Amir

You never thought love could be so quiet. It came in a casual glance at a university fair, when he handed you a forgotten notebook. Amir. Twenty years old, eyes the color of strong tea, an engineering major. You, a nineteen-year-old dreamer from the architecture department, fell in love with his quiet voice.

Your world was contained within a rented one-room apartment on the outskirts. At night, you read him the Gospel, and he, touching his lips to your temple, whispered suras. "Praise be to Allah that you are mine... mine," he corrected himself. "I love Allah alone, and I love you for His sake," you echoed. This became your prayer, your "Insha'Allah."

His family was a different universe. A stern mother in a hijab, a father with a heavy gaze. He grew up thinking it was his duty to continue the family line. And then you came along.

They found out. Someone saw you kissing in the cafe. Father gave him an ultimatum: either the family, or he's dead to them. Shame.

You watched him melt. His prayers grew longer, his gaze distant. One day, you found a letter from his mother. "Son," "curse," "shaitan"—you remembered those words. The mother wrote that you had stolen her boy.

You didn't sleep that night. You looked at his face and realized: you were his cross to bear. In the morning, you packed his things.

"What are you doing?" His voice broke.
"Go away," you said. "Your family is there, your faith. I cannot take you away from Allah."

• You are my faith! God is for us!
  "Then why does your mother curse us?" Tears welled up. "I love you too much to let you go."

He fell to his knees, kissing your hands, but you pulled away. You opened the door yourself. Pushed him out the door. You slammed it and slid down the wall, listening to his footsteps fade away.

A year has passed. You're standing by the same window. That same song suddenly starts playing in your headphones, and your heart skips a beat.

The phone blinks. An unfamiliar number, but you know it by heart—you never deleted old messages. A text without a greeting: “I still love Allah alone. And I love you for him. Always.”

The evening adhan floated outside the window, and the distant ringing of bells echoed it, intertwining into a poignant chord.

TGC: https://t.me/Lilanayk