When heart says Qadr

The morning began in silence.

Not the kind that screamed discomfort, nor the kind that begged to be filled—but the kind that wrapped itself around two people learning to breathe in the same space.

Kadir didn't knock. He simply waited downstairs, dressed in a charcoal sweater and casual trousers, arms folded, posture unreadable.

Amarisa descended slowly, luggage in one hand, scarf pinned neatly around her head, dressed in her long cream jalabiyyah that flowed like water over her form.

They didn't exchange unnecessary words.

There was no need to ask, "Are you ready?"

They were both prepared. For the flight. For the strangeness of this honeymoon. For the next chapter they hadn't chosen—but were walking into anyway.

The black car waiting outside blinked its headlights once.

They stepped in. She took the window seat.

New York faded behind them with the chill of early sunlight.

The highway hummed beneath the wheels. Amarisa kept her eyes fixed on the world passing by, but Kadir found his gaze returning to her reflection in the window more than once.

There was something about her silence that wasn't cold. It was… steady. She didn't fidget. She didn't check her phone. She just was—fully present, almost too still.

"Long flight ahead," he said quietly.

"Alhamdulillah for that," she replied, lips barely curved.

It surprised him—a small joke, dry and hidden.

He didn't press. But it stayed with him.

The airport was already crowded by the time they arrived at JFK.

Couples. Families. Business travelers in suits. Everyone in motion. But them? They moved like a quiet thread weaving through noise. Together, but not quite entangled.

Check-in. Security. Boarding.

Everything passed in slow, practiced rhythm.

Onboard, she chose the window again. He took the aisle.

The cabin settled into dim blue lights.

And hours passed.

At 32,000 feet, Amarisa drifted off.

Her head leaned against the window at first, then shifted. Gently. Naturally. As though even her exhaustion knew where to land.

When it finally came to rest on his shoulder, Kadir froze.

Just for a second.

She didn't stir. Her breathing stayed soft. Light.

He turned slightly, glanced down.

Her face was peaceful. Not guarded. Not cautious.

Just… tired.

Something in him softened. He didn't move. Didn't tense. He simply adjusted his arm a little and let her stay.

It wasn't romance.

It wasn't desire.

It was something slower. Quieter.

Recognition.

They reached Langkawi well after sundown.

Humidity kissed their skin the moment the airport doors opened. The night air smelled of salt and orchids, warm and earthy.

Their driver—cheerful and polite—welcomed them in Malay-tinged English and guided them toward the resort van waiting near the exit.

Amarisa stepped in first, careful and quiet. Kadir followed, tossing both suitcases into the back without help.

The drive was long, winding through lush trees and sleepy roads. Outside, torches lit the narrow lane as the resort came into view.

It was breathtaking.

Soft lanterns lined the wooden walkways. Bamboo villas rose from serene ponds, and palm trees danced in the breeze. Warm yellow lights glowed from inside the woven walls.

It felt like stepping into a world far removed from New York. From marriage pressure. From the weight of two families watching.

Amarisa stared out in awe, mouth slightly parted.

"I didn't know peace could look like this," she whispered.

"Sometimes it's bought," Kadir said. "Other times it's built."

She didn't answer.

But she knew he was right.

The villa was tucked deep inside the compound—secluded, quiet, intimate.

As they stepped in, the bamboo floors creaked beneath their feet. Light filtered through high woven ceilings. A low bed framed by white drapes sat in the center, and a couch nestled near the open balcony.

It smelled of lemongrass, sea, and something floral.

There was only one room.

They already knew that. His father had made the booking. Amarisa hadn't argued. Kadir hadn't complained.

Still, when they stood in the middle of the room, she kept her gaze on the couch.

"It's fine," he said first. "I'll take it."

"It's not a punishment," she murmured.

"Didn't say it was."

He grabbed a throw blanket from the edge of the bed and tossed it across the couch.

"You're sure?" she asked, turning toward the bathroom.

"Even if I wasn't."

Her lips curved—barely—and she disappeared behind the door.

They took turns freshening up, neither invading the other's rhythm.

When Amarisa emerged from the bathroom in her soft indoor clothes and scarf, she found Kadir on the couch already, reading something on his phone. The lights were dim. The room hummed with the sound of waves from the nearby ocean.

She crawled into bed, pulling the covers around her legs.

"You're not going to open your suitcase?" he asked suddenly.

"I did already. Neatly. Unlike someone."

He glanced at his opened suitcase against the wall, half of it spilling onto the floor.

"Right."

A small silence settled again.

Then—

"Your mother," she said softly. "I know she's not here. I figured that out early."

Kadir didn't move.

But he listened.

"You don't talk about her."

"There's nothing to say."

"That's not true."

He exhaled slowly. "She died when I was sixteen. Cancer. She hid it for too long."

Amarisa sat up a little. "That must have been hard."

"It still is."

"You miss her?"

"Every day," he said without hesitation. "Sometimes I still wake up forgetting she's not around. Then I remember when I walk through the house and it's too quiet."

She was silent.

"She would've liked you," he added. "A lot."

"Why?"

"You don't ask for attention. But you hold space. She was like that too."

Amarisa blinked back the sudden heaviness in her chest.

"You're not what I expected," she whispered.

"Neither are you."

The fan spun overhead.

The waves kept their rhythm.

And two strangers—bound by a name, by a ring, by fate—lay quietly in the same space, hearts full of questions neither of them dared to voice yet.

Not about love.

Not about forever.

Just about now.

Just about this.

Langkawi didn't feel like a honeymoon. It felt like a beginning. One stitched together with silence, sincerity, and the steady unraveling of everything they thought they knew.