A House with Two Rooms

Once, Areej and Saad were the perfect couple. They met in college. Saad was smart and quiet. Areej was kind and full of life. Together, they dreamed of a future filled with love, laughter, and little arguments that would end with hugs.After graduation, they got married. Everyone said, “Mashallah, such a beautiful couple.” In the beginning, everything was new and exciting. They decorated their small apartment with cheap fairy lights and big dreams. They watched movies under one blanket, shared one plate of food, and believed nothing could ever come between them.But love is not just in good moments. It’s tested in the hard ones.

Two years into marriage, life began to shift. Saad got a demanding job at a bank. He started coming home late, tired and stressed. Areej stayed home, hoping for his attention, his time, his smile—but his eyes were always tired, and his words were short.At first, she understood.“He’s working hard for us,” she told herself.But days turned to weeks, and the silence between them grew.“Why don’t we talk anymore?” Areej asked one evening.Saad sighed, “I’m tired, Areej. You won’t understand.”She smiled sadly. “Try me.”But he didn’t.And that’s when the house began to feel cold—not because of winter, but because two hearts had stopped speaking.Areej noticed the small things first.He stopped asking how her day was. He no longer brought her flowers.He forgot their anniversary.She tried to bring back the warmth. She made his favorite food, wrote little notes, even dressed up just like she used to. But Saad hardly noticed.One night, she cooked a special dinner.Saad came home late, barely touched the food, and went straight to sleep.She sat alone at the table, the candle melting, her eyes too.That night, she wrote in her diary:

“How do you live with someone who no longer sees you?”

The Breaking Point

The fights started small.“Why don’t you help around the house?” “You never appreciate what I do!” “I work all day! I’m not a robot!” Words turned sharp. Eyes turned cold. Love turned into routine.One evening, after a long fight, Saad shouted, “Maybe we were never meant to be!” Areej stood still, like time had stopped. She whispered, “Then why did we fight so hard to be together?” There was no answer. That night, they slept in different rooms—for the first time.And that’s when the house truly became two rooms, two people, two stories—with no bridge in between.

Days passed in silence.They avoided each other like strangers. They ate separately, spoke only when needed. Areej cried quietly. Saad looked away. One day, Areej’s mother came to visit. She saw her daughter’s dull face, and Saad’s distant eyes. After dinner, she held Areej’s hand and said, “A marriage doesn’t break with one fight. It breaks with every day we stop trying.” That night, Areej sat on the balcony, thinking about her mother’s words.She remembered the Saad who laughed at her silly jokes, the Saad who once said, “I’ll never hurt you.”And she wondered—was that man still there?

Next morning, Areej left a note on Saad’s pillow. *“Let’s talk. Not fight. Just talk. Tonight. Please.”*When Saad read it, something inside him moved.He came home early. For the first time in months, they sat together without phones, without anger—just two people with wounds they both caused.“I miss you,” Areej said.“I miss us,” Saad replied.They talked for hours—about pain, pressure, loneliness, fear. About how love isn’t just a feeling, but a daily choice. And how both had stopped choosing. "I wanted to be your partner, not just someone you live with,” Areej said, eyes full of tears.“I wanted to protect you, but I ended up pushing you away,” Saad whispered.And for the first time in a long time, they held hands—not out of habit, but out of hope.

Healing was slow.Some days were still quiet, but not cold. They started sharing meals again, laughing at small things, remembering why they chose each other.They went to therapy, prayed together, and promised to be honest—even when it’s hard.Their home was no longer perfect, but it was real.One evening, Areej lit a candle at dinner. Saad smiled and said, “Is this for me or the mood?”She laughed, “Both.”The flame flickered—but it didn’t die.

The End.