As she stepped across the threshold of the room she had avoided for so long, her legs felt unsteady, as though they were betraying her, taking her deeper into a reality she was not prepared for.

The door creaked open, revealing the room she had never dared to enter—Mustafa's sanctuary, a space they had once envisioned together, but she had never been able to fully acknowledge. It was more than just a nursery. It was a shrine to a future she had long buried, a dream that had slipped through her fingers like sand.

She stepped inside, her breath catching in her throat as she took in the sight. The walls, painted a soft pastel hue, were adorned with whimsical designs of animals and clouds. A crib, carefully assembled, stood in the center of the room. It was small, but sturdy, and neatly arranged with soft, pastel-colored sheets. Above it, a mobile of soft, plush animals spun lazily in the air, as if waiting for a baby who would never be cradled in its arms.

Her heart began to pound in her chest, a mixture of grief and disbelief settling into her bones. Her gaze drifted to a small shelf against the far wall, where an assortment of toys, bottles, and baby clothes were neatly folded, waiting for their rightful owner. Each item seemed to mock her, as if they existed in a parallel universe where things were perfect, where she had never left him.

But it was the small desk in the corner of the room that drew her attention next. A pile of papers sat there—diet charts, medical records, and other notes that she could only assume were his attempt at preparing for their child's arrival. She flipped through them absentmindedly, but then one item caught her eye—an old recorder, the kind that people use to take voice notes. Curiosity gnawed at her, and she picked it up, unsure of what she would hear, but unable to resist the temptation.

Her thumb hovered over the play button for a moment, before she pressed it.

Mustafa's voice crackled through the small speaker.

"Sharjeena," he began, his voice hoarse but familiar, like the voice she had once loved so deeply. "I'm doing this because... I don't know. I don't know how else to talk to you. But this—this is for our baby. For our daughter. I need you to know that even though... even though I'm lost right now, I'm trying. I'm trying for her. I'm trying for you."

Sharjeena's breath caught in her throat. She paused the recording, staring at the device as her mind struggled to process the words. Mustafa, the man who had withdrawn from her so completely when they needed each other most, was speaking as though he was still holding onto something. Still holding onto her.

She hit play again, and his voice continued, raw and vulnerable.

"I'm not the man I used to be. You can probably see that. But I love you, Sharjeena. I love you more than I've ever known how to express. And I know I've been distant, I know I've hurt you, but I swear to you, I'm trying to be better. I'm trying for us. I've been doing all this, even when you're not here. I've been getting the nursery ready. I've been trying to understand what our daughter needs. I—I don't know what I'm doing, but I'll learn. I'll learn for her. Because I won't let her grow up without knowing she's loved. I promise you, Sharjeena, I'll try harder. I'll keep trying."

Her fingers trembled as she paused the recorder again. She stared at the device in her hands, feeling as though the world was spinning around her, throwing everything into disarray. He had been doing all this—for her. For their baby. And she had no idea. Not a single clue. He had kept it all to himself, carrying the weight of his fears and regrets, alone in silence.

As if on impulse, she played another recording.

"I hate myself sometimes," Mustafa's voice came through again, shaky and pained. "I hate myself for how I treated you, Sharjeena. I couldn't be what you needed. I couldn't be the man you deserved, and I still don't know if I can. But I want to. I want to be better, for you, for our family. God, I just—I just want you to be happy. I want us to be happy."

Sharjeena's heart shattered. The words rang in her ears, mixing with the sound of her own sobs that had already begun to rise from deep within her chest. She couldn't stop the tears, couldn't stop the overwhelming sense of guilt that was clawing at her. How had she not seen it? How had she not noticed that he had been trying to love her in his own broken way?

Her body shook as she clutched the recorder to her chest, feeling her entire being unravel. How had they gotten here? How had they both become so lost in their own pain that they couldn't see the love they still had for each other?

Her eyes landed on the papers again. She gathered them up, her hands trembling as she skimmed through medical records and antidepressant prescriptions. Mustafa had been suffering. He had been dealing with his own depression, struggling to find a way to balance the weight of his grief with the hope that he could be a good father, a good husband. But he had kept it hidden, buried beneath the quiet, self-destructive silence that had slowly taken over him.

There were reports that outlined his medical conditions, his diagnosis of depression, the medications he had been prescribed. But there were also notes of him not taking care of himself, of him pushing away treatment, of him refusing to ask for help. It was a cycle—a vicious, never-ending cycle. He had been suffering, silently. Alone. And so had she.

The realization hit her like a ton of bricks. All this time, all this pain... it had never been about their love fading. It had been about two people so deeply wounded by the world, by their own selves, that they couldn't reach each other. They had been too broken, too scared to ask for help, too lost in their own darkness to see the light that still flickered between them.

And now, staring at the evidence of Mustafa's suffering, Sharjeena finally understood. He hadn't stopped loving her. He had been too caught up in his own self-loathing to show it. He had been drowning in his depression, while she had been drowning in her anger and grief.

Her tears flowed freely now, sobs wracking her chest as she sank to the floor, surrounded by the remnants of their shared dreams. She had been so angry at him, so consumed by the hurt that he had caused her. But now, she saw it—the raw, untold pain that he had been carrying. She saw the love that he had tried to show in the only way he knew how.

Maybe... maybe it wasn't too late for them. Maybe they could still heal.

But the thought was fleeting, as her heart broke for both of them—the lost time, the missed chances, the suffering they had both endured. How could they have let this happen?

The tears wouldn't stop, and the ache in her chest only deepened, but she knew one thing for certain: their love had never died. It had just been buried beneath so much pain, so much silence. And now, as she sat there surrounded by the remnants of their lost dreams, she had to face the hardest truth of all.

She had to find a way back to him.

Before it was too late. Little did she know maybe it was already too late for them.