We met at work.
She wore elegance like perfume…
softly spoken, sharp-minded,
lightning-fingered on a keyboard.
I was the sun—always smiling.
Freckles, fire,
too loud for silence.
Team leader.
The one who got things done.
We laughed like teenagers in our thirties,
shared lipstick and secrets.
We clicked…
like seat belts before a long drive.
Our friendship bloomed
over late-night calls,
theatre tickets we couldn’t afford,
packed holidays with clothes we’d never wear.
Mini cruises, rum punch,
and promises we’d never break.
Then came the pain…
sharp, fast, unkind.
A war within my bones and mind.
Headaches became howls.
Light became a weapon.
My balance swayed.
My body wept.
My strength decayed.
Hands that couldn’t hold a pen…
betrayal in bone.
Thoughts scattered.
Going through changes,
unable to work.
She became distant.
I wanted my bestie…
Doctors said migraine.
I said, No!
They called it stress—
that it was all in my head.
They were right,
but not in the way they meant.
My body whispered something else.
The neurosurgeon gave it a name,
wrapped in medical Latin
I couldn’t pronounce.
And a date.
Not soon.
Wednesday.
Brain surgery.
Just like that.
They wheeled me in.
Hours later,
I heard a nurse whisper:
“We almost lost this one.”
I lived…
but barely.
A month of tubes and staples.
I toileted with help.
I couldn’t feed myself.
I couldn’t cry,
not without breaking more.
I counted visitors like prayers—
my husband, my family,
other friends.
The ward was loud with other people’s pain.
But her silence roared the loudest.
She never came.
My once-in-a-lifetime friend…
the woman who knew my passwords,
my secrets of old,
who saw me…
really saw me…
Until she didn’t…
Two weeks after I came home,
she breezed in,
smiling like nothing happened.
She poured her own tea,
looked me up and down and said:
“You look perfectly fine.”
Like all my pain was a tease.
Hair shaved, staples like a zipper,
my scar ran from ear to spine.
Hands trembling.
I asked,
“Why didn’t you come?”
She sipped her tea,
rolled her eyes.
“Come on… you don’t look sick to me.”
A backhanded compliment.
A doubt.
She leaned in,
looked me straight in the eyes:
“May Jehovah God forgive you for this lie—
as there’s obviously nothing wrong with you.”
Was I in a parallel universe?
Who was this person I called Friend?
When did she become so holy?
The words stung.
A reality check.
And just like that,
you watched me die.
Not the flesh—
but something more.
The trust.
The bond.
The soul’s deep core.
You judged the scar you couldn’t see.
You buried what was left of me.
I stood, through pain,
barely able to hold my frame.
This way, I pointed.
Your bag in hand,
I opened for you, the door.
No need for poison anymore.
Don’t let your shadow darken my door.
“What kind of friend?” I asked once more…
but I already knew.
I closed the door.
Love wears a mask until it slips…
تِلكُمُ النُدبة!
كلمات: فاليري ماركيز
ترجمة: ميّ العيسى
“ها! لا تَبدين مريضة بالنسبة لي”
بضربةٍ خفيّة
على ما أشكّ.
انحت، وبنظرة في عينيّ:
“فليغفر لكِ الربّ على أكذوبتك هذه
لا تبدو عليك أيّة إشارة لذلك.”
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- *Material should not be published in another periodical before at least one year has elapsed since publication in Whispering Dialogue. *أن لا يكون النص قد تم نشره في أي صحيفة أو موقع أليكتروني على الأقل (لمدة سنة) من تاريخ النشر. *All content © 2021 Whispering Dialogue or respective authors and publishers, and may not be used elsewhere without written permission. جميع الحقوق محفوظة للناشر الرسمي لدورية (هَمْس الحِوار) Whispering Dialogue ولا يجوز إعادة النشر في أيّة دورية أخرى دون أخذ الإذن من الناشر مع الشكر الجزيل
