Zehra always loved quietly. Never with fireworks, never with declarations. Her heart moved like a prayer—soft, unspoken, sacred.
She had known heartbreak before she even knew what to call it. The first time she ever felt that strange flutter in her chest was at twelve. The world was still innocent, and so was she. But the boy—Amaan—was not. Her cousin. Two years older. Too brave, too bold, too different from the rest of them. While other boys laughed over games and fought over toys, Amaan was bathing his bed-ridden grandfather, running errands, holding a man's burdens in a boy's hands. He had the fire of ambition in his eyes—he talked about empires and independence when everyone else talked about cricket and school.
Zehra noticed.
She noticed his unbrushed curls, the way he never begged for pity, the way pain sat on him like armour. She never told him. She never needed to. Love, for her, was something to protect—not pursue.
But she told his sister once, in the casual clumsy way children confess things they barely understand. "I think I like Amaan... like... like like." She giggled. His sister didn't. She mocked. She teased. And somehow, Amaan knew. Because the next day, he stopped talking to Zehra. His eyes didn't meet hers anymore. His words never found her. And that was that.
She buried the flutter.
Years passed. Amaan struggled. His life, once full of promise, bent under pressure. Financial loss. Risky investments. Whispers of drugs. A failed engagement. Then a rushed, chaotic marriage to a girl with glowing skin and hollow eyes. They looked perfect together—online. In real life, it cracked within months. Divorce followed. Rehab. Silence.
Zehra didn't gloat. She grieved. Not for the man—but for the boy she once believed in.
---
In medical college, Zehra found her second test.
Meher was her roommate—bright, unpredictable, gentle in all the ways Zehra was not. They were both quiet, but Meher's silence was poetry, while Zehra's was armor.
One rainy evening, when exams were far and emotions too close, Meher spoke. She told Zehra a story about a girl she once loved. Not admired. Loved.
Zehra listened, quietly, gently. Not judging. She should have stopped there.
But slowly, steadily, dangerously—Zehra began falling for the way Meher had once loved someone else. It wasn't lust. It wasn't rebellion. It was this aching, reverent awe: how does someone love like that and survive?
By the time Zehra realized she had feelings, she was terrified.
Not of Meher. Not even of sin. But of herself.
She didn't trust herself anymore. She didn't want to test the lines she had spent her whole life honouring. She moved dorms without saying goodbye, citing MCAT prep as the reason. In truth, she was running. Not away from Meher, but toward a version of herself she was scared to lose.
When Meher confronted her weeks later—her voice trembling, her eyes filled with betrayal—Zehra could say nothing.
She just lowered her eyes.
Meher's silence that day was louder than any scream. And Zehra carried that silence like a scar across her ribs.
---
Time passed. Time always does.
Then came Inaya.
Not a roommate. Just a friend. But the bond grew like ivy, wild and secret. Inaya was gentle. Curious. The kind of girl who asked questions that cracked open old wounds. She reminded Zehra of Meher in fragments, but her energy was her own. And before Zehra knew it, she was falling again.
But this time, it was different.
This time, Zehra was ready to break the rules. Ready to chase love. Ready to give in to the ache she'd denied all her life.
She wanted to touch, to confess, to collapse into something forbidden and warm. She wanted to be held, not just spiritually, but physically.
And then—
In the middle of the night, hands shaking, heart loud in her ears, eyes red with confusion—Zehra heard it.
Not a voice. Not a verse. Just a whisper in her soul:
"No one will love you like I do. So do as I say, if you want peace."
She froze.
And in that moment—shaking, sobbing—Zehra felt something shatter. Not her heart. But her illusion: that love would save her. That people could fill her. That crossing Allah's lines would finally make her feel whole.
She fell into sujood like a girl on fire. And when she rose, she wasn't free of pain.
But she was held.
---
Zehra never saw Meher again. She never told Inaya what she felt. She stopped checking Amaan's WhatsApp status years ago.
But sometimes, in the stillness after fajr, she'd whisper all their names into her palms and say:
> "Ya Allah, if my love for them ever reached You, let it come back to me as light."
She knew now—love had never left her. She had just been searching in human hearts what was only ever complete in the Divine.
And maybe that's what heartbreak really is: Not a punishment. Not a curse. But an invitation.
A gentle, painful nudge from Allah saying,
> "I am the only one who will never leave you. Come back."
And she did.
Over and over. Every time she broke.
---
End