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‘I want a marriage. Not a wedding.’
He sees himself in me as I saw myself in him.
He and I are owed a love story that doesn’t end in tragedy.
I press my forehead against his chest and a relieved sigh escapes me. ‘I love you,’ I murmur.
‘If we die, Salama, at least we die doing the right thing. We die as martyrs.’
My soul expands with love for him.
‘I almost lost you.’
When he cut you, I … I can’t bury you, Salama. I can’t.’
‘Bury me before I bury you,’ he whispers in prayer. ‘Please.’ I clasp his face between my hands, brushing away the teardrops. ‘I—’ ‘I love you,’ he says before I can.
‘It might sound cheesy, but I’m sure our souls met way before they found their way into our bodies. I think that’s where we know each other from.’
‘Silly? How dare you call my wife’s stories silly?’
Fear is a cruel thing. The way it distorts thoughts, transforming them from molehills into mountains.
‘I had to choose. The rest are still inside. They killed babies.’
He raises them, pressing a kiss to each of their foreheads. ‘Forgive us,’
‘Forgive us for our shortcomings.’
‘It was an honour and privilege working with you, Salama. May God keep you alive and well. Please don’t forget us in your prayers.’
‘Whatever happens tomorrow, we’ll be OK. Even if …’
‘Know that even in death, you’re my life.’
And in those final hours of our time in Homs, my bruised heart quietly heals. Cell by cell.
