When heart says Qadr

The airport was colder than she remembered.

Not because of the AC or the steady wind curling in from the exit doors, but because they weren't saying anything. Not since they landed. Not since they'd stepped off the plane and stood beside each other like two passengers who just happened to book adjacent seats.

Kadir walked slightly ahead of her, tugging the wheels of both suitcases behind him like he couldn't trust her to lift the weight. Amarisa didn't offer to help. Not out of pride, but because she didn't know if he wanted her to.

The warmth of Langkawi — the way the island had softened them — had begun to fade somewhere over the Atlantic. It melted somewhere between the movie he watched without looking at her and the blanket she wrapped around her legs instead of sharing with him like she once did on the flight there.

By the time they walked through JFK, both were more silent than they had been in weeks.

They didn't speak in the car either.

The same driver who had taken them to the airport now wore the same smile, asking if they had enjoyed their trip.

Kadir nodded. Amarisa offered a soft "Alhamdulillah."

The rest of the drive? Quiet.

The skyline of New York blinked in the windows, tall and indifferent. The roads buzzed beneath them. Horns screamed. Billboards flashed advertisements for things neither of them needed.

Everything had gone back to normal.

But that was the problem.

The house greeted them like a stranger.

It didn't smell like saltwater or the faint jasmine she had used to scent their shared room in Langkawi. No open balcony. No warm sun on their skin. No shared space with low laughter or awkward silences that slowly turned into something tender.

Here, everything was cold again.

The same couch. The same separate rooms. The same untouched mugs in the kitchen from a rushed morning weeks ago.

Amarisa paused at the door, her fingers clenching the suitcase handle a little too tightly. Her eyes flicked to Kadir, who didn't stop walking.

He carried their bags to the bedroom like nothing had shifted between them.

Like nothing had grown.

Like nothing had been different.

She unpacked slowly. Deliberately. The folds of her clothes whispered with every motion, as if even the fabric missed the softness of Langkawi.

She held one of her scarves in her hands — the deep maroon one she wore the night they sat by the beach and talked about grief, about missing people who wouldn't come back. She had never expected him to speak of his mother that night. And she never forgot the way he had fallen silent after, like he had just given away something sacred.

She wondered if he regretted it now.

If he regretted letting her into that part of him.

Kadir had disappeared into the study.

Again.

No words. No eye contact. No "I'm tired" or "I need a minute."

Just the sound of the door clicking shut behind him.

And Amarisa stood alone in their shared room — though it hardly felt shared anymore — and wondered if Langkawi had all been a temporary illusion. A place outside reality. A place where it was safe to open hearts because they knew it couldn't last.

Back in New York, everything reset.

Everything became distant again.

She set the table the next morning.

Not out of obligation.

Out of hope.

She made mint tea. The one he liked. Fried eggs, toast, honey butter, sliced avocado. She even placed napkins beside the cups. Little gestures. Details.

She sat at the end of the table and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Until his footsteps echoed down the hallway. Brief. Unbothered. Focused.

"I'm heading out," he said, grabbing his jacket.

She turned. "You're not eating?"

"Got a meeting."

"I made breakfast."

He paused. But not long enough.

"I'll grab something on the way."

And just like that, he was gone.

She sat in the stillness. The ticking clock. The untouched tea going cold.

The second day wasn't much different.

Or the third.

He was present — physically — but absent in every other way.

He didn't speak unless necessary. He barely looked her in the eyes. And when she finally asked if everything was okay, he responded with a casual, "I'm just tired."

But she knew it wasn't just that.

She could feel it.

It wasn't tiredness. It was detachment. It was disconnection. Like he had pulled away before she could even reach.

Like something was pulling him back — somewhere else.

The fourth day, it happened.

The doorbell rang.

She wasn't expecting anyone.

She was in the kitchen, fixing herself some tea when the chime echoed again.

She wiped her hands and went to answer, adjusting her head-tie slightly as she opened the door.

There she was.

A woman.

Tall. Confident. Light-skinned, smooth makeup. Dark lipstick. Tight jeans. A long cream coat. Hair down. Fragrance expensive.

Her eyes flicked over Amarisa. She offered a small smile. "Hi. Is Kadir in?"

Amarisa blinked. "He's not."

"Oh." She smiled again, this time more slowly. "Okay. Well… can you just let him know Amelie stopped by?"

The name sank like lead in Amarisa's chest.

She didn't blink.

She didn't react.

But something inside her tightened.

"Who should I say you are?" Amarisa asked carefully.

"An old friend," Amelie said, brushing her hair back. "Just passing by."

That was all.

She turned.

Walked away.

Like she had expected to see him.

Like she had every right to.

That night, Amarisa didn't ask right away.

But Kadir came home late again. Quiet again.

And she couldn't sit with it anymore.

She knocked on his bedroom door, and silently waited for his response, "come in" she heard him say, before twisting the door knob, to open, revealing Kadir standing across the room, taking off his tie. She tried to steady herself before speaking up.

"Someone came by today," she said softly.

His fingers paused. "Who?"

"She said her name was Amelie."

She didn't say more.

But her eyes were watching. Searching. Waiting.

Kadir didn't meet her gaze.

He sat on the edge of the couch, rubbing his hands together.

"She said she's an old friend."

Silence.

Stillness.

"Kadir," she said gently, "is there something I should know?"

Still nothing.

He didn't deny.

He didn't explain.

He didn't say she was just a friend, or not what Amarisa was thinking.

He said nothing.

And that was worse.

Because silence is a form of answer too.

"Was she someone you loved?" she asked, this time more fragile.

His jaw clenched.

And he still didn't speak.

The argument started softly.

"I'm not asking to control you," Amarisa whispered, pain creeping into her voice. "I'm asking because I feel like I've stepped into a story halfway and everyone knows the plot but me."

"It's not the time," he murmured.

"When is the time, Kadir?"

He stood up then, frustration in his breath. "I don't owe anyone explanations right now."

She stepped back. Just one step. Enough to protect herself.

"You don't. You're right," she whispered. "You don't owe me anything."

He looked at her then — really looked.

And for the first time, she saw something in his eyes that wasn't indifference.

It was conflict.

It was guilt.

It was someone breaking slowly.

But she didn't press.

She just turned away. "I'll never understand you.''

She didn't wait for his response.

She walked out, the door closed quietly behind her.

That night, Kadir sat on the couch alone. Shirt wrinkled. Hair disheveled. Hands trembling.

He opened his phone.

Amelie had texted.

"I came by. She opened the door. She's beautiful."

No more. No less.

He stared at the screen.

But he didn't reply.

He powered off the phone.

And let the silence punish him.

Amarisa lay awake.

Not crying.

Just staring at the ceiling, wondering if she had imagined it all — the almost-bonding, the soft smiles, the way he held her during her panic, the night she fell asleep on his chest.

Had she misread it?

Had he only been kind because it was temporary?

Her chest hurt again.

Not from heartbreak. But from that sharp ache of feeling replaceable.

She turned over and whispered again,

"Ya Rabb, if this is my test… strengthen me through it."