When heart says Qadr

The day was made of soft light and stolen silences.

Amarisa had woken early again, though not as early as the morning before. She found Kadir already dressed, sitting in the lounge chair on the balcony, a book in one hand and his gaze lost somewhere between the horizon and memory.

He didn't notice her approach—not until she greeted him.

"Assalamu Alaikum."

"Wa alaikumussalam," he replied, a little surprised. "Did I wake you?"

"No," she said softly. "The ocean did."

"Persistent, isn't it?" he murmured, closing the book.

"Like grief," she replied, almost to herself.

He looked at her then—not questioning, just acknowledging.

They shared breakfast in quiet companionship. He poured her tea without asking, and she offered him a spoonful of honey after watching him taste it bitter. Their words were soft, filtered through the safety of silence and shallow waves crashing against the shore.

"Do you still feel like a stranger here?" she asked, after a while.

"I feel like a guest," he said. "And not just in this place."

"In your own life?"

He didn't respond. He didn't need to.

She understood.

Later, they walked through the nearby market street—not far from the resort, where tourists lingered and soft music drifted from small cafés shaded under swaying palms.

Amarisa wore a modest dress, the sleeves flowing like water, her scarf pinned perfectly in place. She noticed how the locals smiled at her kindly. The women nodded, and the old men at the tea stalls lowered their eyes respectfully.

Kadir stayed close but not overbearing. He didn't rush her, didn't dictate where they should go. He watched as she admired trinkets, asked about spices, and paused in front of a handmade wooden jewelry box.

"It's beautiful," she whispered, touching the intricate carvings.

"Do you want it?"

"No… just admiring."

But the moment she walked ahead, he bought it quietly and tucked it into the resort bag, not saying a word.

They prayed Asr near the water in a small open mosque. The sand clung to their slippers, and the breeze carried the call to prayer in haunting echoes.

She noticed the way his forehead pressed longer against the ground during sujood.

And how his eyes stayed closed for a few breaths more than needed when he sat for taslim.

Something about him was heavy, yet hollow.

Like a man made of storm-clouds, trying not to rain.

That evening, the air changed.

Not with the sky, which remained clear and moonlit.

But with something inside her.

She didn't know what started it.

Maybe it was the crowd in the main resort area as they returned from dinner. Or the lights that flashed too brightly. Or the way the music shifted from soft strings to loud bass, making her chest feel too tight.

Or maybe it was nothing.

That's how panic worked—it never asked for permission.

They stood near the lobby, about to return to their villa, when it hit her.

The noise.

The blurred sounds of laughter. Distant footsteps. Too many people talking at once.

Her vision swam.

The floor seemed to shift beneath her sandals. Her breath shortened, chest rising in erratic bursts. She gripped the edge of her shawl, trying to center herself—but her hands trembled.

Her heart raced like something was chasing her, though she stood completely still.

"Amarisa?" His voice came low, alert. "Are you alright?"

She couldn't respond.

The lights overhead dimmed in and out of her vision. Her lips parted, trying to form words, but none came. A ringing began in her ears.

Her eyes searched frantically.

And then—

She ran.

Right into him.

She didn't think.

Didn't plan it.

Her arms wrapped around his torso with desperation, pressing her forehead into his chest, trying to find air—trying to find stillness. His body froze for a split second, shocked.

But then—

He held her.

Arms around her back, firm and grounding. One hand gently pressed against her head, the other rubbing slow circles on her shoulder blade.

"Breathe," he whispered. "You're okay. I've got you."

His voice wasn't calm—it was steady. Controlled.

He didn't ask questions. He didn't pull away.

"You're safe," he said again. "I'm here. Just breathe, Amarisa."

Her name in his voice sounded like something sacred. A call to return.

Minutes passed.

The world dimmed around them as he guided her gently to a quiet bench beneath a palm tree away from the noise. She sat down slowly, still holding onto him like a child afraid of being left behind.

Her head rested on his shoulder now. His arm stayed around her.

"What was that?" he asked, his tone not harsh, but worried.

"A panic attack," she whispered. "It hasn't happened in a while."

"Is there something I should do?"

"You did it already."

"Just by holding you?"

"Just by being there."

That night, she stepped out again for a breath of fresh air. A quiet walk, just to feel the waves humming in the distance.

The resort's beach trail was nearly empty, except for a few lingering tourists under string lights and lanterns. She kept to herself, walking slowly, arms folded as her scarf rustled gently in the breeze.

Then she heard it.

"Hey—excuse me?"

A tourist—tall, tan, too casual—approached with a confident smirk.

"Didn't mean to scare you. Just thought you looked kinda lost."

"I'm not," she said gently, already angling away.

"You sure? I mean, you're alone. Wouldn't mind some company?"

"I'm okay."

"You here for the first time?" he pushed. "It's not often you see… someone like you here."

His eyes glanced at her scarf. His tone changed.

"You're pretty, though. Don't be shy."

Her steps quickened, but he kept walking alongside her.

"Come on, just a few minutes. You look like someone who could use a little fun—"

She stopped.

Turned.

And raised her hand calmly.

"I'm married."

He blinked, pausing.

"Really?" he said, glancing around. "Didn't see anyone with you."

Before she could respond, another voice came from behind.

"That's because her husband was giving her space."

Kadir stepped forward.

There was no emotion on his face—just quiet certainty.

He placed a hand lightly on her back.

"That's my wife."

The tourist immediately stepped back, mumbling.

"Didn't mean to offend—didn't know."

"She told you," Kadir said flatly. "You didn't listen."

The man gave a weak smile and disappeared quickly into the darkness.

They walked back in silence.

But the air had changed again.

She could feel it—not duty, not obligation—but something real. He didn't scold. He didn't pry.

He just walked beside her.

"You didn't have to say it like that," she said softly once they reached the door.

"Say what?"

"So… possessively."

"Would you have preferred I didn't?"

"No," she admitted.

Back in the villa, they sat quietly.

The silence between them was heavy, but not hostile.

She reached for her tea again, sipped slowly, then glanced at him.

"Why are you being kind to me, Kadir?"

He didn't look at her.

"Because I should be," he said flatly.

That was it.

No warmth. No invitation.

Just a line.

She nodded slightly. Set the cup down.

He stood and went to lie on the couch.

She turned off the light and lay back on the bed, facing the window.

But later—deep in the night—he heard her.

A soft whimper.

Then her body shifting in the sheets.

"No… no please…"

He sat up instantly, eyes narrowing at the barely-there moonlight spilling into the room.

She was curled in on herself, visibly trembling. Her face drawn, lips whispering broken pleas.

"Amarisa," he said softly, moving toward her.

She didn't wake.

Her hands clenched the blanket, breath growing shallow and rapid.

"Amarisa," he said again, kneeling now, his hand brushing her arm.

She jolted awake with a gasp.

Eyes wide. Chest heaving.

"It's okay," he said. "It's just a dream. You're safe."

She blinked around in confusion before focusing on him.

Then everything hit her at once.

She shook her head slightly, pressing her palm against her forehead.

He reached forward, pulling the blanket higher over her shoulder.

"Do you want me to stay?" he asked gently.

She didn't reply. But she didn't say no either.

So he stayed.

He sat beside her on the edge of the bed, his hand on her back, slow and reassuring.

Until her breathing calmed again.

Until the storm inside her passed.

Final Line:

He said nothing more. But tonight, in silence, he did what kindness alone never could—he stayed.