The moment he walked away, I felt something unravel inside me.
We were standing under the sycamore tree at the edge of the old campus park — the one with the weathered bench and the broken street lamp that flickered like it couldn't make up its mind. It was the first place we’d sat and talked deeply, years ago. Now it was the last.
He didn’t say much. Just enough to make the ending official.
I nodded like I understood. Like I agreed. But my chest tightened with every word he said. When he left, I remained. Feet rooted. Spine frozen. Everything hurt — even my eyelashes.
That night, I didn’t cry the way I thought I would. I just lay awake, numb, staring at the ceiling. My heart didn’t feel broken. It felt gone.
Days passed, some slow and some in rushes. Friends texted, a few dropped by, but their words slid off of me like water off wax. I’d go through the motions of salah, moving when I should move, saying what I’d always said. But there was no life in it.
One evening, weeks later, I found myself sitting at my parents’ balcony just after Maghrib. The sun had bruised the sky into purples and golds. Old wind chimes rattled nearby.
I thought I was just there to get some air. But my phone was in my lap, and my thumb absent-mindedly unlocked it. I tapped open Qur’an app out of habit, not intention. It opened to a random page — Surah Al-Imran.
And there it was.
“So by mercy from Allah, [O Muhammad], you were lenient with them. And if you had been rude and harsh-hearted, they would have dispersed from around you. So pardon them and ask forgiveness for them and consult them in matters. And when you have decided, then rely upon Allah. Verily, Allah loves those who rely [upon Him].” (3:159)
I read it again. Then again.
"...Then rely upon Allah."
My chest sank under the weight of a truth I hadn’t let myself feel: I had been relying on someone else. On the idea that love from a person would complete me. That something — or someone — finite could hold together the mess of me.
But people are not meant to carry our whole hearts. They aren’t made for permanence.
Allah is.
The breeze picked up, lifting a curl from my cheek. I looked up. A flock of birds cut across the bruised sky, winging their way home. I watched until they disappeared into dusk.
For the first time in weeks, I whispered a du'a. Just one line.
Ya Allah… bring me back to You.
That night, I made wudu slowly. Not out of routine, but out of need. I laid the prayer mat down and stood. When I bowed, I let my knees shake. When I reached sujood, I stayed a long time.
Something shifted in that quiet. My tears fell silently, soaking into the fibers of the rug. But for once, they weren’t bitter with ache — they were tender. Alive.
Over the coming days, I rebuilt small things. One heartfelt du’a after Fajr. One page of Qur’an read, not just scanned. One honest moment in sajdah where I said, Ya Allah, I don’t know how — but I’m here.
Healing wasn’t sudden. It came slowly, like dawn. But with each effort — even the smallest ones — something in me stretched again toward light.
And eventually, peace didn’t feel like a stranger. It felt like home.
---
Qur’anic References:
The moment he walked away, I felt something unravel inside me.
We were standing under the sycamore tree at the edge of the old campus park — the one with the weathered bench and the broken street lamp that flickered like it couldn't make up its mind. It was the first place we’d sat and talked deeply, years ago. Now it was the last.
He didn’t say much. Just enough to make the ending official.
I nodded like I understood. Like I agreed. But my chest tightened with every word he said. When he left, I remained. Feet rooted. Spine frozen. Everything hurt — even my eyelashes.
That night, I didn’t cry the way I thought I would. I just lay awake, numb, staring at the ceiling. My heart didn’t feel broken. It felt gone.
Days passed, some slow and some in rushes. Friends texted, a few dropped by, but their words slid off of me like water off wax. I’d go through the motions of salah, moving when I should move, saying what I’d always said. But there was no life in it.
One evening, weeks later, I found myself sitting at my parents’ balcony just after Maghrib. The sun had bruised the sky into purples and golds. Old wind chimes rattled nearby.
I thought I was just there to get some air. But my phone was in my lap, and my thumb absent-mindedly unlocked it. I tapped open Qur’an app out of habit, not intention. It opened to a random page — Surah Al-Imran.
And there it was.
“So by mercy from Allah, [O Muhammad], you were lenient with them. And if you had been rude and harsh-hearted, they would have dispersed from around you. So pardon them and ask forgiveness for them and consult them in matters. And when you have decided, then rely upon Allah. Verily, Allah loves those who rely [upon Him].” (3:159)
I read it again. Then again.
"...Then rely upon Allah."
My chest sank under the weight of a truth I hadn’t let myself feel: I had been relying on someone else. On the idea that love from a person would complete me. That something — or someone — finite could hold together the mess of me.
But people are not meant to carry our whole hearts. They aren’t made for permanence.
Allah is.
The breeze picked up, lifting a curl from my cheek. I looked up. A flock of birds cut across the bruised sky, winging their way home. I watched until they disappeared into dusk.
For the first time in weeks, I whispered a du'a. Just one line.
Ya Allah… bring me back to You.
That night, I made wudu slowly. Not out of routine, but out of need. I laid the prayer mat down and stood. When I bowed, I let my knees shake. When I reached sujood, I stayed a long time.
Something shifted in that quiet. My tears fell silently, soaking into the fibers of the rug. But for once, they weren’t bitter with ache — they were tender. Alive.
Over the coming days, I rebuilt small things. One heartfelt du’a after Fajr. One page of Qur’an read, not just scanned. One honest moment in sajdah where I said, Ya Allah, I don’t know how — but I’m here.
Healing wasn’t sudden. It came slowly, like dawn. But with each effort — even the smallest ones — something in me stretched again toward light.
And eventually, peace didn’t feel like a stranger. It felt like home.
---
Qur’anic References:
