When heart says Qadr

The scent of lemon oil lingered in the house, leftover from last night's frenzied cleaning. The dining room table still wore its velvet runner like a crown, surrounded by chairs that had held the weight of too many expectations. Amarisa had spent the early morning peeling back the layers of last night, placing cutlery back in drawers, rearranging cushions, and untangling the strained memories from what should've been a peaceful dinner.

She was exhausted. Not from the work, but from the pretending.

From the way her body leaned instinctively away from his when their hands brushed. From the questions that rained down like a slow storm. From his father's long glances, as if searching for answers through both their eyes.

The house was quiet now. Kadir had already disappeared into the study after Fajr, murmuring a tight greeting as he walked past her. No lingering glances. No conversation. Just a familiar kind of silence that settled between them like fog.

She moved to the kitchen, tying her jalabiyyah sleeve with a rubber band and beginning her usual task: tea first, toast second. She hadn't even started toasting the bread before she heard footsteps.

"Morning," he said, his voice low.

"Peace," she replied.

She didn't call him by name. Not yet. Names held power.

He opened the fridge, rummaged briefly, and pulled out bottled water.

"You don't have to cook anything. I'm heading out soon," he added.

She didn't respond, just went back to preparing toast. He lingered a little longer than necessary, then stepped back.

"Last night… you were good."

"Convincing, you mean?" She didn't look up.

"Yes."

She turned then, facing him. "I didn't do it for them."

He blinked. "I know."

"I did it because I promised Allah I would try," she added, her tone calm, controlled. "And you may not be the husband I imagined, but you're the one I married. I won't embarrass either of us."

There was a beat of silence. One that told him not to speak unless he had something meaningful to say.

But of course, Kadir didn't always follow the script.

"I don't want this to feel like punishment," he said.

She placed the toast down gently. "Then don't treat me like a stranger."

Later that afternoon, Amarisa caught a call from her father. It was short, mostly about last night's dinner. He was proud of her grace, impressed by how "harmonious" things seemed. She smiled lightly through the call, trying not to crack under the pressure of appearances.

After she hung up, her phone buzzed again — this time with a follow-up text from Kadir.

Father wants to see us. Evening. Dress well.

No further details. No tone.

Just instructions.

She sighed, turned off her phone, and went upstairs to get ready.

By the time they arrived at Kadir's family home, it was nearing maghrib. His father was waiting for them in the lounge, dressed in a well-ironed ivory kaftan, his glasses resting at the edge of his nose. The room smelled of oud and authority.

"Come," he said without standing. "Sit, both of you."

Amarisa gave her salaam, adjusting her scarf slightly as she lowered herself onto the couch beside Kadir, keeping a modest distance.

His father stared at them both, clasping his hands.

"I wanted to talk in private," he began, "away from the rest of the family."

Kadir stiffened beside her.

"I know this marriage was not born of your choosing," he continued. "But it is of your responsibility now. And it is not enough to simply carry the title of husband and wife. There must be effort. Intention."

Kadir leaned forward. "We understand."

His father raised a brow. "Do you?"

Kadir said nothing.

The old man sighed, then turned his gaze to Amarisa.

"You handled yourself with grace last night," he told her.

That stunned her.

"Thank you, Baba."

"But now comes the part where you stop acting and start becoming."

The words lingered.

Then came the unexpected.

"I've arranged something for you both," he said, reaching into a nearby drawer and pulling out a sealed envelope.

Kadir took it, his brows furrowed.

"A trip," his father continued. "A short honeymoon. Just one week."

Kadir stiffened again. "Baba—"

"It's already booked. Non-refundable," his father interrupted. "You will go. You will rest. You will talk. You will figure out how to be more than strangers living under the same roof."

Amarisa opened her mouth, but no words came.

"Where?" Kadir asked tightly.

"Langkawi," his father said, pride in his voice.

Kadir's head snapped toward him. Amarisa blinked.

"Langkawi?" she echoed.

His father nodded. "Malaysia. Off the coast. A private beach villa. Halal everything. No distractions."

Amarisa's heart thumped.

She had seen pictures of Langkawi before — white sands, lush greenery, turquoise waters.

Kadir was clearly displeased.

"I have work," he said.

"You also have a marriage," his father replied.

That ended the discussion.

The car ride home was tense.

Kadir said nothing.

Neither did she.

Until they reached a red light and he finally spoke.

"You don't have to go if you don't want to."

She glanced at him.

"This isn't just your marriage," she said. "If I didn't want to go, I'd say so."

Another beat of silence passed.

"Do you?" he asked.

"I think… maybe we need this."

He nodded once. Just once.

When they arrived home, he helped her out of the car without a word. For the first time, their hands lingered a second longer than usual.

That night, Amarisa found herself scrolling through pictures of Langkawi. The islands looked unreal — emerald waters, hammocks swinging over the sea, mosques built by the coast.

It almost felt… healing.

Could a place really fix what two people couldn't?

She wasn't sure.

A knock came at her door — not their shared one, but hers, the one she still retreated into for peace.

"Kadir?"

He stepped inside, holding two passports.

"I need to get your travel details sorted. You've never been to Malaysia before, right?"

She shook her head.

"I'll handle the itinerary," he added. "Just… pack light."

"Do you want me to bring anything specific?" she asked.

"Just yourself. And honesty."

She stared at him, then nodded slowly.

"Same goes for you."

He gave a half-smile — a real one this time. "Trying."

And then, before he left, he added quietly:

"Amarisa."

"Yes?"

"I know this wasn't your dream. But maybe, if we're lucky… we'll build something close."

Her eyes softened.

"Maybe."