As the rubab stirs a high note, your steps become a dance. When it slows down, it becomes the melancholic sighs of your longing. When it stops altogether, it becomes his sleeping breaths on the bed next to yours in a countryside where no one knows your names.
Through celebratory lakesides in foreign countries, and castles which the British don't know how to build, and chunks of tortellini thrown out in a creamy bile, your mind tries to find faults which it can't forgive in him. He is arrogant, but so are you. You love how rudely clinking china offends him to no end. He kisses you in trains full of people because he refuses to apologize for what he wants. He is damaged- that much is clear. But he is also brave, and he puts a strong face though you can see that life has dealt him a very bad hand. He tells you it makes him difficult, and very complicated. He thanks you for tea. He thanks you for every conversation. He thanks you for every kiss. You don't understand how one man can turn everything upside down.
He complains that you are very straightforward. You say one thing, and mean exactly that. That you are kind, because you stroke his hair when he is upset. That you make yourself too vulnerable, because you sleep with your head on his chest. That you are funny, because you cure migraines with absurd stories. He says he cannot make peace with these things, that he must talk to you less because it's painful not to be able to see you every single day.
But he is scared of being in love- he actively looks for reasons not to be- though he has been with so many before. And maybe that should be a fault which you shouldn't forgive.