The Heat of Dubai Wasn’t the Only Thing That Burned Me

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.