The morning Adhan drifted softly through the foggy windows, but I didn’t move. I lay on my side, knees curled toward my chest, the quilt wrapped around me though I was already warm. My phone screen blinked endlessly with unread messages — most of them saying the same thing: “Are you okay?” I wasn’t. But I didn’t know how to say that without breaking apart again.
It had been six weeks since Adeel ended our engagement. Six weeks since his parents decided a girl who lived in a one-bedroom flat and taught art to refugee children wasn’t “good enough.” He hadn’t even resisted. Just silence. Then, kindly written apologies. “Allah must have a better plan for us both,” he wrote. I stared at those words, numb. Hadn’t I made room for him in every corner of my life? Hadn’t I prayed for this?
For days I drifted — prayed without presence, ate only when my headache grew unbearable, smiled when I needed to avoid questions. The hardest part was the stillness of nights. Silence pressed against my chest like wet sand. I would cradle the final sound of his voice in my memory like a shard. And then I would cry until my heart grew sore.
One evening, just after Maghrib, I stepped onto the small balcony. The sky was washed in bruised purple and red. My tea sat untouched beside me. I pulled the sleeves of my sweater over trembling hands and looked up.
"Rabbi inni lima anzalta ilayya min khayrin faqir…" The verse spilled out before I knew why. A whisper. A prayer Prophet Musa once made when he was exiled, alone, without a home. “My Lord, I am in desperate need of whatever good You send me.”
I repeated it. Again and again. The words were heavy and warm like someone placing a hand on your shoulder — quiet mercy.
That night, I cleaned the house.
Not for him.
Not for anyone.
Just… because I was still here. And maybe that meant something.
I began a strange little ritual. Every morning, after Fajr, I opened the window and read one verse aloud. Not to memorize. Just to breathe it out into the world.
One morning, I found myself slowing at these words: “And whoever fears Allah — He will make for him a way out. And will provide for him from where he does not expect. And whoever relies upon Allah — then He is sufficient for him.” (Qur’an 65:2-3)
I sat with that.
From where he does not expect.
I wrote it on a sticky note and stuck it above the sink, where the dishes piled up with ease.
Weeks passed — not dramatically. But my soul softened. I returned to my students. They’d painted something for me while I was gone: a little canvas with a crooked heart and a rainbow bursting behind it. “We missed you with a very, very big heart,” the note read.
It wasn’t poetry. But I started crying anyway.
That night, I made dua with shaking hands. Not for Adeel. Not anymore.
Just for softness inside me.
For better plans I couldn’t see yet.
For the quietness of being carried when I didn’t know I was.
And Allah was enough.
Relevant Verses and Hadith:
The morning Adhan drifted softly through the foggy windows, but I didn’t move. I lay on my side, knees curled toward my chest, the quilt wrapped around me though I was already warm. My phone screen blinked endlessly with unread messages — most of them saying the same thing: “Are you okay?” I wasn’t. But I didn’t know how to say that without breaking apart again.
It had been six weeks since Adeel ended our engagement. Six weeks since his parents decided a girl who lived in a one-bedroom flat and taught art to refugee children wasn’t “good enough.” He hadn’t even resisted. Just silence. Then, kindly written apologies. “Allah must have a better plan for us both,” he wrote. I stared at those words, numb. Hadn’t I made room for him in every corner of my life? Hadn’t I prayed for this?
For days I drifted — prayed without presence, ate only when my headache grew unbearable, smiled when I needed to avoid questions. The hardest part was the stillness of nights. Silence pressed against my chest like wet sand. I would cradle the final sound of his voice in my memory like a shard. And then I would cry until my heart grew sore.
One evening, just after Maghrib, I stepped onto the small balcony. The sky was washed in bruised purple and red. My tea sat untouched beside me. I pulled the sleeves of my sweater over trembling hands and looked up.
"Rabbi inni lima anzalta ilayya min khayrin faqir…" The verse spilled out before I knew why. A whisper. A prayer Prophet Musa once made when he was exiled, alone, without a home. “My Lord, I am in desperate need of whatever good You send me.”
I repeated it. Again and again. The words were heavy and warm like someone placing a hand on your shoulder — quiet mercy.
That night, I cleaned the house.
Not for him.
Not for anyone.
Just… because I was still here. And maybe that meant something.
I began a strange little ritual. Every morning, after Fajr, I opened the window and read one verse aloud. Not to memorize. Just to breathe it out into the world.
One morning, I found myself slowing at these words: “And whoever fears Allah — He will make for him a way out. And will provide for him from where he does not expect. And whoever relies upon Allah — then He is sufficient for him.” (Qur’an 65:2-3)
I sat with that.
From where he does not expect.
I wrote it on a sticky note and stuck it above the sink, where the dishes piled up with ease.
Weeks passed — not dramatically. But my soul softened. I returned to my students. They’d painted something for me while I was gone: a little canvas with a crooked heart and a rainbow bursting behind it. “We missed you with a very, very big heart,” the note read.
It wasn’t poetry. But I started crying anyway.
That night, I made dua with shaking hands. Not for Adeel. Not anymore.
Just for softness inside me.
For better plans I couldn’t see yet.
For the quietness of being carried when I didn’t know I was.
And Allah was enough.
Relevant Verses and Hadith:
