My name is Ghada. I’m 23 years old—a girl from Algeria, born into a conservative and modest family. I’m the eldest of my siblings, yet I never truly lived with them. From the moment I was born, I was raised in my grandmother’s house on my father’s side, surrounded by my aunts, who felt more like sisters. Life in that house was strict and cold—not cruel, but empty of tenderness.

When I turned 15, my parents and siblings moved to their own home, but I stayed behind. No one forced me. It just happened. I remained with my grandmother’s family, growing up in a house where encouragement was rare, where kind words were absent, where no one ever told me, “You can do it,” or “We believe in you.” And that silence shaped me. Or maybe... broke me.

I was spoiled in material things, yes—but I was starving emotionally. I failed at school, I failed in love. Or maybe I failed to understand what love even was. I clung to any sweet word, any boy who said, “I love you,” only to end up shattered. Yet still, I saw myself as beautiful: soft hair, brown eyes, pale skin, a slender frame. But beauty didn’t protect me from pain. In a world that punishes the soft-hearted, it meant nothing.

All I ever wanted was to escape my reality—to marry a man who loved me, protected me, lifted me up. Someone kind, someone wealthy, someone who would treat me like a queen. One night, out of quiet desperation, I downloaded a matchmaking app that connected Arabs with foreigners... and I searched.

Message after message. Profile after profile. Until his name appeared: Anwar.

A Tunisian man, 47 years old, calm in his words, gentle in his tone. He didn’t shower me with compliments, but there was respect in his voice. He called me “dear.” He listened. He didn’t judge. Slowly, without realizing it, I started to care.

He was handsome in Ghada’s eyes. His skin was dark, his features mature. He wasn’t the man girls dream of on magazine covers—but to me, he was everything. I didn’t even have a proper phone to see him clearly, my camera was blurry, my speaker barely worked. Still, he didn’t laugh at my broken device. He didn’t make me feel small.

Instead, he said, “Don’t worry, my dear. I’ll send you a better phone. You deserve the best.” And in that moment, I felt... seen. Loved. Worthy.

That’s how it began.

What I didn’t know then was that meeting Anwar would change everything. That my life wouldn’t just shift—it would unravel. That dreams would start haunting me. That my body and soul would begin to react to something unseen. That perhaps... fate was playing a much bigger game.

This story is not just about love. It’s about longing. About the silence that raises a girl. About the kind of magic no one speaks of. About healing, heartbreak, and the quiet wars we fight alone.

This is the story of Ghada.

And it’s only the beginning.

I was a poor girl... I had a phone, but not like the ones other girls had. Yet he never made me feel less. I had never received a gift in my life — not even once — until I turned 23. One day, he asked for my address, saying he wanted to send me a present. I gave it to him, and fifteen days later, I went to pick it up.


It was a big box, so big I wondered how I would carry it. I hadn't told my family anything about Anouar. I just told my grandmother that a friend from France had sent me a package — I had used her name since I didn't have a mailbox of my own.


That day, the weather was stormy, and I remember her walking with me to collect it. We brought it home, and my father happened to be there. I told him I received a gift, and when I opened the box… it was full of everything a girl could ever wish for.


A brand-new phone, high-quality Bluetooth earbuds I've never seen in stores since, all kinds of French and Tunisian chocolates and sweets, and the finest makeup I had only dreamed of.


I found in that box not just material things — but love. A deep, caring, thoughtful love. I was stunned. Was this really for me? For the same Ghada who used to buy expired makeup from street stalls? Was this red lipstick, so perfect, really mine?


I laughed and cried. It was the most expensive gift I'd ever received. And now, five years later, I'm writing this very story using that same phone. It has become a witness to a love story that changed everything.


I called him right after and told him, with the voice of the happiest girl alive. I went to class and told my friends, 'Look at my phone! It's the most beautiful one!' Me — the girl who used to borrow theirs to take pictures.


Every morning at 7, before leaving for school, I'd open my closet and look at all those things. I couldn't believe they were mine.


Then, one day, he told me: 'I'm coming to Algeria… to ask for your hand.'


That was the biggest joy — and the last pure one I remember. I counted the days until he'd arrive, until I could finally share everything with him.


And finally, the day came. May 28, 2020.


My father went to the airport, even though he didn't know Anouar personally. He had only seen a photo. Anouar's flight was supposed to arrive at 8 p.m. But he never came out. Every minute I called my dad: 'Is he here? Did he arrive?'


But his phone was off. The French SIM card didn't work here.


And then… at midnight, Anouar finally arrived.


Chapter 2 - In Love with a Man Who Never Laid a Hand on Me