on you."
Safiya had not considered that.
Zahra continued.
"You work. You got your own stuff. Sometimes he gives practical answers without turning it into a whole therapy session."
Safiya almost laughed.
"That sounds like him."
Zahra smiled weakly.
"But if it's making you uncomfortable, I can pull back."
Relief moved through Safiya.
Then guilt.
"I don't want you feeling abandoned."
"Safiya."
"What?"
"You do this."
"Do what?"
"Ask for a boundary, then immediately offer to erase it so nobody feels bad."
Safiya stared.
Zahra smiled through tears.
"You not the only one who knows people."
Safiya laughed.
Then cried.
They hugged in the kitchen while the pot boiled over.
Neither noticed until the smell changed.
"Oh my God!" Zahra jumped up.
Safiya laughed through her tears. "Growth."
"Shut up and turn the stove off."
"Therapy."
"Safiya!"
"Allah."
"THE POT."
For that night, they were themselves again.
That made what happened later more confusing, not less.