The first time I heard his voice, I thought, “Maybe this is the kind of person you wait for your whole life.”
Soft-spoken, sure of himself without being arrogant, his words laced with warmth—Amir made promises in the way that some people breathe. Effortlessly. Naturally. He said all the right things. Prayed at all the right times. When I spoke, he listened, really listened, like my words carried weight.
We were engaged for eight months.
The day he ended it, there was no storm in the sky—just my heart breaking in a Tuesday afternoon kitchen.
“I don’t think we’re meant for each other,” he said quietly, not meeting my eyes. “I thought I was ready. I’m not.”
He left with his head bowed, unable to look back. Something burned and throbbed all at once in my chest. I didn’t cry—not then. Not when the kettle boiled. Not when Maghrib came and went. But by Isha, I was on my prayer mat, forehead pressed to the floor, sobbing like a child who’d lost her home.
Every day after that was a whisper of ache. I deleted his number but memorized it anyway. I stopped checking his social media—then started again. During the day, I functioned. At night, grief curled up beside me.
And always, people said the same thing: “Be patient. Have sabr. Trust Allah’s plan.”
I wanted to believe them.
But some nights, patience felt like abandonment. Like God had left me to figure this out on my own. Everyone said getting closer to Allah would heal me—but I wasn’t sure how to take a step when I didn’t even know which direction I was facing.
Weeks passed. I talked less, moved slower. I offered my salah, but it felt robotic, empty. One night, while praying Fajr alone, the quiet pressed heavy against the walls. I sat on my prayer mat long after the final tasleem.
My eyes burned—dry this time, too tired for tears. I whispered, “Ya Allah… I’m trying. But it hurts. I don’t know what You’re doing with me.”
A memory slipped into my mind then—not loud, not shining, just… present.
A class years ago. I’d been memorizing parts of Surah At-Talaq. Our teacher had said, “These verses are about divorce, yes—but more deeply, they are about trust in uncertainty.”
‘And whosoever puts their trust in Allah, He is sufficient for them. Surely Allah will bring about what He has decreed. He has set a measure for all things.’ (Qur’an 65:3)
The verse echoed softly in my chest. I hadn’t thought about it in so long. But now, it felt like Allah had tucked it into my heart for just this moment. A lifeline hidden in the dark.
Something shifted—not immediately, and not completely. But I breathed in, and for the first time in weeks, the air didn’t feel so heavy.
That evening, I walked to the park near my apartment. It had rained earlier. The dirt path was damp, and puddles mirrored the orange sky as the sun dipped low.
A little girl was crouched near the branches, inspecting something. As I passed, she looked up and grinned.
“There’s new flowers,” she said, pointing. “The purple kind.”
I glanced down. She was right. They hadn’t been there yesterday.
Maybe Allah was still planting things I couldn’t see yet.
Maybe patience didn’t mean passive suffering. Maybe it meant showing up, one prayer at a time. One inhale at a time. Trusting even when the plan felt like pieces scattered through a dark room.
I pressed my palms together and whispered, “You are still here, aren’t You?”
The silence didn’t answer.
But it didn’t deny it either.
Relevant Verses and Hadith:
The first time I heard his voice, I thought, “Maybe this is the kind of person you wait for your whole life.”
Soft-spoken, sure of himself without being arrogant, his words laced with warmth—Amir made promises in the way that some people breathe. Effortlessly. Naturally. He said all the right things. Prayed at all the right times. When I spoke, he listened, really listened, like my words carried weight.
We were engaged for eight months.
The day he ended it, there was no storm in the sky—just my heart breaking in a Tuesday afternoon kitchen.
“I don’t think we’re meant for each other,” he said quietly, not meeting my eyes. “I thought I was ready. I’m not.”
He left with his head bowed, unable to look back. Something burned and throbbed all at once in my chest. I didn’t cry—not then. Not when the kettle boiled. Not when Maghrib came and went. But by Isha, I was on my prayer mat, forehead pressed to the floor, sobbing like a child who’d lost her home.
Every day after that was a whisper of ache. I deleted his number but memorized it anyway. I stopped checking his social media—then started again. During the day, I functioned. At night, grief curled up beside me.
And always, people said the same thing: “Be patient. Have sabr. Trust Allah’s plan.”
I wanted to believe them.
But some nights, patience felt like abandonment. Like God had left me to figure this out on my own. Everyone said getting closer to Allah would heal me—but I wasn’t sure how to take a step when I didn’t even know which direction I was facing.
Weeks passed. I talked less, moved slower. I offered my salah, but it felt robotic, empty. One night, while praying Fajr alone, the quiet pressed heavy against the walls. I sat on my prayer mat long after the final tasleem.
My eyes burned—dry this time, too tired for tears. I whispered, “Ya Allah… I’m trying. But it hurts. I don’t know what You’re doing with me.”
A memory slipped into my mind then—not loud, not shining, just… present.
A class years ago. I’d been memorizing parts of Surah At-Talaq. Our teacher had said, “These verses are about divorce, yes—but more deeply, they are about trust in uncertainty.”
‘And whosoever puts their trust in Allah, He is sufficient for them. Surely Allah will bring about what He has decreed. He has set a measure for all things.’ (Qur’an 65:3)
The verse echoed softly in my chest. I hadn’t thought about it in so long. But now, it felt like Allah had tucked it into my heart for just this moment. A lifeline hidden in the dark.
Something shifted—not immediately, and not completely. But I breathed in, and for the first time in weeks, the air didn’t feel so heavy.
That evening, I walked to the park near my apartment. It had rained earlier. The dirt path was damp, and puddles mirrored the orange sky as the sun dipped low.
A little girl was crouched near the branches, inspecting something. As I passed, she looked up and grinned.
“There’s new flowers,” she said, pointing. “The purple kind.”
I glanced down. She was right. They hadn’t been there yesterday.
Maybe Allah was still planting things I couldn’t see yet.
Maybe patience didn’t mean passive suffering. Maybe it meant showing up, one prayer at a time. One inhale at a time. Trusting even when the plan felt like pieces scattered through a dark room.
I pressed my palms together and whispered, “You are still here, aren’t You?”
The silence didn’t answer.
But it didn’t deny it either.
Relevant Verses and Hadith:
