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The morning light crept in slowly, painting the walls of Aaliyah's room with soft, golden streaks. She blinked awake, her eyes heavy from staying up too late. Her journal still rested on the bedside table, half-open, like it was waiting for her to write more.
For a moment, she just lay there, listening to the faint sounds of the city waking up — a distant car horn, the hum of the street vendors setting up early, the soft rustle of curtains as the breeze came through her window.
The air felt different in Ramadan. Quieter. Softer.
She wished her heart felt the same way.
Aaliyah pulled herself out of bed, feeling the ache in her limbs from sleeping in an awkward position. She could hear her mother in the kitchen, moving around quietly so no one woke up. The smell of chai (Tea) floated into her room, warm and comforting.
Her stomach growled, but she ignored it. Fasting wasn't about hunger. It was about something more — something she couldn't quite put into words yet.
She got dressed quickly, pulling on a soft blue hijab that felt light and airy. She liked this one. It made her feel calm.
When she walked into the kitchen, her mom was standing at the stove, stirring something in a pot. The window was open, letting in the cool morning air.
"Assalamu Alaikum, Ammi," Aaliyah said softly.
Her mother turned, surprised. "Wa Alaikum Assalam, beta. You're up early."
Aaliyah nodded. "Couldn't sleep much."
Her mom smiled gently. There were lines around her eyes that Aaliyah didn't remember seeing before. She looked tired but then again, she always looked tired now.
"Do you want chai?" her mother asked.
Aaliyah nodded. "Yes, please."
Her mother poured the tea into two cups and handed one to her. They sat down at the small kitchen table. The silence between them felt heavy, but not uncomfortable. It was the kind of silence that came when there were too many things to say but no good way to start.
After a moment, her mother spoke. "Ramadan feels different this year, doesn't it?"
Aaliyah looked at her cup. "Yeah. It does."
Her mother watched her carefully. "Are you okay, Aaliyah?"
Aaliyah wanted to say yes. She wanted to be strong, to pretend everything was fine. But the truth sat heavy on her chest.
"I... don't know," she admitted quietly.
Her mom reached over and squeezed her hand. Her palm was warm and rough, like it always was. "It's okay to not be okay, beta. Ramadan isn't about pretending. It's about healing."
Aaliyah blinked back sudden tears. She hated crying. It made her feel weak.
Her mother didn't say anything else. She didn't need to.
Aaliyah worked beside her mother, hands moving in rhythm as they prepared Suhoor. The smell of eggs and parathas filled the air, mingling with the faint scent of chai brewing on the stove.
Adam shuffled into the room first, hair sticking up in different directions, rubbing his eyes sleepily. Ali followed not long after, looking just as groggy but more determined to make his way straight to the food.
(Adam had been part of their life for as long as she could remember. After losing his parents in a car accident, her father had taken him in, raising him like a son. He wasn't just a friend—he was family. Adam had become the light in their home, always ready with a joke, always breaking the silence when it lingered too long. To Aaliyah, he was more than a best friend. He was a constant, someone who made the world feel a little less heavy.)
"Did you even sleep, Ali?" Aaliyah teased lightly, watching her younger brother blink at her, half-awake.
"I did," he mumbled, voice thick with sleep. "I just woke up faster because my stomach told me to."
Adam chuckled as he sat down at the table, his grin lazy and mischievous. "Yeah, I could hear your stomach from my room. Thought there was a bear outside."
Aaliyah snorted, trying to stifle her laugh while her mother shook her head with a smile.
"Leave him alone," she scolded softly, though the corners of her mouth tugged upward.
The table was soon filled — bread, dates, eggs, yogurt, fruit, and tea — simple but enough to feel like a feast. They all gathered around, helping each other pass plates and pour water. Conversation didn't come easily at this hour, not with sleep still clinging to their minds, but Adam filled the silence like he always did.
"If Ali keeps eating like that," he started, watching his cousin practically inhale a paratha, "we're gonna need a bigger table."
"Or a bigger house," Aaliyah added, giggling behind her hand.
Ali made a face, cheeks full, trying to speak but only managing muffled nonsense.
Adam laughed louder this time, leaning back in his chair. "See? He even sounds like a bear now."
The room filled with warm laughter, the kind that lingered, chasing away the heaviness that had hung over them for days. Aaliyah glanced around, taking it all in — her mother's quiet smile, Adam's easy grin, Ali's playful scowl.
For a moment, everything felt right. Like the world outside didn't exist, and they were just a family, sharing a meal, sharing a moment that felt untouched by worry or fear.
Aaliyah held onto that feeling, afraid it might slip away too soon.
After a while, the call to Fajr prayer echoed softly through the streets. It was a gentle, peaceful sound that made Aaliyah's heart feel a little lighter.
They got up and prayed together in the small living room. The room was simple — just a rug, a bookshelf, and a few framed photos on the wall. One of them was of her dad, taken before he left.
Aaliyah tried not to look at it.
When the prayer ended, she stayed on the rug a little longer, her forehead pressed to the floor. She didn't know what she was praying for anymore. Maybe strength. Maybe forgiveness. Maybe both.
Later that day, Aaliyah found herself at the library again.
It was quieter than usual, probably because most people were either resting or preparing for exams. She liked it this way — the silence made it easier to think.
She wandered through the aisles, her fingers brushing over the spines of books. Most of them were old and dusty, but they smelled like paper and ink, which was one of her favorite smells.
She didn't know what she was looking for. Maybe she wasn't looking for anything at all.
And then she saw him.
Zayd.
He was sitting by the window, a book in his hands. His head was tilted slightly, his dark hair falling over his forehead. He looked peaceful, like the rest of the world didn't exist when he was reading.
Aaliyah hesitated. She didn't want to disturb him — but at the same time, she wanted to talk to him again.
Before she could decide, he looked up. Their eyes met.
He smiled.
"Hey," he said softly. "Aaliyah, right?"
Her heart did a weird little flip. She nodded.
"Yeah."
"Back again?" he asked, closing his book.
She shrugged, trying to seem casual. "I like it here."
"Me too." He leaned back in his chair. "It's quiet. Peaceful."
Aaliyah nodded.
For a moment, neither of them said anything. The sunlight poured in through the window, making everything feel warm and safe.
Zayd broke the silence first. "Did you finish writing your letter?"
Aaliyah blinked, surprised he remembered.
"Not yet," she admitted. "It's... hard to know what to say sometimes."
Zayd nodded like he understood completely. "Yeah. It is."
She didn't know why, but his words made her feel better.
They sat there in the quiet library, the sunlight stretching between them like an unspoken promise.
Maybe this Ramadan would be different after all.
The library felt warmer than before, sunlight pooling in golden patches on the wooden floors. Aaliyah wasn't sure how long she and Zayd had been sitting there, half-talking, half-listening to the quiet.
It felt strange, how easy it was to talk to him — like they weren't really strangers at all. She barely knew him, yet something about his calm voice and easy smile made her feel safe.
"So... the letter," Zayd said after a while, tilting his head curiously. "Is it still for yourself, or someone else?"
Aaliyah's heart stuttered.
She wasn't sure how to answer. It had started as a letter to herself — a way to get all the tangled thoughts out of her head. But lately, the words felt like they were meant for someone else. She just didn't know who.
"Maybe both," she said finally, her voice quiet.
Zayd smiled again, like he understood something she didn't.
"You should finish it," he said softly. "Even if you never show it to anyone. Sometimes... writing things down is the only way to make sense of them."
His words stuck with her, even after they said goodbye and she left the library.
The walk home was quiet, the streets half-empty. Ramadan afternoons always felt slower, like the whole world was saving its energy for iftar.
Aaliyah liked it this way. It gave her space to think.
Her thoughts drifted back to her father — the way he used to tell her bedtime stories when she was little, his voice low and soothing. He always said he'd be there for her, no matter what. But he wasn't.
She hated that she still missed him.
Her mother never talked about him anymore. It was like he disappeared from their lives, but his shadow still hung over the house. Some nights, Aaliyah could almost hear his voice in her head, telling her everything would be okay.
But it wasn't okay.
When she reached home, the smell of onions and spices greeted her at the door. Her mother was in the kitchen again, this time preparing for iftar. The table was already set with dates, fruit, and a pitcher of chilled Rooh Afza. It felt too familiar, too normal — like nothing had changed.
Aaliyah wished it felt comforting instead of hollow.
Her little brother, Ali, sat on the floor, building a tower with his old Legos. He looked up and grinned when he saw her.
"Aapi! You're back!"
She forced a smile. "Yeah, I'm back."
He bounced to his feet. "Ammi said we're having pakoras today!"
"That's nice," Aaliyah murmured, though she wasn't really hungry.
Her mother glanced over from the stove. "You okay, beta?"
"I'm fine," Aaliyah said automatically.
Her mom gave her a long look but didn't push.
Aaliyah escaped to her room, the weight in her chest growing heavier.
She pulled her journal from the nightstand, flipping to the half-finished letter. The words stared back at her, waiting.
She picked up her pen.
Dear Aaliyah,
I don't know why I'm writing to myself. Maybe it's because no one else would understand. Or maybe it's because I don't even know how to say these things out loud.
Ramadan is supposed to be about finding peace. But I don't feel peaceful. I feel lost. I miss Dad, even though I shouldn't. I miss the way things used to be before everything fell apart. And I hate that I'm still hoping he'll come back, even though I know he won't.
Her hand froze. Her throat tightened.
She wanted to tear the page out and throw it away — but she didn't. Instead, she swallowed hard and kept writing.
I don't know if I'll ever stop missing him. But I think I need to stop waiting for him. Maybe that's what Ramadan is about. Letting go of the things that hurt and trusting Allah to fill the empty spaces.
She stared at the page, tears blurring the words.
Maybe Zayd was right. Writing it down didn't fix anything — but it felt a little less heavy now. Like the pain wasn't just hers to carry anymore.
That evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Aaliyah sat with her family around the table. The room smelled warm and familiar — fried pakoras, samosas, sweet dates, and her mother's favorite chana chaat.
Her mom poured water into their glasses, her movements slow and careful. Ali fidgeted next to her, his eyes fixed on the clock. He always got impatient waiting for the maghrib azan.
Aaliyah watched them quietly.
Her heart still felt heavy, but there was something else underneath it now — something softer.
Hope.
She didn't know where it came from, but it was there, flickering like a small flame. Maybe it came from her letter. Maybe it came from Zayd's words. Or maybe it was just Ramadan, wrapping around her like a quiet reminder that things could still get better.
The azan finally rang out, echoing gently through the neighborhood.
Her mom smiled. "Bismillah."
Aaliyah took a date from the plate and closed her eyes for a moment before taking the first bite. The sweetness burst on her tongue, and for the first time in a long while, she felt something close to peace.
TO BE CONTINUED-
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