We were never meant to stay.

[Bl****]

Dubai always felt like a beautiful lie. All gold and glass, full of people pretending they had it all figured out. I never bought into it. But I kept going back.

Four times, three months at a time. I’d quit whatever construction job I had going in the UK, pack up, and fly back into that desert city where everything was too clean, too controlled, too hollow. Each time I told myself I’d keep to myself, make my ***, get out. But that never lasted. Not after Asma.

I worked in the school offices, handling admin work for my brother. Asma was a teacher. Arabic, graceful, quiet, married. She’d come by often to check in on paperwork for her and her husband, and each time, there was something in the way she spoke to me that made it hard to breathe. She was confident in the classroom, but shy around me. I started to notice how her voice softened, how her hands fidgeted with her scarf.

That summer, the school emptied out. Most of the expats left for the holidays, leaving behind only a few staff and maintenance workers. The heat was unbearable during the day, so I started using the school’s gym instead of running outside. One morning, Asma found me there sweaty, breathless, headphones still in and asked if me or my brother could send someone to fix her car.

Later that week, after doing some filing, I decided to take a look at it myself just to see if we needed to call someone out or if it was something simple. I worked on that car for three hours. In that time, she came out again and again checking on me, bringing me water and cold drinks. She left the front door open but pulled the screen shut.

Then I saw her.

She untied her scarf, slowly letting her hair fall free. Wavy, dark, just as I imagined it. I shouldn’t have looked. She was married, and from what I could tell, devout. But I couldn’t stop. And she saw me watching.

That’s when she started teasing me. Soft words laced with something new something forbidden. She changed into lighter clothes, still covered, but more skin showing than ever before. Her voice dropped lower when she talked. She mentioned how unhappy she was with her husband, how she wanted to go back to her homeland. I couldn’t take it anymore. I made an excuse and left. I was starting to lose control.

Over the next four weeks, I texted her every day. And even after I left Dubai, the messages didn’t stop. For nearly a year, we kept talking growing closer with every word, every secret. Then one night she FaceTimed me. She was different tipsy, emotional, laughing and crying all at once.

“I miss you,” she cried, then started undressing right in front of me. “You’re a coward. You never told me what you really wanted.”

I panicked. I told her I didn’t understand, apologized, and ended the call. We didn’t talk for a while after that at least not on calls but we kept texting.

Then, last November, I started getting calls from a unknown number. I ignored them at first, until I got a message: “Answer. I need help. I’m lost.”

It was Asma.

She told me she had just left London and got on the wrong train. That I had to come get her. That I once promised she could visit me and now she was cashing that in. She said she’d left her husband, didn’t need a big room, just me.

After a few hours I found her. Took her home. Let her stay at my place.

That night, we sat together for hours. We talked. Joked. Flirted. She kept slapping my arm whenever I teased her, and I’d block her gently, grinning. “Keep doing that,” I said, “and I’ll have to hit back.”

She giggled and raised her hand again to playfully slap me but I caught her. My hand wrapped around her chin, then slid down to her neck. I couldn’t help myself. I kissed her.

“I tried so hard not to be this way,” I whispered.

She smiled. “Part of you knew you were seducing me even if you won’t admit it.”

I kept kissing her. Touching her. Her skin was warm and soft, her hair thick and wild in my hands. She told me she’d never been with anyone but her husband. She told me she just wanted to feel wanted.

I went down on her, took my time with her thighs, kissed every inch I could. Then she looked at me with eyes full of something like desperation and said, “You might never get this chance again. Don’t hold back.”

I didn’t.

I made love to her like I’d never touched a woman before. Possessive. Passionate. Raw. I gave her everything I had. And for the three weeks she stayed, we barely left the room. Two, sometimes four times a day. She gave herself to me completely.

Before she left, she told me she hoped she was pregnant. That I shouldn’t worry her family had *** and she would never tell, and she’d always remember me. But she said we could never see each other again. That this wasn’t love. It was something wild. Something that had to burn itself out.

We haven’t spoken since.

And as much as she meant to me… I know she was right.

We were never meant to stay.

[Mr****]

God fucking damn. What a trip this was. Wow.

[py****]

Dude fuck that you know you more than probably love her tell her if u don't you will regret it at least let her know