I woke up to strange sounds in the dark—low humming that slowly turned into giggling. My eyes opened, disoriented, and I realized it was Sayed. His arms flapped awkwardly against the blankets, his head jerked, lips forming broken syllables, eyes rolled back. For a moment, I thought I was dreaming. This wasn’t a dream. My calm, quiet husband was convulsing beside me like a stranger wearing his face. I screamed his name. No response. Panic surged as I grabbed my phone and dialed 911, voice shaking.
By the time paramedics arrived, he had gone still, eerily peaceful. I rode in the ambulance clutching his hand, whispering his name, while machines beeped around us. At the hospital, tests and scans followed, and a doctor finally told me it was a mild seizure, likely triggered by stress or sleep deprivation. Stress. Sleep deprivation. I knew he had been unraveling for months—late nights, secretive calls, phone face-down. I told the nurse no unusual behavior, lying effortlessly, but deep down I knew better.
Later, I discovered why. His phone, left unlocked, revealed messages to a woman named Nadia—an insomniac therapist who specialized in sleep disorders. He had sent voice notes and videos documenting his sleepwalking and dissociative episodes, the same flapping, humming, giggling that had terrified me. It wasn’t betrayal, not romantic. It was fear. Fear of me seeing him unravel. He was living two lives, one asleep and one awake, losing control of both.
We sat together in silence, the weight of secrets finally lifted. I placed his phone on the table. “We don’t survive secrets,” I said. “But we might survive this—if you’re honest now.” He nodded through tears. That night, under the same roof, I listened carefully. No humming. No laughter. Just two people awake, finally facing the truth together.
