When heart says Qadr

The morning of their last day came gently, like it didn't want to wake them.

Sunlight crept in through the bamboo blinds, streaking the room in soft gold. Amarisa opened her eyes to stillness. For a moment, she didn't know where she was. Then the faint scent of the ocean, the muffled sound of waves outside, and the soft rhythm of his breath reminded her.

She turned her head.

Kadir was on the couch, one arm under his head, the other hanging slightly off the side. His long frame was too big for it, and sometime during the night, the blanket had slipped down, half pooling on the floor.

It looked uncomfortable.

And yet, his face was peaceful.

She sat up, the sheet sliding off her shoulder. Her scarf was still loosely tied from the night before. Quietly, she reached for her prayer mat, performed her Fajr salah, and sat still for a while, listening to the ocean's whisper.

There was a strange ache in her chest. Not pain. Not sadness.

Something else.

She didn't want to leave.

When Kadir stirred, blinking against the light, she was already dressed in a pale almond jalabiyyah, sipping warm tea by the window.

"Morning," he said, rubbing his neck with a wince.

"Your body's probably sore."

"That couch is plotting against me."

She smiled. "I did offer to switch."

"You offered after I already laid down and pretended to be asleep."

She laughed gently, and he looked at her with a softness he didn't bother hiding.

"We still have one more day," she said.

He nodded. "Let's make it count."

—

They spent the morning walking through the resort's private gardens, past clusters of orchids and winding bamboo fences. A staff member offered them fresh coconut water, and they sat under a flowering tree to drink it, their knees almost brushing.

"Can I ask you something?" Amarisa said, turning her cup slowly in her hands.

Kadir glanced at her. "Of course."

"Why did you say yes?"

He was quiet. Birds chirped above them, oblivious to how serious the air had become.

"I didn't have a choice," he said finally. "Not really."

She tilted her head, waiting.

"My father gave me an ultimatum. Either I marry someone who fits the family, someone who wouldn't threaten the legacy—or I lose everything tied to my mother. Her Qur'an. Her garden. Even her journals. He wouldn't say it aloud, but I knew."

Amarisa's brows lifted slightly. "So… I was the safe choice."

"You were the smart choice. The kind of woman my mother would've respected. You pray. You're thoughtful. You carry your silence with strength."

He glanced at her, then away again. "I thought I'd resent you. That I'd feel trapped. But you're not what I expected."

Amarisa nodded slowly. "I know."

He turned to her. "What about you? Why'd you agree to this?"

She hesitated, then said, "Because I got tired of waiting for love."

Kadir blinked.

"I thought if I kept myself whole, kept praying, kept being patient… maybe the man meant for me would arrive. Someone who would choose me. But life isn't a fairytale. At some point, I realized — maybe love isn't always loud. Maybe it starts quietly. Maybe it needs time."

She looked down at her cup. "So I said yes. Because it felt like Qadr. And because I didn't want to be invisible anymore."

Kadir swallowed, his throat tight.

"You've never been invisible."

She gave a dry smile. "You didn't even look at me on our wedding day."

"I was trying not to want someone I thought I couldn't have."

Their eyes met.

The silence was heavy, and then—

"Let's forget New York tonight," Amarisa said softly. "Let's forget who we're supposed to be. Just for this evening. Let's stop pretending we're strangers."

He stared at her.

"Deal," he said.

—

They spent the afternoon playing like children. He dared her to dip her feet in the ocean; she dared him to try the tropical juice with too much chili in it. They laughed until their stomachs ached. She got sand in her scarf. He almost tripped on a crab.

For the first time since they met, they weren't performing.

They were just being.

As the sky turned a shade of apricot, they sat side by side beneath a palm tree. Their hands were inches apart. She didn't move hers. Neither did he.

"What's your favorite color?" she asked.

"Grey," he said, surprising her.

She raised a brow. "Why?"

"It's quiet. It doesn't fight for attention. But it holds everything — light and dark."

She smiled. "Mine's blue. The kind that lives in the sky right before Maghrib."

"That's specific."

"That's the point."

He chuckled. "You always this poetic?"

"I just feel things in color."

He stared at her again, and she tried not to shift beneath the weight of it.

"You know," he said. "You're not what I expected either."

She tilted her head. "Why? What did you expect?"

"A woman who'd beg for my attention. Who'd try to prove herself. Who'd bend."

Amarisa looked at him for a long time. "I spent too long begging Allah to make me enough. I'm not about to beg another human."

That hit something in him.

Something that made his eyes drop to her lips.

And for a second — just a heartbeat — he leaned forward.

She did too.

The air stilled. Their breaths hovered in the same space.

But just before they touched, Amarisa whispered, "Not yet."

Kadir stopped. He didn't move away. He didn't look ashamed. He just nodded once, slowly, and sat back.

"Okay."

They smiled, both a little breathless.

And it wasn't awkward.

It was perfect.

—

That night, they lay side by side on the bed. No lines drawn. No awkward apologies.

They faced the ceiling, letting silence wash over them.

"Do you think we'll go back to being distant in New York?" she asked softly.

"I don't want to," he said. "But life is louder there. Expectations are heavier."

She turned her face toward him. "Then let's remember this night. Let's not forget who we were here."

Kadir turned too, and they stared at each other.

"I never told anyone this," she said. "But when I was twelve, I used to talk to Allah like He was my best friend. Out loud. Like He was sitting beside me."

He smiled. "What happened?"

"Life. I started feeling like maybe He stopped listening. But lately… I think He just wanted me to speak differently."

Kadir's voice was low. "I think… I started listening again because of you."

That quiet admission hung in the air.

Neither reached for the other. But their hands met between them.

Fingers brushing.

Fingers staying.

Eventually, their eyes closed. Sleep wrapped around them.

They didn't speak again.

They didn't need to.

Because for the first time since everything began, they weren't lying beside a stranger.

They were lying beside someone who chose to see them.

And they both knew—

Something had changed.

Forever.