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When was the last time she had celebrated her birthday?
There had been times where she completely lost her sense over time and space, celebrations were the last thing on her mind, especially those for an existence that felt more like a battle for every new day.
There was no sense of relief that she had made it another year, there were no joyful exclamations of love and well wishes for what was to come next.
When she was a child, Farah would count the days until her birthday like it was a holy ritual. She would try not to smile when Hadir tried to hide whatever gift he could buy with the little allowance he had saved up for months and months, wrapping her gift into makeshift wrapping paper he had designed himself.
Little colorful swirls and dots lovingly drawn in crayon and pen.
Baba and Mama would prepare a small feast for them and the rest of the family, she was happy.
Truly happy.
Every birthday meant another year she got to spent with her family.
Until it was cut short by the occupying forces.
Birthdays lost their meanings when her childhood got cut short.
There was no comfort in thinking about the days that Mama would and Baba would work in the kitchen, laughing and softly scolding Hadir and her for playing tag around the house.
Not knowing that one day, Farah’s knowledge of the hiding places around the house would save her life.
It was a bitter exhale that ripped Farah out of the spiral of thoughts that was slowly drowning her.
She felt a soft rumble move the chest she held so dearly, even when her mind went places it shouldn’t.
“Habib albi, what’s wrong?”
Alex used to love to call himself a light sleeper, but Farah could pride herself with the knowledge that he slept soundly when he was with her.
His voice was hoarse with sleep, but his worry still made her chest tighten.
“... I was thinking about my birthdays, you know, the ones that I got to spent with my family.”
She had never told him about her birthday, not about the date or the celebrations. Nothing.
And he respected it.
He respected her so deeply that sometimes it felt like a betrayal to not tell him, but she knew that she needed time.
In her entire lifetime, she would never be whole again, she knew that just as well as Alex.
And yet?
And yet there he was, turning over to face her in the pale light of the moon, eyes swollen from interrupted sleep, his hands softly holding hers as he guided them to his lips, kissing them softly.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Did she?
“Mama and Baba used to cook for me all day long, we would eat the leftovers for at least two days after my birthday, even if my family took home leftovers.”
There was a soft smile on his face, he looked beautiful that way. He always did, but there was such a beautiful melancholy on his face that reminded her of all the poems Baba used to recite for Mama, the ones that made her face scrunch up.
I hope that one day you will find someone who will make you understand these words, amar.
Farah felt her chest tighten, how she would have loved to tell Baba that he was right. She finally understood the words of the poets, she understood all the sweet words written in song and every beautiful piece of art that didn’t make sense before.
Sometimes she wondered if there were echos of her parents love in what Alex and her had now.
There was a quiet hope deep inside her that once the fight was over, once her people would be free - she could live a domestic life with Alex. Learn how to be bored of the mundane.
But for now it were dreams she was chasing like she should have chased butterflies as a child.
“Were they good cooks?”
“The best! The whole house would smell of spices, vegetable, fruit and cooked meat. When the weather was nice, Baba would grill some meat outside and we would all wait for him to finish.”
A soft laugh escaped her, one that didn’t sound as broken as the one that Alex got used to hearing, this was a child laughing as she remembered better days, “Sometimes it felt like everyone was more excited about the food than my birthday! Me included.”
Only because the it felt guaranteed that there would be more birthdays, maybe one where she would finally center herself, but at times she was glad that she had enjoyed the time with her family over everything else.
She never thought of herself as the center of anything - but she had become the leader of the resistance because she had to be.
She had to be strong, she had to be a leader for her people.
But here with Alex, lying together in the dark, she could be the girl she thought she had lost so many years ago.
“Do you think we could recreate those dishes?”
There was a look of disbelief on her face, not because the words hurt her, but she had never even considered that it was an option, “… I am not a very good cook and I doubt that you are one either.”
One half of the statement was real, the other one was just a little tease.
“Hey! My boxed chocolate cake is delicious!”
“I am sure they are, rohi.”
His features softened into a wide smile again, “Maybe one day I will bake one for you, for your birthday.”
Farah hummed softly, “I will make Mama’s musakhan and Baba’s quzi.” There were no promises that it would be as good as the way they made it, but she would have years and years to practice.
How strange.
She used to think no further than the battle being over one day, the future afterwards felt too abstract, too blank.
Who was she when she wasn’t fighting?
Who was she, when she wasn’t the leader of the liberation of her people?
For the first time in years the answer felt so much more tangible, so much realer.
Closer to her heart.
It was lying right next to her, promising that one day he would learn how to bake the best birthday cake by scratch.
“I’ll be an old man, and my hands will be shaking but I promise you, you’ll cry tears of joy, telling me it’s the best cake you have ever had!”
“I’ll hold you to it, Mr Keller.”
“I hope you will, ma’am.”