When heart says Qadr

The sun had barely finished rising when Amarisa stirred in bed. She lay quietly, eyes fixed on the unfamiliar ceiling, heart pressing against the stillness around her.

Two days into the marriage, and the house still felt borrowed. Like a pair of shoes not yet broken in.

She rolled onto her side, the fabric of her jalabiyyah whispering against the silk sheets. Her scarf was still pinned securely, as if even in sleep, she was determined not to fall apart.

The wedding ring felt a little less heavy on her finger this morning.

But only just.

The villa echoed differently now — no longer filled with the buzz of congratulatory voices or servants shuffling plates and flowers. Just two people walking quietly around each other.

And even that was generous. Kadir hadn't said more than three sentences since the wedding night.

Amarisa wasn't surprised.

She hadn't expected love.

She only hoped for dignity.

And so far, she still had that.

Kadir, meanwhile, stood in front of the mirror in his walk-in closet.

His cufflinks gleamed. His shirt collar sat sharp against his throat. His face betrayed nothing.

But inside?

A slow, steady ache.

He adjusted his tie. Reached for his wristwatch. The house around him was quiet — unnaturally so. Even Hafsah's usual movements seemed to pause when he passed through.

He stepped into the kitchen to find a silver flask waiting for him on the marble counter. A note was placed under it.

"Coffee. Light. No sugar. – A"

He stared at the note for a second longer than he meant to, then folded it silently and tucked it into his pocket.

Amarisa, upstairs, had already finished praying Dhuhr when she heard the door shut.

She didn't peek.

She didn't ask.

She simply sat by the window again, watching the gate like it might offer answers. Her phone lay in her lap, buzzing once with a new notification.

New like: @amelie.x – on your post from 2 months ago.

She didn't click. Not yet.

Just stared.

Kadir's office building welcomed him with its usual rhythm — low murmurs of productivity, phones ringing gently, secretaries moving with trained precision.

Everyone greeted him the same way:

"Congratulations, sir."

"May Allah bless your union."

"We heard she's… very poised."

He offered polite nods. Nothing more.

He had built a reputation on being efficient, detached, logical.

Now, everyone tried to measure how marriage might alter that.

But the truth was — it hadn't.

Not yet.

He was mid-email when his assistant knocked.

"Sir," she said carefully. "There's a visitor asking to see you. She says you'll know who she is."

Kadir's jaw tensed, barely noticeably.

"Name?"

"She didn't give one."

But he already knew.

He sighed. Sat back.

"Send her in."

Amelie.

She entered like a breeze that refused to whisper.

Her long trench coat wrapped neatly around her slim frame, heels quiet against the tiled floor. She wore minimal makeup, but her presence spoke louder than anything she had on.

Her curls were tucked back loosely. Her lips — the same soft nude he always remembered.

He stood up, instinctively straightening.

She closed the door behind her without waiting for instruction.

"As-salaam 'alaykum," she said first.

"Wa 'alaykum salaam."

"So," she said, letting out a breath, "you did it."

He didn't answer.

She walked to the glass window, looking out at the city skyline.

"I knew it was coming. You were honest about that."

He stayed silent.

"And I agreed. I told you I would wait. That I could handle it. Be second. Quiet. Patient."

Now her voice shifted — not angry. Just… hollow.

"But silence gets louder, you know?"

He exhaled through his nose.

"You didn't have to come here."

"Then why haven't you come back to me?"

His eyes didn't flinch.

"It's been two days."

"Two days where I haven't heard a word from you. You didn't even accept my follow request."

"Because I didn't want to do this with you on social media."

"Then do it here," she snapped softly, turning to him. "Tell me you're still planning to come back. Like you promised."

He moved from behind his desk. Slowly. Calmly.

"I didn't lie to you, Amelie. I told you I had to marry for family. For obligation. And that I'd come back for you, once I had fulfilled that."

"So what changed?"

"Nothing. I'm still figuring out how to hold one life together before dragging another into it."

"I'm not another, Kadir."

He closed his eyes briefly.

"You said you'd wait."

"I'm still waiting," she replied. "But it's not easy when you vanish like a ghost."

He looked at her now. Fully.

And she saw it — the tiredness beneath his restraint. The quiet tug-of-war between duty and desire.

"I haven't forgotten you," he said finally.

"Then remind me I'm not a fool for trusting you."

There was silence.

Then, softly:

"You're not."

After she left, he didn't return to his laptop.

He sat back in the chair and stared at the folded note in his pocket.

Coffee. Light. No sugar. – A

And for the first time that day, he felt like a man who had started a story… with no idea how to end it.

Back at the house, Amarisa stood in the kitchen barefoot, her scarf tied neatly, hands washing fruit out of habit.

She didn't hear Kadir's car pull in.

Didn't expect it yet.

But what she did hear was her phone buzzing again.

New Follower: @amelie.x

Message Request: "Pretty house. Must be nice to play wife."

Amarisa didn't reply.

She didn't block.

She just stared.

When Kadir entered the house, she met him in the corridor.

"You're early."

"It was a long day."

"Hungry?"

"A little."

He didn't say more.

She didn't ask.

But as they passed each other in the hallway — ringed fingers visible, bodies still distant — both felt the same thing:

That the house was starting to feel heavier.

And neither of them was sure who was carrying more of it.

Some promises aren't broken.

They're just buried beneath the weight of time, silence, and the fear that love might not survive duty.