Mr Traveller

I met him on Tagged.

A swipe in the dark, a stranger in the sea of the usual.

July 26, 2020 — his first message landed like a whisper I wasn’t expecting.

A Saudi man. Muslim. Divorced. No kids. Three years my senior.

Carrying his own ghosts, just like me.

Maybe that’s why it felt like we spoke the same language even in silence.

I didn’t plan on anything.

Didn’t let my heart wear its hope on its sleeve.

But he spoke of intentions—of wanting to know me, not just the curated pieces.

We spent two months hiding behind chat bubbles, then he asked to hear my voice.

September 3.

We exchanged numbers. He called right away.

And suddenly, it felt like I’d known him in another life, in another heartbreak.

We talked for hours.

Too many hours.

Too soon, maybe— but something about the way he spoke felt dangerously real.

By day six,

he was talking about marriage.

I should’ve been scared.

But instead, I was quiet…

curious…

unfolding.

September 10.

He sent me his passport. 

I sent mine back— A transaction of trust in .jpg form.

He asked about dowry. 

About visas.

About the cost of promises and the weight of intentions.

And then he said he wanted my father

to be my Wali Nikah.

Not out of duty— but respect.

December 10.

I gave him Dad’s number. He called.

They spoke for twelve minutes.

Words I didn’t hear— but I felt them in the way Dad smiled afterward.

In the way he said, “He’s a good man.”

Alhamdulillah.

Mom?

She’s a storm in a teacup.

One minute, planning centerpieces.

The next, casting doubt like confetti.

But that’s just her— her love is sharp, and sometimes it cuts before it heals.

I’m divorced.

I don’t need permission.

But I wanted Dad’s blessing— and I got it.

That means something.

So here I am, not naïve, not dreaming in pastels.

Just a woman who’s seen enough endings to recognize when a beginning feels sacred.

Bismillah.

Let the story write itself.

Let the ink bleed real.

Let love show up raw, or not at all.