I didn't want to cry in front of my mother. Not again.
The heartbreak sat heavy in my chest, dull and ever-present like an echo that never faded. Everyone told me it would pass — that wounds heal with time, that Allah replaces what He takes. But it had been six months since Ahmad ended our engagement, and the wound still bled quietly beneath my forced smiles.
I used to imagine our home, the sound of little footsteps, our shared suhoor meals in Ramadan. I had whispered such dreams into my duas every night, believing sincerely that this was what Allah had written for me.
But He hadn’t.
Instead, I sat on my bedroom floor, surrounded by quiet. The walls held memories I was trying to forget. A stray hairpin from the wedding preparations stared back at me from under my dresser. I looked away.
My phone buzzed. It was my younger cousin — she was getting married in December. There was love in her messages, but I couldn't read them without salt stinging my chest. And guilt. How could I not be happy for her?
I closed my eyes.
O Allah, why is this so hard? I don’t want to blame You. I just… I don’t understand.
These silent, aching prayers had become familiar. I didn’t always cry. Sometimes I just sat still and listened to the ache.
That evening, I went for a walk by myself. The sky was streaked with blush and lilac. I didn’t intend to go far, but my feet followed memory lanes — past the park bench where Ahmad and I had once spoken about futures, past the bookstore that still had my favorite poetry book in its window.
Everything reminded me of what I’d lost.
Then suddenly, rain. Light and unexpected. A fine drizzle at first. I looked up and stood still as the drops soaked into my scarf and cloak. Everyone else ran for cover. But I stayed.
There was something quietly thrilling in it — as if Allah was washing the air around me, softening sharp edges.
And in that moment, for no reason I can explain, a verse floated into my heart like a whisper from somewhere unseen:
“Say, O My servants who have harmed themselves by sinning, do not despair of the mercy of Allah. Indeed, Allah forgives all sins.” (Surah Az-Zumar 39:53)
I hadn’t forgotten it — I grew up hearing it — but hearing it inside myself now, like a comfort sent straight into my ribs, was different.
I hadn’t sinned by grieving, and yet the verse cradled me.
Do not despair. He is near. He forgives, heals, rewrites.
And suddenly I saw it all differently — perhaps this heartbreak wasn’t a punishment. Perhaps it was protection — or preparation.
I had asked for a loving home, for peace in my soul. I hadn’t known the shape of that dua’s answer. I didn’t think it would come through closed doors and sharp goodbyes. But maybe this, too, was mercy in disguise.
I stood there, drenched but steady, thinking of a God who knew my heart even before it knew how to beat.
His mercy surrounds even the broken pieces of me — especially those.
I still miss what I thought I had. But now, I leave it with Him. Not because I don’t care. But because I trust He cares more.
And He is never silent without reason.
I walked back home quietly, the rain soft against my skin.
Maybe this was how healing began — not in answers, but in surrender.
Not loudly, but with hearts whispering, Ya Rahman… heal me how You know best.
---
Relevant Qur'an Verses and Hadith:
Surah Az-Zumar (39:53)
Surah Ash-Sharh (94:6)
Surah Ad-Duhaa (93:7)
Surah Al-Ahzab (33:3)
— Hadith, Sunan Abi Dawood (authenticated by al-Albani)
I didn't want to cry in front of my mother. Not again.
The heartbreak sat heavy in my chest, dull and ever-present like an echo that never faded. Everyone told me it would pass — that wounds heal with time, that Allah replaces what He takes. But it had been six months since Ahmad ended our engagement, and the wound still bled quietly beneath my forced smiles.
I used to imagine our home, the sound of little footsteps, our shared suhoor meals in Ramadan. I had whispered such dreams into my duas every night, believing sincerely that this was what Allah had written for me.
But He hadn’t.
Instead, I sat on my bedroom floor, surrounded by quiet. The walls held memories I was trying to forget. A stray hairpin from the wedding preparations stared back at me from under my dresser. I looked away.
My phone buzzed. It was my younger cousin — she was getting married in December. There was love in her messages, but I couldn't read them without salt stinging my chest. And guilt. How could I not be happy for her?
I closed my eyes.
O Allah, why is this so hard? I don’t want to blame You. I just… I don’t understand.
These silent, aching prayers had become familiar. I didn’t always cry. Sometimes I just sat still and listened to the ache.
That evening, I went for a walk by myself. The sky was streaked with blush and lilac. I didn’t intend to go far, but my feet followed memory lanes — past the park bench where Ahmad and I had once spoken about futures, past the bookstore that still had my favorite poetry book in its window.
Everything reminded me of what I’d lost.
Then suddenly, rain. Light and unexpected. A fine drizzle at first. I looked up and stood still as the drops soaked into my scarf and cloak. Everyone else ran for cover. But I stayed.
There was something quietly thrilling in it — as if Allah was washing the air around me, softening sharp edges.
And in that moment, for no reason I can explain, a verse floated into my heart like a whisper from somewhere unseen:
“Say, O My servants who have harmed themselves by sinning, do not despair of the mercy of Allah. Indeed, Allah forgives all sins.” (Surah Az-Zumar 39:53)
I hadn’t forgotten it — I grew up hearing it — but hearing it inside myself now, like a comfort sent straight into my ribs, was different.
I hadn’t sinned by grieving, and yet the verse cradled me.
Do not despair. He is near. He forgives, heals, rewrites.
And suddenly I saw it all differently — perhaps this heartbreak wasn’t a punishment. Perhaps it was protection — or preparation.
I had asked for a loving home, for peace in my soul. I hadn’t known the shape of that dua’s answer. I didn’t think it would come through closed doors and sharp goodbyes. But maybe this, too, was mercy in disguise.
I stood there, drenched but steady, thinking of a God who knew my heart even before it knew how to beat.
His mercy surrounds even the broken pieces of me — especially those.
I still miss what I thought I had. But now, I leave it with Him. Not because I don’t care. But because I trust He cares more.
And He is never silent without reason.
I walked back home quietly, the rain soft against my skin.
Maybe this was how healing began — not in answers, but in surrender.
Not loudly, but with hearts whispering, Ya Rahman… heal me how You know best.
---
Relevant Qur'an Verses and Hadith:
Surah Az-Zumar (39:53)
Surah Ash-Sharh (94:6)
Surah Ad-Duhaa (93:7)
Surah Al-Ahzab (33:3)
— Hadith, Sunan Abi Dawood (authenticated by al-Albani)
