I woke to strange sounds in the dark—low humming that turned into giggling. My husband, Sayed, was beside me, his arms flapping awkwardly, lips forming broken syllables, eyes rolled back. For a moment, I thought it was a dream, but it wasn’t.
I screamed his name. He didn’t respond. Panic consumed me as I grabbed my phone and called 911. By the time paramedics arrived, he had gone still. His face looked peaceful, and that terrified me more than the convulsions themselves.
At the hospital, tests and scans followed. The doctor called it a mild seizure, likely triggered by stress or sleep deprivation. Stress. Sleep deprivation. Words that floated through me while I stared at the fragile version of the man I knew.
A nurse asked if he’d shown unusual behavior. I lied. But deep down, I knew better. For months, Sayed had been unraveling—long hours at work, secretive phone calls, late-night murmurs to someone named Nadia. I had ignored it, wanting to be the supportive wife.
Two days later, he was released with instructions to rest. At home, he seemed attentive but distant, always on his phone. The messages continued. The night calls resumed. Nadia’s name stayed lodged in my mind like a splinter.
One afternoon, his phone buzzed while he showered. I picked it up.
The messages were open. Nadia’s texts revealed worry over his episodes, along with videos of him laughing, flapping his arms, murmuring in a childlike voice—the same sounds that had jolted me awake.
When he came out, he admitted the truth: dissociative episodes, sleepwalking, and the online therapist, Nadia, who had been the only one to witness them. He feared I’d see him as broken or dangerous.
We sat in silence. I placed his phone on the table. “We don’t survive secrets,” I said. That night, for the first time in months, we fell asleep together honestly. No humming, no laughter—just the fragile sound of two people awake in the dark, finally facing the truth.
