What Comes After Love

September 23.

On the surface, September 23 is just another date in history. 

In 1889, Nintendo was founded, beginning as a humble playing card company that revolutionized the entertainment. In 1909, the Phantom of the Opera made its literary debut, capturing hearts with the tragic tale of a disfigured musical genius. In 1932, the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia was founded, uniting the kingdoms of Hejaz and Nejd under one banner. In 1965, the Indo-Pakistani War came to an end, a tumultuous chapter sealed with a UN-mandated ceasefire over the disputed territory of Kashmir.

But for me, September 23 is the day everything ended. 

Six years, gone in a single conversation. Six years of love, plans, hope—of wanting nothing but a future together, shattered with one quiet goodbye.

They say time flies when you're happy. I know this because those six years felt like a heartbeat. I spent them building a life around us, picturing myself as his wife, as a mother to children with his same chocolate eyes, his laugh that filled the room with so much joy. and his steady heart. I followed every relationship coach on Instagram, saved posts on raising kids, on keeping love alive—like a student preparing for a future I thought was set. 

I wanted to be his everything, the woman who'd be beside him, who'd bring him a life as full of love as he gave me. But somewhere between being happy and holding on, I lost sight of myself.

He was perfect, you know. 

The most perfect man who ever looked my way. I still remember the way he'd make me feel like the most beautiful woman in the room, his eyes holding me like I was something rare, someone precious. He was everything I ever wanted—thoughtful, gentle, smarter than anyone I'd ever met. But, like everyone, he had his edges. We fought, as couples do, but it was always over the same thing, the same woman he kept close, the "situations" he insisted on handling in his own way. I tried to understand. I told myself it was alright, that as long as it was him and me in the end, I could accept it.

But I guess everything has its limits. Somewhere in the years of bending myself to fit around him, I started breaking. 

The "I love you, no matter what" became "I don't know how much more I can take." 

My "It's alright, I understand" turned into "But what about me? What about how I feel?" 

The closer I tried to hold him, the more the fears crept in—the old fear that maybe I wasn't enough, that maybe he'd see through to the ugly parts of me and leave.

I couldn't let go of him. And the more I clung, the more I lost myself. 

I became that person I'd promised I'd never be—controlling, suffocating, desperate, always one step away from falling apart. My own fears poisoned the love I wanted to protect. And he understood; for a long time, he tried. He saw the wounds I carried and did his best to hold me together, to understand. Until one day... 

he didn't... he couldn't.

So here I am, on the other side of September 23, trying to piece together what's left. Six years, and I'm alone again, wondering how I got here, left with the hollow weight of promises I couldn't keep and a future I'll never know. 

_____________

I opened my eyes to the sound of my alarm, though I hadn't slept a blink. 

His voice, his face, every single word he'd said played in a torturous loop in my mind, like a haunting I couldn't outrun. I could still feel the weight of his words pressing down on my chest, the finality of them, like a door slamming shut, sealing me out of a life I'd spent six years building.

And now Iam alone again, holding the pieces of a love that was no longer mine.

My phone sat on the nightstand, inches away, as I stared at it in the darkness.

I spent hours drafting apologies, typing out long paragraphs promising that this time would be different, that I'd trust him more. I'd even written out how I would let go of my fears, set aside my doubts, that I'd be the woman he needed me to be.

But, deep down, I know the truth: Trust is a game I always lose. And now, there was nothing I could say to change his mind.  He didn't want me anymore. He was done, only this time, for good.

I felt helpless, replaying it all, blaming myself, desperate to turn back time. I knew I'd pushed too hard, been too afraid, too insecure, but I wanted to hold him, to tell him I was sorry, that I didn't know how to stop holding on so tightly. But it was too late. Nothing I could say or do would bring him back.

I cried the entire night, and now I probably looked like a puffer fish with swollen eyes and lips. There was no way I could hide this from my sisters.

Tally would definitely give me one of her "I told you so" looks, probably followed by Rhea's usual "You deserve better, Isla."

They'd been saying it for years, each time I went to them crying over Zeke. Every time, they'd tell me the same thing: he's not right for you, or you're too good for this. They couldn't understand why I stayed. And maybe, in the end, neither could I.

"Good morning," Tally greeted as I stumbled out of my room.

"Morning." My voice dry from all the crying. 

She turned, taking one look at my face. "What the hell happened to you?" She blinked, her usual sharp look softening. "Are you okay?"

That was it—the tiniest sliver of warmth in her voice—and it broke me. I crumbled, the tears pouring out again, and I found myself sobbing into her shoulder. I thought I was out of tears, thought I'd cried myself dry last night, but there they were, as endless as the ache in my heart.

Tally sighed and rubbed my back, wordlessly. I don't need to say anything, she already knew. After a minute, she pulled back, her face set with a mix of frustration and pity. "Isla, I know you love him, but... maybe this is for the best?"

I flinched, shaking my head. "No, it's not. I messed up, Tal (Tally). It's my fault, all of it."

"Isla," Rhea said softly, entering the room and exchanging a glance with Tally. She put a hand on my shoulder, her eyes kind but firm. "You're not perfect, okay, but neither was he. And maybe this just... wasn't meant to work."

I could feel my throat tightening. "I wanted it to work," I whispered, more to myself than to them. "I wanted him, our future... all of it. And now, I don't even know who I am without him."

"Maybe that's the problem," Rhea said gently. 

___________

Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and now almost a year has passed. But somehow, it still feels like it all happened yesterday.

There's this hollow space inside me, as if a piece of me is missing. 

Maybe that's what loving someone does—you give every part of yourself without expecting it back the same. They always keep something of you with them, and when it ends, you're never quite whole again.

I went through all the stages: I grieved, I hated, I mourned what Zeke and I had.

I begged, sending email after email those first three months, but his silence felt like a padlock on a door he had closed for good, shutting me out.

If he'd only been kilometers away like before, maybe it would have been easier to appeal my case. But he's now miles away. Him moving back to U.S. two years ago made all my attempts to remedy our situation impossible. 

Before everything happened, we had started my visa application. The plan was to visit him and see if I could picture a life there. I'd always been wary of the country's laws, unsure if it was the place to raise children. But none of that mattered anymore; the unfinished visa application sits in a folder somewhere, another plan with no future.

And so, I'm left with just one choice: to move on.

Starting again is hard without the future we'd once planned. It's the same routine but lonelier—no more morning and goodnight calls, no texts, no virtual dates or trips to plan.

At work, everyone knew I was engaged. The thought of being remembered as the girl who got left after SIX YEARS felt too embarrassing, so I filed my resignation with a faint hope for a fresh start. I needed a new place where I could leave that part of me behind.

It wasn't easy finding a new job.  After eight years here in the UAE, with the last six spent building a future with Zeke that no longer exists, I hadn't exactly built my career with ambition. I'd always seen myself as a wife, not some career-driven "corporate girly." But thanks to Tally and her reliable networks, I landed a position as a marketing specialist in one of the largest events management companies here in the country.

There, I buried myself in work, pouring my energy into projects, dodging the blind dates my sisters kept setting up, and avoiding every social event as much as possible. I knew I wasn't ready yet.

---------------

I'm standing in queue to get my holy drink--Matcha with Almond milk. It's not everyone's favorite but it is the healthiest option for me. I've become careful about what I eat and drink. I stopped consuming alcohol years ago. Zeke forbade me to it after seeing me nearly faint from palpitations. I cut out soda and sugary drinks too, and since then, I've been loyal to my earthy drink. Don't get me wrong, I hated the taste of it too, but overtime it grew on me.

Starbucks is always the busiest spot in this building, likely because it's the only café most people recognize. Aside from it, we're left with local coffee shops that are highly overpriced and serves average-tasting brews. Our office is in a 72-floor-high building mixed of residential and commercial space, and yet, Starbucks is our only real option.

I was 4th in the line when my phone rang.

"Ola." It was Tally. We're Filos but we liked to switch our greetings from Korean, Spanish, and Mexican, depending on the last movie or show we binged.

"Hi besh" she greeted back. "Anj is inviting us to dinner. Karaoke after. She insists that you come"

Here we go again with the Karaoke invitation.

Anj is Tally's colleague who's 51 but has more energy than Tally and I combined. Even in her advanced age, she's single and enjoying it. She's like Carrie Bradshaw, jumping from one whirlwind relationship to another like it's the only thing there is in life. 

One thing I admire about her though— she never gets tired of love, even if she hasn't found "the one." She still believes that her Mr. Big is still out there, and they just haven't crossed paths yet.

I once caved to one of her invitations when my heart was still freshly wounded. After indulging in a meal at her favorite Japanese restaurant, she dragged us to a karaoke bar in the city. There, I belted out "Traitor" by Olivia Rodrigo, feeling every anguished lyric wash over me as I sobbed, tissues in hand to wipe my snotty nose and my throat aching from screaming the chorus:

You betrayed me, 'cause I know that you'll never feel sorry for the way I hurt!

It was a total shit show. I was a mess. But they were there, comforting me, even though they still tease me with the video they took from my dramatic breakdown. Traitors.

"Next" the barista calls. It's gonna be my turn after these two gentlemen in front of me.

"I can't besh sorry. I have meetings lined up tomorrow and I need to prepare. Next time, alright? Ciao!"

I ended the call and crossed my arms as I waited for them to finish their orders.

Here in UAE, it is not polite to stare, so no prolonged gazes or shameless ogling—which is sometimes difficult because believe it or not, Middle East has the finest-looking human beings on earth.

God has really taken His time in crafting their breed-- one of the first things that I adored about Zeke.

Ezekiel is the perfect mix of Egyptian American, standing at a solid 5'9" with a lean physique that boasts just the right muscles in all the right places.

He carries an effortless regality that turns heads-- an olive complexion kissed by the Gulf sun, now a couple of shades lighter since moving to U.S. The natural blush from the heat only added to his appeal, making it impossible not to be drawn to him. And those chocolate-brown eyes? They're like a pool I could drown in-- deep and expressive framed in full brows and thick lashes that I still curse my Asian genes for not having.

His voice warm and comforting, like velvet, and he radiates the confidence of a pharaoh without the arrogance, making him both welcoming and charismatic.

Let's not forget his impeccable style—Zeke knows how to dress like he just stepped off a runway, always effortless. He has that inviting, intelligent vibe that makes you want to have deep conversations and then laugh at his quick wit.

Honestly, it's infuriating just how perfect he is, and I miss the motherfucker more than I'd like to think.

I may have been heartbroken but I am not blind. These men in front of me are just as dazzling, if not even more. 

I've always been fascinated with Arabs and how they kept their culture of modesty and elegance. The way they move, talk, laugh, all with finesse and an air of class that's impossible to ignore. They scream royalties, especially the locals. And don't even get me started on their perfume! The warm and intoxicating smell of oud, amber, musk, and sandalwood leaves traces everywhere, letting everyone know they've graced the place with their presence. The women, too--with their abayas and graceful movements, like they're gliding through life. I've tried to copy that elegance, but in my case, it usually ends up in me tripping over my own feet.

One thing about them though: they do everything in their own sweet time. Especially when they're discussing something. Like right now, these two men are deep in conversation, standing casually in line as if they've all the time in the world.

The guy in the Kandura, definitely a local, looks like he walked straight out of a magazine, with his perfectly groomed beard and the crisp white robe that's practically glowing. He's deep in conversation with the other man in a matching tan suit, who's just as striking. From the back, Mr. Tan Suit has that effortless vibe, he's about Zeke's height, maybe taller. The way his suit hugs his frame—not too tight, just right—and his slightly tousled hair. He looks polished and he doesn't even have to try at all. They're chatting in Arabic, and though I don't understand a word, the tone of their conversation sounds somewhere between intense and amused.

"Next," the barista calls, snapping me back to the front of the line.

"Hi, good morning!" I try to be quick with my order. "One grande matcha with almond milk, hot, no flavor. Thank you." After paying, I found an empty chair and sat. I pull out my phone to check my emails, trying to tackle a few before my morning ritual begins.

Unfortunately, one of the new emails is from Janette, my ever-delightful supervisor who seems to wake up every morning hoping I'll quit. Today's gem is a demanding message cc-ing every manager we have, asking to explain a mishap on a project that I was barely involved in.

I start drafting a response, hoping to keep my tone professional, even as my phone starts buzzing with her name flashing for the second time in just a minute. I ignore it, determined to get my first sip of matcha before dealing with whatever crisis she's gonna bring.

"One grande matcha with almond milk for Is-la!" the barista calls out, as usual mispronouncing my name. It's supposed to be "Ayla," like the word aisle, but I gave up correcting people ages ago.

I head to the counter, but the two men from earlier are still standing there, cups in hand, still deep in conversation. Normally, I'd keep my distance and wait for them to move, but Janette's name lights up my screen for the third time, and I just want to grab my drink and go. So, I stretch my arm over the counter, quickly grab the only cup available, and make a beeline for the door. I'm about to take a calming sip when my phone buzzes again, that's when I hear a man talking. 

"Hi, excuse me—this drink tastes a little... off?" Curious I turn around to see Mr. Tan Suit holding a cup out to the barista. There's a hint of mischief in his voice, but his expression reads pure confusion. He once again lifts the cup he was holding like it's a strange potion he's just discovered, raising his brow with both amusement and... judgment. That's when it hit me.

I looked down at the cup in my hand and saw the label: Latte. And scrawled in Sharpie is the name Aaron.

Feeling embarrassed, I approach the counter, "That's actually mine," I told him, already convinced that the "off" taste is my matcha. Trying to sound as dignified as possible. "I think we've got each other's orders."

He hands my matcha back, his amused grin widening. "Your drink choice is... interesting," he says with a smirk that hints he's imagining all kinds of horrors that are in the cup. I grabbed it back not planning on drinking it anymore.

I raise an eyebrow, equal parts offended and annoyed. Before I can respond, I notice the man in the white kandura next to him has turned his head, raising an eyebrow at our exchange. Great, now I look rude and clueless in front of these strangers.

I clear my throat, cheeks burning. "Here's your drink. I didn't actually... touch it or anything." I say, desperately clinging to some semblance of dignity. "I mean, I can get you a new one if you'd like. Really." I wave the latte in front of him as if trying to erase any doubt.

His eyes twinkle with barely contained amusement, but he takes his drink back gracefully. "It's fine, don't worry about it," he says, his smile kind but undeniably entertained. "I'll just chalk it up as an unexpected adventure."

"Let me replace yours," he added. "It's only right since I ruined your morning pick-me-up."

He lifts the cup in a mock toast as if this entire mix-up was just a quirky start to his day. Trying to ignore the heat rising in my cheeks, I wave him off. "It's fine. I'm in a rush. Enjoy your Latte."

I mumble a quick "thanks" and turn to make my exit, leaving them both, my dignity, and what's even worse, without matcha to drink.

Finally out of the coffee shop, I head to the elevator, already bracing myself to face Jannette's wrath once I'm back at my desk. But as the elevator doors close, I replay the coffee mix-up in my mind, and a cold wave of realization hits me. I was going to take a sip from his coffee cup. My lips had brushed the edge of that cup. My lip gloss, the unmistakable shiny layer, must be right there on the lid. And Mr. Tan Suit is definitely going to see it! 

He might even think I outright lied about not taking a sip!

I cringe, mortified, imagining him noticing that glossy mark and piecing it all together. My attempt at playing it cool probably just ended up making me look ridiculous.

By the time I reach my floor, I'm debating whether I should just pretend this morning never happened.

What if I run into him again?! That glossy reminder of his "untouched" drink will be the first thing he remembers. Perfect. Just perfect.