When heart says Qadr

The first morning came like a soft knock — quiet, hesitant, unsure if it was welcome.

Amarisa had barely slept. She rose before the birds, blinking up at the unfamiliar ceiling above her — wide and white, with nothing to hold on to. Her heart beat steadily, not from fear, but from something heavier: awareness.

Awareness that she was no longer in her father's house.

Awareness that she was now someone's wife — on paper, by name, by contract.

But not yet in presence.

Her room was still neat from the night before. The bed perfectly made on one side. The jalabiyyah she had worn — her bridal one — still hung near the wardrobe. Her scarf, still smelling faintly of rose water, lay folded on the dresser beside her Qur'an.

She sat at the edge of the bed for a moment.

Still.

She flexed her fingers slightly and looked down at her hand. The ring caught the faint blue light sneaking through the curtain.

It was beautiful.

But it felt like a trophy — one earned in silence, not love.

She wrapped her scarf around her head again and stood, her feet brushing against the cool tiled floor as she moved toward the bathroom for wudhu.

By the time she laid her prayer mat down, the world was still holding its breath.

"Ya Rabb…

Give me grace.

Give him peace.

And if not love, then let there at least be ease."

She didn't expect answers in one day.

She just wanted to feel real.

Downstairs, the house remained quiet, even after the sun rose. There were no TV sounds, no kitchen clatters, no doors swinging open. The walls of the villa seemed trained to keep secrets, and this morning, it held two:

One was Amarisa.

The other was Kadir.

He had slept in the study.

Not because there wasn't a guest room.

But because it was the most familiar place he could hide in.

Kadir sat in the same armchair, head resting against the back, eyes half-closed. He wore a clean shirt, navy slacks, his suit jacket folded on the armrest. The blinds were drawn, letting in only streaks of soft gold.

His ring was still on his finger.

He stared at it for a long time, turning it slightly, watching how it shimmered under filtered light.

"I'm married."

It didn't feel like sin.

It didn't feel like celebration.

It felt… unfinished.

Not wrong. But incomplete.

He reached for his phone.

1 Notification. Instagram.

He unlocked it and stared at the screen.

Follow Request: @amelie.x

He stared for a long time.

She hadn't messaged.

Hadn't liked anything.

Just… requested.

"She's watching. Still."

He didn't accept.

He didn't delete it.

He simply set the phone down, the screen dimming to black — like a secret tucked beneath a heartbeat.

It was Hafsah, the elderly housekeeper, who broke the spell.

She entered through the side door with quiet steps, her scarf tied low and her voice humming Qur'an under her breath.

When she saw Amarisa in the kitchen, already standing by the kettle, she smiled to herself.

"You're up?" Hafsah said warmly. "Not every bride wakes this early."

"Couldn't sleep," Amarisa replied, her voice gentle.

"That's normal. Don't worry. First night's not meant to be dreamy. It's meant to be real."

Amarisa smiled — a genuine one.

Together, they moved around the kitchen. Amarisa boiled water, laid out mugs, and quietly arranged slices of bread and soft eggs. There was no rush. Just routine. Just two women sharing a quiet moment in a home that felt too large.

"He usually skips breakfast," Hafsah added casually.

"But I set an extra plate anyway."

"He can decide," Amarisa replied, eyes down. "It's not forced."

And that was the truth.

She didn't want to force anything — not affection, not attention, not presence.

But she would offer what was hers to give.

Kadir arrived just as the tea was poured.

His footsteps weren't heavy, but they made Amarisa's spine straighten. He entered the kitchen like a man used to walking into rooms that listened.

She turned to greet him first.

"Assalamu alaikum."

"Wa alaikum salam, Amarisa," he replied, voice even.

She had noticed.

He always used her full name.

Not "Amari."

Not a nickname.

Not even a softening.

Just Amarisa — respectful, formal, distant.

He sat across from her at the table, and for a few seconds, the silence returned. The kind that asked more questions than answers.

She gently pushed the teacup toward him.

"It's light. No sugar."

"Thank you."

They ate quietly, the only sounds being the clink of cutlery and the distant hum of Hafsah's soft broom strokes down the hall.

After a few bites, Kadir spoke.

"You didn't have to go through the trouble."

"It's no trouble," she said simply. "We live under the same roof. It feels right to prepare what I'd prepare for myself."

He studied her — not harshly, but analytically. As if trying to figure out who she was outside of modesty and manners.

She met his eyes for the first time since the wedding.

"I'm not here to impress you," she said, honestly. "I'm here to honor the decision we both agreed to. Whatever that takes."

There was silence.

But it wasn't uncomfortable.

He sipped the tea again, looked away.

"You're straightforward," he finally said.

"That's rare."

"Being quiet doesn't mean being passive," she replied softly. "And being married doesn't mean I have to disappear."

He glanced at her hand — the ring glimmering under the kitchen light.

"You seem very sure of yourself."

"I'm not," she said. "But I'm sure I won't fake what I don't feel."

He nodded once.

That was the end of the conversation.

But for the first time, it didn't feel like a wall. It felt like a beginning line — not of love, but of honesty.

After breakfast, Amarisa cleaned the mugs and wiped the counter. She didn't expect him to help. She didn't ask. Kadir had already disappeared into his study again, but his plate remained empty.

She didn't know what he was doing.

But part of her already sensed:

He was guarding something.

Upstairs, Amarisa sat on her bed, finally allowing herself to scroll through her phone.

Her modest Instagram page was filled with neutral content — poetry quotes, snapshots of scenery, one or two pictures of her books, and a soft-filtered picture of her hand in henna with the caption:

Bismillah.

She paused when she saw it.

New Follower: @amelie.x

No message.

No likes.

No profile picture.

Just the name.

Something cold prickled at the back of her neck.

She tapped the profile.

It was locked. Zero posts. Following only one person.

Her.

She didn't accept the request. Not yet.

But her heart suddenly felt like it was beating in someone else's hand.

In a house where silence walked like a third person,

one woman offered honesty,

one man held his distance,

and one ghost pressed her thumb to the Follow button —

waiting.