Tariq was still speaking, his voice hushed, then high, beseeching, then...

Tariq was still speaking, his voice hushed, then high, beseeching, then reasoning; his face hopeful, then stricken.
"I can't," Laila said.
"Don't say that. I love you."
"I'm sorry - "
"I love you."
How long had she waited to hear those words from him? How many times had she dreamed them uttered?
There they were, spoken at last, and the irony crushed her.
"It's my father I can't leave," Laila said. "I'm all he has left. His heart couldn't take it either."
Tariq knew this. He knew she could not wipe away the obligations of her life any more than he could his, but it went on, his pleadings and her rebuttals, his proposals and her apologies, his tears and hers.
In the end, Laila had to make him leave.
At the door, she made him promise to go without goodbyes. She closed the door on him. Laila leaned her back against it, shaking against his pounding fists, one arm gripping her belly and a hand across her mouth, as he spoke through the door and promised that he would come back, that he would come back for her. She stood there until he tired, until he gave up, and then she listened to his uneven footsteps until they faded, until all was quiet, save for the gunfire cracking in the hills and her own heart thudding in her belly, her eyes, her bones.