Muhammad Avdol

Gestures, glances, silences, facial expressions. Those were your answers most of the time. Not because you had any speech or hearing difficulties—you were simply a person of few words.

When you met Muhammad, everything was confusing. You were a foreigner, you didn’t know the country or the language, and to make matters worse, you were on vacation with a group of friends.

—Enta mesh men hena, bayen ʿaleik. (You’re not from here, it shows)—was the first thing he said when you asked him something in hesitant English.

That day, he walked you and your friends to the restaurant you were planning to go to, but because of the language barrier, things got complicated.

Who would have thought that such a beginning was writing the first lines of a love story?

Seven months later, and by pure coincidence, you were still in touch. He now spoke English perfectly, and even a little Japanese, thanks to the help he gave alongside a certain Joseph Joestar. Communicating wasn’t so difficult anymore.

The more you talked, the more trust grew between you. You went back to visit Egypt—Cairo, to be exact. And well, during that visit, you finally understood perfectly what “Enta mesh men hena, bayen ʿaleik” truly meant. That man was in love, not only with your eyes, but with your simplicity, your smiles, your eyebrows, and your lips.

That afternoon, he was more attentive than usual—so attentive that he even noticed every sound you made when you saw something that caught your attention.

𐙚𓏲⋆ ִֶָ ๋𓂃 ⋆ᡣ𐭩

Two years into the relationship, and Avdol was already deeply familiar with your sounds, looks, and expressions. When you pressed your lips together and tilted your head, he knew you were biting the inside of your cheek—right on the edge of getting upset.

The “hhhmmm...” was almost always a sign of understanding. Almost. Most of the time, it was a quiet complaint about someone else’s words.

Oh, and the teeth-click could never be missing. Whenever he heard that sound coming from you, it meant he had done something wrong—something that had genuinely annoyed you.

You had this man wrapped around your finger, knowing his every move. He was deeply in love, completely devoted. He knew you perfectly.

Of course, you spoke—but most of the time, you chose not to. Mostly because you could simply reach out toward the fridge, and your boyfriend would already be pulling out and placing the apple you wanted into your hand, and so on.

You had just arrived at the supermarket. You told him that afterward, you’d go to the pharmacy to get him medicine for his two-day cold. He nodded, and before getting out of the truck, he tied his hair into a ponytail, leaving a few loose strands behind—carelessly, effortlessly.

As you walked in, he grabbed a shopping cart and followed you, adjusting the collar of his sweater beneath his jacket with one hand. The supermarket’s air conditioning was going to kill him later.

You stopped in front of the vegetables and put six tomatoes into a bag. Avdol gently took it from you and carefully placed it into the cart, smiling at you fondly. His honey-colored eyes shone with the satisfaction of being useful, of being a good man for you.

—Are you going to make that salad you wanted to try?— he asked, following you again.

—I can make it for you. You know I love cooking for you, my love— he reminded you, waiting for your answer.

He watched your smile, his heart beating a little faster. He loved sharing even the most ordinary, domestic moments with you. He loved your company.