I never thought heartbreak could feel so physical — like something sharp brushing against the bones beneath my chest. That morning, when Yousuf sent the message, I sat still on my prayer mat long after Fajr, my phone glowing beside me.
“I’m sorry. I’ve been making istikhara. I don’t think this marriage would be right.”
I read the words again and again, expecting them to rearrange. I had spent months picturing a life that would never exist — rearranging furniture in an apartment he hadn't even seen, wondering if he'd like the way I cooked okra, dreaming about children who would memorize Qur’an with his tilted smile.
And now, nothing.
The house was silent. Amma had gone to the market, and sunlight bled through the curtains, casting gold on the carpet. I wanted to scream or cry or delete his number—anything loud to match the ache inside—but instead, I just sat. My chest rose and fell like I’d been running for miles.
I picked up my Qur’an and held it against my heart. It was something I had done since I was fifteen, when my father died — just press its cool cover to where it hurt the most, as though mercy could seep through the surface.
“Calm your heart,” I whispered. “Trust the unseen. That’s what we’re told.”
But I was tired of trusting things I couldn’t see.
Days passed like smoke — curling through the hours, slipping through my fingers. I still prayed. Still recited. But during sajdah, I lingered longer than usual, forehead pressed to the earth, begging Allah to take the sadness from my ribs.
One night, I stood by the window in the dim light of Isha, watching rain tap gently on the street outside. My palms were wrapped around a cup of chai Amma had made without asking. She didn’t speak of him, but every now and then, she placed her hand on my back while I prayed, like she was helping to hold me up.
I closed my eyes, and without planning to, I whispered the verse that had once comforted me years ago after a different loss—words I hadn’t remembered in so long they nearly caught in my throat:
“Say, ‘O My servants who have transgressed against themselves, do not despair of the mercy of Allah. Indeed, Allah forgives all sins.’” (Surah Az-Zumar 39:53)
My hands trembled.
Was heartbreak not also a kind of transgression — a way I had placed too much weight on something fleeting? Not a sin, not exactly, but maybe a lesson. Maybe letting go of the hope I had wrapped in someone else was a kind of return to Allah. A kind of tawbah too.
I put down the chai and sat at the edge of my bed. No grand revelation followed. No sudden joy. Just breath. Air flowing in, slow and quiet. And for the first time in weeks, I felt it settle — a softness under the sorrow, like a field after rain.
I lit a small incense stick and placed it by the prayer mat. The smoke curled upward and disappeared into the ceiling.
Maybe that’s how everything would go — pain, sorrow, dreams I had to surrender — dissolving slowly into the unseen.
And maybe that was okay.
Because He sees.
And He remains.
Always.
---
Supporting References:
I never thought heartbreak could feel so physical — like something sharp brushing against the bones beneath my chest. That morning, when Yousuf sent the message, I sat still on my prayer mat long after Fajr, my phone glowing beside me.
“I’m sorry. I’ve been making istikhara. I don’t think this marriage would be right.”
I read the words again and again, expecting them to rearrange. I had spent months picturing a life that would never exist — rearranging furniture in an apartment he hadn't even seen, wondering if he'd like the way I cooked okra, dreaming about children who would memorize Qur’an with his tilted smile.
And now, nothing.
The house was silent. Amma had gone to the market, and sunlight bled through the curtains, casting gold on the carpet. I wanted to scream or cry or delete his number—anything loud to match the ache inside—but instead, I just sat. My chest rose and fell like I’d been running for miles.
I picked up my Qur’an and held it against my heart. It was something I had done since I was fifteen, when my father died — just press its cool cover to where it hurt the most, as though mercy could seep through the surface.
“Calm your heart,” I whispered. “Trust the unseen. That’s what we’re told.”
But I was tired of trusting things I couldn’t see.
Days passed like smoke — curling through the hours, slipping through my fingers. I still prayed. Still recited. But during sajdah, I lingered longer than usual, forehead pressed to the earth, begging Allah to take the sadness from my ribs.
One night, I stood by the window in the dim light of Isha, watching rain tap gently on the street outside. My palms were wrapped around a cup of chai Amma had made without asking. She didn’t speak of him, but every now and then, she placed her hand on my back while I prayed, like she was helping to hold me up.
I closed my eyes, and without planning to, I whispered the verse that had once comforted me years ago after a different loss—words I hadn’t remembered in so long they nearly caught in my throat:
“Say, ‘O My servants who have transgressed against themselves, do not despair of the mercy of Allah. Indeed, Allah forgives all sins.’” (Surah Az-Zumar 39:53)
My hands trembled.
Was heartbreak not also a kind of transgression — a way I had placed too much weight on something fleeting? Not a sin, not exactly, but maybe a lesson. Maybe letting go of the hope I had wrapped in someone else was a kind of return to Allah. A kind of tawbah too.
I put down the chai and sat at the edge of my bed. No grand revelation followed. No sudden joy. Just breath. Air flowing in, slow and quiet. And for the first time in weeks, I felt it settle — a softness under the sorrow, like a field after rain.
I lit a small incense stick and placed it by the prayer mat. The smoke curled upward and disappeared into the ceiling.
Maybe that’s how everything would go — pain, sorrow, dreams I had to surrender — dissolving slowly into the unseen.
And maybe that was okay.
Because He sees.
And He remains.
Always.
---
Supporting References:
