The Pulse That Never Died
Eighteen years passed as if they were a cold century.
Eighteen years in which no hand touched hers to make it tremble,
no whisper reached her ears to melt the ice of her soul.
She spent her days between work and a deadly stillness—
a body that had mastered silence,
and a heart that had forgotten the melody of its own beat.
Until he returned.
The evening was warm, the air light,
when her eyes met his.
He said nothing, and she asked nothing… he simply drew closer.
In a single moment, everything shattered—
caution, years, drought,
and the dryness with which she had rationed her femininity.
As if she had been waiting only for this look,
this touch that returned her to herself.
He embraced her without words.
She closed her eyes.
His body was warm, familiar,
reading her as if the years had never passed.
His lips were letters written upon her neck,
his hands a long poem inscribed on her waist
with the longing of a man who had not forgotten his passion,
and a woman whose fire had never been extinguished.
She tasted herself anew,
gasped as though being born.
She sighed his name,
whispered to him things she had never even confessed to herself.
She laughed, she cried,
and clung to him as if the world beyond this moment were worthless.
It was the first time she felt like a woman after all that absence—
a woman desired, wanted, and loved.
She did not ask where this road would lead,
because she was finally alive:
every cell dancing, every breath igniting,
every pulse screaming:
“I am still worthy of love.”
By Dr. Ahmed Alqaysi
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