When heart says Qadr

The first morning in Langkawi broke slowly, like sunlight creeping into a room that wasn't ready to wake up.

Amarisa stirred under the soft white sheets, the rustle of distant waves folding into the stillness of the room. She blinked slowly, adjusting to the golden stripes of sun falling through the bamboo walls.

She turned her head.

The other side of the bed was undisturbed.

Of course.

He'd kept his word—slept on the couch just as he said he would.

She pushed the blanket off gently and sat up. The faint scent of lemongrass lingered in the air, woven with the earthy freshness of sea salt and wood. She heard a quiet sound from the terrace—a chair shifting, the floor creaking beneath careful steps.

He was up already.

Kadir stood outside, barefoot on the bamboo deck, arms folded loosely across his chest, staring at the early ocean.

He looked calm. But even from behind, there was a stillness about him that didn't come from peace—it came from containment.

She stood in the doorway for a second, scarf draped over her head, her jalabiyyah trailing softly behind her.

"Assalamu Alaikum," she said gently.

"Wa alaikumussalam," he replied without turning. His voice was low. Clear.

She stepped beside him, keeping a respectful distance. The breeze fluttered the hem of her scarf, brushing it gently against her face.

"You didn't sleep much," she said, glancing at the slight dark circles beneath his eyes.

"Didn't try to."

"Why not?"

"I don't usually sleep well in unfamiliar places."

"But you travel often?"

"That doesn't mean it gets easier."

They stood side by side for a moment longer, saying nothing. Only the sea spoke.

Inside, they returned with quiet steps.

"Would you prefer breakfast out or in?" he asked.

"Here. I'm not really ready for the world yet."

"Same."

He nodded and picked up the villa phone. His tone was courteous, sharp, and to the point as he placed the order. Amarisa sat on the edge of the bed, folding her prayer mat neatly from the night before.

"You don't have to act like you're managing a meeting," she said.

He paused. "It's not intentional."

"That's the point."

He glanced back at her—but didn't respond.

When breakfast arrived, the villa door clicked gently.

A resort staff member wheeled in a tray adorned with warm pastries, slices of fruit, scrambled eggs, grilled vegetables, and a tall glass jug of mango juice. There were two small bowls of dates, their richness glistening in the morning sun.

They sat on opposite ends of the low wooden table near the balcony, the soft breeze fluttering through sheer white curtains.

"Bismillah," she whispered.

"Bismillah," he echoed.

The first few minutes were quiet. Only the occasional sound of cutlery tapping against ceramic broke the silence.

"This mango juice tastes unreal," she murmured, breaking the quiet first.

"It's the best part of breakfast here," he agreed, sipping from his glass.

"You've been here before?"

"Once. Years ago. For a conference."

"Did you like it then?"

"Didn't see much of it. Back-to-back meetings. Flew out the next day."

She nodded and spooned a piece of pineapple onto her plate.

"So this is technically your first time enjoying Langkawi."

"If you call this enjoying."

"You're not?"

"It's peaceful. But peace doesn't fix everything."

"It doesn't have to," she said. "Sometimes it just holds space while you do the fixing."

He looked at her fully for the first time that morning.

Not just a glance. But a look. A pause.

"You say things that sound simple," he murmured, "but they're not."

"They're not meant to be."

After breakfast, she prayed Dhuha on the terrace.

Kadir gave her space. He stayed inside, reading quietly from his phone. But he glanced up every now and then—to see her bowed in prayer, sunlight kissing the back of her scarf, her palms lifted in soft supplication.

It stirred something unfamiliar in him.

Something still unnamed.

Later that afternoon, after she had closed her journal and he had lost interest in his reading, Amarisa stood and slipped her slippers on.

"Do you want to walk a little?"

Kadir raised an eyebrow.

"Outside?"

"It's not a trick question."

He smirked faintly. "Alright."

They left the villa, walking slowly through the winding paths of bamboo and palm until they reached the beach.

The sand was soft and warm beneath their feet.

Amarisa slipped off her sandals, walking barefoot and light, the ocean breeze teasing strands of hair from under her scarf.

Kadir rolled his sleeves up and walked beside her.

They didn't speak for a while.

"You seem… distant," she said softly, after a few minutes.

"I'm here, aren't I?"

"Physically. Emotionally, you're elsewhere."

He exhaled through his nose. "I'm not going to pretend I'm suddenly at ease with all of this."

"Neither am I."

"But you're handling it better."

"I've had longer to prepare."

Kadir frowned slightly. "I thought this was sudden for both of us."

"The marriage, yes. But the loneliness before it… that's not new to me."

Her honesty hit him like a wave.

"Do you regret saying yes?" he asked suddenly.

She looked up at him. "Do you?"

"I regret how it happened. Not that it happened."

She nodded slowly.

"That's something," she said.

They stopped near a large stone where the waves foamed quietly. Amarisa sat down, hugging her knees loosely. Kadir stood for a moment before joining her on the sand.

"I had plans," he said quietly. "None of this was in them."

"Neither was I," she replied. "You weren't in mine either."

"Then what are we doing?"

"Trying," she said. "Trying not to fail before we begin."

He looked at her, and for the first time, his eyes were softer. Not warm. Not open. But no longer guarded.

"Don't expect too much from me," he warned.

"I don't," she said. "But I do expect truth. Even if it's broken."

They returned to the villa near Maghrib.

As the sky blushed into gold and indigo, they laid their prayer mats side by side for the first time. The adhan played faintly from someone's phone. They stood shoulder to shoulder.

In that moment, the space between them didn't feel like a wall.

It felt like something waiting to be filled.

After the prayer, Amarisa didn't move immediately. She sat quietly, her fingers brushing the edge of her tasbih.

"Your recitation…" she said softly. "It's beautiful."

Kadir remained still.

"My mother used to say that too," he said. "Said I sounded like my grandfather."

"You don't talk about her."

"There's not much to say."

"There's always something," she said. "Even if it hurts."

He turned toward her. "She died when I was sixteen. She had cancer. Never told anyone until it was too late."

A silence settled.

"I'm sorry."

"You don't need to be."

"You still miss her?"

"Every single day."

That night, Amarisa lay in bed facing the room.

Kadir rested on the couch, one hand under his head, the other scrolling through quiet thoughts.

They didn't speak.

But something between them was beginning to breathe.

Not loudly.

Not quickly.

Just… honestly.

Final line:

He didn't promise to try. She didn't ask him to. But for now, that was okay. Because not every beginning needs certainty—sometimes, it just needs presence.