I didn't realize how heavy silence could be until the third day after he left.
It filled the corners of our flat like a fog — cold, untouchable, and endlessly thick. I had always known peace in quiet before. But now, silence was something else. It was the echo of a door shut too firmly. The absence of his shoes by the door. The taste of dinner for one that I could never finish.
We had argued before, of course. Who doesn’t? Life was heavy lately — his job uncertain, my freelance work drying up, bills piling up like a tower doomed to fall. The pressure made us brittle. On that night, I said something cruel. So did he.
Then he packed a small bag and left. “Just space,” he said. “I need to think.”
I hadn't heard from him since.
I told no one. Not even my sister. Not even my mother. I kept up appearances. Smiling with too many teeth when the neighbor asked how I was. Posting old photos of happy days on days I could barely get out of bed. Pretending there was hope, when inside it was slipping like sand through closed fingers.
One night, after failing to sleep again, I sat on the cold tile floor of the kitchen — head resting against the fridge, knees pulled tight into my chest.
I didn’t even know how to pray for this. Should I ask for him to come back? Should I ask for peace in being alone? I didn’t want to bargain with Allah with the kind of promises you whisper through tears and never keep. I was too tired for that kind of desperation.
So I just said, “Ya Allah. I’m here.”
Three words. That’s all I had.
I don’t know how long I sat there. Maybe forty minutes. Maybe two hours. At some point, the call for Fajr from the masjid down the street brushed softly through the window. I hadn’t prayed in days. Not from anger — just fatigue. Absent feelings. Like standing beneath water and wondering how to breathe.
But something in that call reached through the silence. I got up.
My prayer mat was slightly dusty. I didn’t wipe it. That felt honest. I stood and raised my hands, whispering Allahu akbar. I didn’t feel fixed. I didn’t feel strong. But I was there. For once, that felt like enough.
After the prayer, I stayed seated on my heels. The kitchen light hit the edge of my dried tears.
A verse — one I hadn’t read in months — came unbidden to my mind, as if written gently behind my eyes:
“O you who have believed, seek help through patience and prayer. Indeed, Allah is with the patient.” (Surah Al-Baqarah 2:153)
I didn’t remember quoting it, but I found myself whispering it again.
Allah is with the patient.
The tiles pressed cool under my palms as I sat in the early light of the morning. The silence wasn’t gone — it lingered — but it didn’t scare me the same way. It wasn’t empty. Not anymore.
I boiled water for tea. Stared out the window as the steam fogged the glass. Below, the neighbor’s child dragged a tin toy truck across the step. Scrape by scrape. Focused. Content.
We are all just scraping little things forward, I thought.
My phone buzzed on the counter. A message from him:
"I prayed Fajr today. I just… I miss us. Can we talk when you’re ready?"
I stared at the screen. Tears pooled again, but differently this time. I didn’t rush to respond. I wasn’t racing to fix anything.
I just whispered, “Thank You.” Not to the phone.
Faith doesn’t always come loud. Sometimes, it’s a single breath on a cold kitchen floor — a gentle return to prayer, a verse remembered not by effort but by mercy.
Because maybe hope isn’t something you chase down when you’re strong.
Maybe it’s what finds you when all you can say is: Ya Allah. I’m still here.
—
Selected Verses and Hadith References:
I didn't realize how heavy silence could be until the third day after he left.
It filled the corners of our flat like a fog — cold, untouchable, and endlessly thick. I had always known peace in quiet before. But now, silence was something else. It was the echo of a door shut too firmly. The absence of his shoes by the door. The taste of dinner for one that I could never finish.
We had argued before, of course. Who doesn’t? Life was heavy lately — his job uncertain, my freelance work drying up, bills piling up like a tower doomed to fall. The pressure made us brittle. On that night, I said something cruel. So did he.
Then he packed a small bag and left. “Just space,” he said. “I need to think.”
I hadn't heard from him since.
I told no one. Not even my sister. Not even my mother. I kept up appearances. Smiling with too many teeth when the neighbor asked how I was. Posting old photos of happy days on days I could barely get out of bed. Pretending there was hope, when inside it was slipping like sand through closed fingers.
One night, after failing to sleep again, I sat on the cold tile floor of the kitchen — head resting against the fridge, knees pulled tight into my chest.
I didn’t even know how to pray for this. Should I ask for him to come back? Should I ask for peace in being alone? I didn’t want to bargain with Allah with the kind of promises you whisper through tears and never keep. I was too tired for that kind of desperation.
So I just said, “Ya Allah. I’m here.”
Three words. That’s all I had.
I don’t know how long I sat there. Maybe forty minutes. Maybe two hours. At some point, the call for Fajr from the masjid down the street brushed softly through the window. I hadn’t prayed in days. Not from anger — just fatigue. Absent feelings. Like standing beneath water and wondering how to breathe.
But something in that call reached through the silence. I got up.
My prayer mat was slightly dusty. I didn’t wipe it. That felt honest. I stood and raised my hands, whispering Allahu akbar. I didn’t feel fixed. I didn’t feel strong. But I was there. For once, that felt like enough.
After the prayer, I stayed seated on my heels. The kitchen light hit the edge of my dried tears.
A verse — one I hadn’t read in months — came unbidden to my mind, as if written gently behind my eyes:
“O you who have believed, seek help through patience and prayer. Indeed, Allah is with the patient.” (Surah Al-Baqarah 2:153)
I didn’t remember quoting it, but I found myself whispering it again.
Allah is with the patient.
The tiles pressed cool under my palms as I sat in the early light of the morning. The silence wasn’t gone — it lingered — but it didn’t scare me the same way. It wasn’t empty. Not anymore.
I boiled water for tea. Stared out the window as the steam fogged the glass. Below, the neighbor’s child dragged a tin toy truck across the step. Scrape by scrape. Focused. Content.
We are all just scraping little things forward, I thought.
My phone buzzed on the counter. A message from him:
"I prayed Fajr today. I just… I miss us. Can we talk when you’re ready?"
I stared at the screen. Tears pooled again, but differently this time. I didn’t rush to respond. I wasn’t racing to fix anything.
I just whispered, “Thank You.” Not to the phone.
Faith doesn’t always come loud. Sometimes, it’s a single breath on a cold kitchen floor — a gentle return to prayer, a verse remembered not by effort but by mercy.
Because maybe hope isn’t something you chase down when you’re strong.
Maybe it’s what finds you when all you can say is: Ya Allah. I’m still here.
—
Selected Verses and Hadith References:
