Encountering a Sandstorm While Struggling to Express One's Heartfelt Feelings

During communal living, although my interactions with Mussa were not frequent, the previous tension and unease had largely dissipated. I once believed that simply being in the desert would cause those winding, complex emotions to subside. However, it was not until the two of us—a man and a woman alone—were left behind in the desert that I profoundly realized how utterly mistaken that notion was.

Under the vast and desolate sky, our daily routines and meals all took place in one shared space. I dared not get too close to him, yet feared straying too far, never quite finding the proper distance. Though our tents had also been pitched close to each other in previous days, the presence of others had always prevented awkwardness. Personally, I did not actually mind being alone with a man in this manner, but the moment the companion in question was Mussa, I completely lost my footing.

He truly felt like a tribulation destined upon my life, leaving me utterly at a loss as to what to do.

With no one else around, we could only speak to each other. When words ran out, we would sit in silence, facing one another. Occasionally, when our gazes intersected, I would still feel a flutter of restless anxiety. The daytime was bearable; the scorching heat left us exhausted and listless, our spirits dampened. But once twilight fell, deep into the quiet night when nothing could be heard save the friction of shifting sand grains, I would inevitably recall that close-range kiss from that fateful night. I would nearly wake Mussa then and there, longing to pour out my heart's secrets with earnest sincerity, yet at the very final moment, with a heavy sigh, I would swallow the words back down.

If he had never spoken them, why should I be the one to voice them?

Putting aside the taboos of the white robes, even simply from the standpoint of a man and a woman, I could not afford to place myself in such a disadvantaged position.

Yet the moments in the desert when I felt the most desolate were those when, under such harsh conditions, Mussa steadfastly observed his five daily prayers. During those times, I ceased to exist in his eyes. With his heart turned toward Mecca, he would bow and prostrate himself with absolute devotion, utterly free from any distraction.

On this dusk when the sky darkened far too heavily, Mussa was once again performing his prayers. I glanced sideways at his prostrate figure, said nothing, and turned to climb the high sand dune, a sense of grief and grievance welling up inside me. It was not that I lacked respect for him; it was simply that at every such moment, I felt myself growing so far away from him—so distant that drawing near seemed impossible—until I could no longer bear to watch.

Sitting in a daze upon the dune, I knew not how much time had passed before I felt Mussa approach from behind, whispering softly, "Stop looking. Let's go back."

I raised my head to look at Mussa. His handsome, well-defined silhouette was breathtakingly outlined by the dim light, and within those clear, luminous eyes, a faint trace of anxiety shimmered.

Meeting such a gaze, my heart skipped a beat in panic. I hurriedly lowered my head to avoid his eyes, secretly complaining to myself why he always looked at me with such an expression. If I kept looking, I feared I truly wouldn't be able to hold back from pouring out my affections.

While I was still lost in thought, Mussa's slender, strong hand suddenly grasped my small one. Our hands intertwined, and almost subconsciously, my fingers locked with his. When I finally realized what was happening, my palm trembled, and a reflex made me want to pull my hand back.

At that exact moment, Mussa tightened his grip, halting my movement.

In a flush of sudden heat, I almost wanted to leave my hand in his grasp without letting go, speaking out every single feeling in my heart. Yet the instant I recalled his lofty detachment during prayer—as if he had pushed me far away once again—I reined in my emotions.

"Let me look at the scenery a little longer," I said feebly, once again attempting to break free from his grasp.

Mussa refused to yield, gripping my hand even tighter, a distinct urgency now evident in his voice. "It's not that I won't let you look, but you aren't looking at the scenery at all." With that, he pointed forward with his other hand. "Look for yourself. What on earth is that?"

Hearing this, I finally turned my gaze toward the front. The terrain of our sand dune was quite high, offering an unobstructed view. Far off in the distance, the sky had turned a dull, grayish-yellow. Flying sand and hurtling stones were whipped up by a roaring gale, a tempest of yellow sand dancing wildly across the firmament, while a terrifying, murky miasma blanketed the heavens. And that vast expanse of gray and yellow was sweeping toward us with terrifying, torrential momentum!

We had actually run into a sandstorm!