I stood quietly by the dusty window, brushing the curtain with my fingers. The world outside felt so far away. The faint sound of traffic was mixed with my father's voice from the living room. The air felt heavy tonight, and I felt it pressing down on my chest.
My name is Zara. I am nineteen years old, a shy girl from a modest household. The walls of this old house have witnessed moments of laughter and moments of heartbreak. Tonight felt like heartbreak.
My father called my name again. His voice was firm, deep with worry and desperation. I stepped out slowly, brushing the edge of my plain dupatta down my shoulder. The room was dimly lit, and my mother was seated on the floor, twisting the edge of her shawl. My younger sister, Areeba, glanced at me with wide eyes. Something was wrong.
My father cleared his throat. "Zara," he said quietly, "there is a proposal for you."
My breath stopped. "A proposal?" I asked, voice shaking.
He nodded. "Arhaan Sheikh," he said, and the name felt like a whisper that shook the room. Everyone knew the Sheikh family. Rich. Influential. The sort of people our neighborhood spoke about with fear and respect.
"Why me?" I asked, voice low. My heart pounded, and I felt the sting of questions rise in my throat.
My father didn't answer right away. He lowered his gaze, brushing his hand across his beard. "They came to us," he said quietly. "It's for the honor of both families. An arranged match. Arhaan Sheikh needs a wife quickly. The details aren't ours to ask."
My mother shook her head, whispering a prayer. The tension in the room felt like a rising storm.
I pulled my shawl closer to my chest. "What is he like?" I asked softly.
My father's voice was quiet. "He is a man of honor," he said slowly. "But he is a man with a wounded heart. They say he does not smile much. That life has changed him."
I felt a shiver run down my spine. What sort of man was he? What sort of life would this be?
Areeba came closer and held my hand. "Baji, you can say no," she said quietly.
I smiled faintly, brushing her fingers. "I have trusted Allah until now. Whatever this is, Allah knows better for me," I replied softly.
My father sighed. "They want an answer soon. Will you accept?"
My heart felt like it was beating too loud, too fast. I was a shy girl, a quiet daughter. I had always hoped for a soft future, for a loving husband, a quiet life filled with Allah's remembrance.
But life doesn't always ask for permission.
I lowered my gaze and spoke quietly. "If this is Allah's will, then… I accept."
My father wiped a hand down his face, saying, "May Allah guide this path for you, beti."
That night, I sat by the window long after everyone had gone to bed. The stars shimmered faintly, and I felt a prayer rise from the depths of my heart.
"Ya Allah," I whispered, brushing a tear from my cheek. "I am putting my trust in You. Whatever this path holds, grant me strength. Grant me patience. Let this be for my khair, and help me walk it with dignity and faith."
And so, the chapter of my life began. A chapter I could never have imagined, with a man I had never met, under the watchful gaze of Allah.
The morning came too quickly. I hadn't slept much. The ceiling of my room felt like it was pressing down on me as I lay awake, thinking about a man I had never met. Arhaan Sheikh. A name that felt like a storm and a whisper at the same time.
I rose before the adhaan and performed my wudu. The sound of the adhaan floated through the still morning air. I felt its beauty settle deep in my heart. Whatever came next, Allah was my refuge.
After prayer, I wrapped my dupatta tight around my shoulders and stepped quietly into the kitchen. The house was quiet except for the soft sound of the kettle. My mother was there, pouring tea for my father. They glanced at me as I entered, and I smiled shyly, brushing a strand of hair from my forehead.
"Have you decided?" my mother asked, voice soft and hopeful.
I met her gaze, swallowing the lump in my throat. "If Allah has chosen this path for me, then I will walk it, Ammi," I said quietly.
My father placed a hand over mine. "May Allah protect you, beti," he said. The weight of those words felt like a prayer pressed upon my heart.
Days passed quickly after that. The proposal became an agreement, and preparations began. The house felt like it was holding its breath, waiting for the day when I would leave. Neighbors came by, offered their congratulations, whispered their questions. I smiled when required, kept my words few, and trusted Allah to guide my steps.
Then came the day I met him. Arhaan Sheikh.
He arrived with an aura that felt like midnight and silence. Tall, broad‑shouldered, with deep brown eyes that revealed nothing. The room felt smaller when he entered. His voice was low, measured, polite. Yet it felt like he spoke from a place far away, a place buried deep within himself.
I stood beside my father, hands folded, heart beating wildly. Our gazes met for only a moment, yet that moment felt like a chapter of its own. His eyes held questions he refused to ask aloud. Mine held hopes I hadn't yet found words for.
As he spoke to my father, I felt my fingers trembling slightly under my dupatta. What had shaped him? What had broken him? What sort of wife would he accept? Would I be enough for a man like him?
I drew a quiet breath, whispering Allah's name within the stillness of my heart. Whatever came, Allah was my witness and Allah was my Protector.
That night, as I lay down, I felt like a door was opening to an unknown room. A room that would one day carry a piece of my heart. Allah knows. Allah sees. Allah guides.
With that thought, I pulled the blanket closer and closed my eyes, praying for strength and mercy.
The room felt too quiet when Arhaan finally spoke to me for the first time. We were seated across from one another in the living room of my father's house. The ceiling fan clicked overhead, the sound filling the silence between us.
I kept my gaze low, my fingers resting in my lap. Yet I could feel his gaze upon me. It was heavy. Not harsh, but deep. As if he was searching for something — a hint of truth, a whisper of sincerity. I drew a slow breath, brushing the edge of my dupatta between my fingers.
"Zara," he said, and the sound of my name on his tongue felt like a stone dropped into still water. The ripples sank deep.
"Yes," I replied softly, my voice shaking slightly.
He didn't smile, nor did he frown. His voice was low when he spoke. "You must be afraid."
I lifted my gaze then, unable to stop myself. He was looking right at me. His eyes were dark, deep, tired. Yet I thought I glimpsed something more — a hint of pain that felt like it was buried deep within.
I chose to answer honestly. "I am," I said quietly. "But Allah knows best. Whatever He chooses for us is never wasted."
For a moment, he didn't reply. He tilted his head slightly, as if surprised by the strength in my words. The silence felt long, but it was not cold.
"Do you pray?" he asked suddenly.
I gave a small nod. "Five times a day. Sometimes more when my heart feels too full."
A faint shadow crossed his face. He didn't speak for a moment. Then, quietly, almost as if to himself, he said, "It has been a long time since I felt that way."
I didn't know what to say. So I offered what came from my heart. "Faith doesn't leave us, Arhaan Sahib. Sometimes we forget to reach for it, but Allah never forgets us."
He watched me for a long moment. His voice, when it came, was softer than before. "You have strength, Miss Zara. Or perhaps… the sort of strength that lasts longer than mine ever did."
I felt warmth rise in my chest, brushing the sting of tears from the corner of my eyes. But I said nothing. What was there to say? Sometimes silence spoke more than words ever could.
He rose then, brushing down the edges of his coat. "May Allah guide both of us," he said quietly.
"May Allah guide both of us," I repeated, voice barely above a whisper.
As he left, I felt the sound of those words settle upon the room like a prayer. Whatever came next, Allah would be with us. Whatever storms this path held, Allah would walk with us.
The day came quietly, like a shy guest. The morning air felt crisp, and the house was a blend of soft whispers and muffled movements. I stood in the room where Ammi was placing a veil of cream and gold upon my head. The weight of it felt both delicate and profound.
Through the window, I could hear faint greetings and the sound of shoes upon the courtyard floor. Somewhere out there was Arhaan Sheikh. The man who would soon be my husband.
My hands shook as I smoothed the fabric over my lap. I felt Areeba's hand upon mine, warm and soft.
"Baji, are you afraid?" she asked quietly.
I smiled faintly, brushing a hand over hers. "I am afraid," I admitted, "but Allah is with me. Whatever this path holds, He knows best."
Areeba smiled too, brushing away a lone tear. "May Allah fill your life with happiness, Baji."
"May Allah guide us both," I replied.
Then came the moment. The room felt smaller, quieter. The sound of footsteps announced that Arhaan had arrived. The Maulana's voice was deep, serene as he spoke words of Allah and the sacred bond of Nikah.
I sat with my gaze lowered, heart beating wildly. The veil was a shield, a space where I could whisper my du'a as the words of the Nikah rose and fell.
"Zara Khan, do you accept Arhaan Sheikh as your husband?"
My voice felt like a whisper upon the wind. "I accept," I said quietly, yet firmly.
The words came and went. The silence deepened as the moment sank into every heart present. Then came the sound of Arhaan's voice. Low, measured.
"Qabool hai," he said, and the sound felt like a drop upon the surface of a still lake.
It was done. We were bound. Not by chance. Not by accident. But by Allah's command.
After the Nikah, when I was led into the room where Arhaan stood, I felt my knees weaken for a moment. He was tall, broad‑shouldered, dressed in a crisp cream sherwani that matched the modest shade of my attire. He didn't smile, but he didn't frown either. He watched as I was brought closer, and when I stood beside him, I felt the space between us shift. It felt like a chapter had ended and another was about to begin.
He offered a quiet "Assalam‑o‑Alaikum" and I responded, voice soft and shy.
"Wa Alaikum Assalam."
He lowered his gaze for a moment, brushing a hand down the side of his sherwani, then looked up slowly. There was no warmth in his eyes, not yet. But neither was there cruelty.
"May Allah grant us both patience," he said quietly.
"May Allah grant us mercy," I replied.
In that moment, surrounded by whispers and prayers, I felt the threads of our new bond begin to weave themselves. Whatever came next, Allah would be with us.
And that was enough.
The night came with a quiet weight, the kind that settles deep within a room. The guests had left, the whispers of celebration had faded, and I found myself in a space that felt too new, too unfamiliar. The room was adorned with soft lighting and faint traces of rose petals upon the bed. Yet my heart felt like a bird beating wildly in its cage.
Arhaan entered moments later, closing the door quietly behind him. He didn't look at me right away. Instead, he set down the watch he held in his hand upon a side table, brushing long fingers across the surface as if deep in thought.
I drew a quiet breath and lowered my gaze, brushing my hands over the folds of my dress. The silence felt long, stretching between us like a bridge that hadn't yet been built.
Then, soft and low, he spoke. "I don't expect much from you," he said quietly, still not looking at me. "And I have little to give right now." He paused, brushing a hand down his sharp jaw. "But you deserve honesty. This is not a marriage of the heart, not yet. It is a bond Allah has placed upon us."
The words sank deep, and I felt the sting of truth in them. Yet, I refused to falter. I drew a slow breath and spoke quietly. "I understand, Arhaan Sahib. Allah knows best why He has brought us here." My voice was soft, but firm.
He looked up then, and for the first time, I met the depth of his gaze. It held silence — silence shaped by pain, shaped by a history he hadn't yet shared. But it was silence that felt human.
He didn't reply. Instead, he offered a quiet nod and stepped toward the wardrobe. The sound of the door clicking shut felt like the end of something and the faint whisper of a new beginning.
I rose slowly, brushing my hands down the sides of my dress. My heart felt fragile, but hopeful. Whatever Allah had written for us, I would walk it with strength. Not because I was strong, but because Allah was.
As I stepped toward the prayer mat that lay in the corner of the room, I felt a quiet peace rise within. The room was quiet except for the sound of Arhaan's slow, measured breathing. Somewhere in that silence, a prayer rose between us — a prayer that Allah would make this bond a mercy, a path to understanding, and a means to draw closer to Him.
I sank down upon the prayer mat, my voice whispering words that only Allah could hear. The room felt both empty and full. Broken and hopeful. Dark and illuminated by the faint glimmers of a future Allah alone held.
The room felt still as I rose from the prayer mat. The night air was soft, carrying faint traces of rose petals from the bed. Arhaan stood by the window, gazing out into the midnight darkness. The silence was no longer sharp; it was a silence that spoke of things unsaid, things buried deep within a man's heart.
I walked quietly towards the bed, brushing my fingers across its crisp surface. It felt unreal — this moment, this room, this new chapter of my life. Yet in the stillness, Allah felt closer than ever.
"Arhaan Sahib," I said softly, unable to hold the words within any longer.
He turned slightly, looking at me with those deep, unreadable eyes. I drew a slow breath and spoke from the heart Allah gave me.
"I don't ask for promises, or for feelings you don't have. But I pray Allah gives both of us strength and peace. Whatever trials come, whatever silence rests between us, I pray Allah gives us a path towards mercy, towards understanding… towards belonging. Not because we deserve it, but because Allah is the Most Merciful."
For a long moment, he didn't reply. The faint glow from the lamp shimmered upon the sharp angles of his jaw. And then, quietly, as if finding a voice buried long ago, he spoke.
"Zara," he said, and the sound of my name felt like a whisper upon the air, "you have a heart strong enough for both of us tonight. Perhaps that is Allah's mercy upon this bond."
My breath caught in my chest, and I felt a sting of tears rise, not from sadness, but from a strange sense of belonging. Not belonging to him, not yet. But belonging to Allah, and the path Allah had placed before me.
He crossed the room slowly, brushing a hand across the edge of the bed. When he spoke again, it was soft, subdued, yet strong.
"May Allah guide us both… to a place where silence gives way to understanding, and distance gives way to trust."
I bowed my head, brushing a hand over my heart. "Ameen," I whispered.
In that moment, surrounded by the stillness of the night and the faint whispers of prayer upon the air, a chapter closed, and another began. Not a chapter of romance, nor one of heartbreak, but a chapter of belonging — belonging to Allah, belonging to a path yet unseen, belonging to a bond molded by trials and mercy.
Through Allah's will, I would walk this path. Whatever came, I would walk it with patience. Whatever was broken, I would pray for Allah to make whole.
With that quiet prayer upon my heart, I sank down upon the bed, brushing the edge of the cream‑colored veil with shaking fingers. Somewhere deep within the silence of that room, a faint warmth settled — a warmth that spoke of Allah's mercy, Allah's promise, Allah's unseen beauty upon a new chapter of life.