My name is Rami, and this is the story I’m ashamed to tell —
the story of how I became a simp in Dubai without even realizing it.
You’d think a city like Dubai — full of skyscrapers, supercars, and people chasing success — would harden you.
Make you smarter.
Less vulnerable.
But somehow, it made me softer.
Especially when it came to her.
Her name was Layla.
We met at a coworking space in Business Bay. She had this effortless elegance — long dark hair, soft voice, wearing abayas that looked simple but somehow made her look like royalty.
I fell fast.
Too fast.
At first, we were just talking during lunchtime.
Then she started messaging me after work.
That was all I needed.
I told myself: Maybe this is something.
Maybe she feels it too.
But Dubai teaches you quick —
nothing is what it seems.
THE BEGINNING OF MY SIMP ERA
It started with tiny, harmless things:
“Rami, can you drop me off at Mall of Emirates? I don’t want to take the metro.”
I’d leave work early just to drive her.
“Rami, I love that karak tea from the shop near your building. Can you bring some for me tomorrow?”
I brought her two cups.
Every day.
“Rami, I want to try that rooftop restaurant… but it’s so expensive.”
Guess who paid?
Not her.
I kept telling myself she appreciated it.
She must.
She had to.
But every time I tried to get a little closer emotionally, she kept a perfect distance.
Not too far.
Not too close.
Just enough for me to stay hooked.
THE NIGHT THAT BROKE ME
One Friday night, she asked if I could pick her up from JBR.
She said she wasn’t feeling well.
She said she didn’t feel safe.
She said she just needed someone she trusted.
I drove across the city like a man possessed.
Dubai traffic was insane — tourists everywhere, the roads clogged — but I didn’t care.
I parked illegally, got yelled at by security, ran to find her.
When I finally saw her?
She wasn’t crying.
She wasn’t scared.
She was drunk…
laughing with some guy in a suit.
She stumbled toward me and said:
“Rami! This is Ahmed — he’s sooo sweet… can you drive us home?”
Drive us home.
My stomach dropped.
Ahmed put his arm around her, smiling like he owned the world.
I didn’t explode.
I didn’t confront her.
I didn’t even stand up for myself.
I just nodded.
Like a pathetic chauffeur, I opened the car door for them.
Layla slept in the backseat, leaning on Ahmed.
His hand was on her waist.
I was just the driver.
When I dropped them off at her building, Ahmed didn’t even say “thanks.”
Layla looked at me with half-closed eyes and said:
“Rami… you’re such a good friend.”
Friend.
In Dubai, that word felt like being slapped with the heat of a desert wind.
THE MOMENT I WOKE UP
That night, I parked at Kite Beach alone.
I stared at the Burj Al Arab lights reflecting on the water, and I realized:
I wasn’t in love.
I was addicted.
Addicted to chasing someone who only called me when she needed something.
Addicted to a fantasy I built myself.
Addicted to being used.
My kindness had turned into my prison.
The next morning, she messaged:
“Rami, can you send me the location of that tea shop again? I forgot.”
Normally, I would reply instantly.
This time… I didn’t.
For the first time in months, I put my phone down.
I brewed myself a karak, sat by my window overlooking Sheikh Zayed Road, and whispered to myself:
“No more.”
And that was the moment I started taking myself back.
Discussion (1)
I feel you brother