The hall was filled with light, but the silence felt heavier than marble.
Voices murmured softly around her — familiar family tones, camera clicks, the quiet shuffle of feet against woven rugs — yet Amarisa Lamiya Al-Rawhani felt like she was underwater.
She sat still, spine straight, hands clasped gently on her lap. Her emerald green abaya shimmered faintly beneath the chandelier above. Her hijab was pinned with such care it hadn't shifted an inch, even though her thoughts had drifted miles.
They had placed her on a cushion near her mother, facing the imam.
Across the room, past a curtain of men and protocol, was the man she was marrying.
Kadir El-Ameen Mahzoun.
She hadn't looked at him since she entered. She hadn't dared.
Not because she didn't care — but because caring hurt too much.
They hadn't spoken. Not once. Not even before the engagement.
Their families had arranged it swiftly. A respected man. A modest woman. No red flags. No drama.
Just tradition, legacy, and quiet consent.
She remembered when her father told her about the proposal.
"He is a good man. Known for his manners, his discipline, and his deen. His family is clean, noble, and devout. This is Qadr, Amari. Allah will place love in your heart when it's time."
She nodded. She cried a little in her room later that night.
And then, she prayed istikhara.
"Ya Allah, if he is good for me in this life and the next, bring us together and make it easy. If not, take him from me and take me from him."
No signs came. No rejection followed.
So she whispered yes.
Across the room, Kadir adjusted his sleeve. The contract was open before him. His face was unreadable.
He wore his usual calm — the kind that didn't let anyone in. The kind that made people mistake silence for strength.
But inside, he wasn't calm at all.
He was haunted.
🎞️ Flashback – Kadir, Three Months Ago
He was supposed to walk away.
Instead, he stood in the middle of the parking lot in the rain, staring at the only girl who had ever made his world feel chaotic — and alive.
Amelie.
No hijab. No rules. No pretense. Just fire. Just truth.
"So this is it?" she asked him, her voice wet with tears and thunder.
"You're marrying someone else."
"You're doing what your father says. Just like that."
Kadir ran a hand through his soaked hair, his chest rising with guilt he couldn't speak out loud.
"I'm not doing this because I want to."
"Then don't!"
"I have to, Amelie. He threatened everything. My mother's Waqf. The center. He said he'd revoke the land, destroy her legacy. Everything I've worked for—"
"And what about me?" she yelled.
The rain blurred everything except her voice.
"What about us, Kadir?"
He stepped closer. Held her wrists. Looked her straight in the eyes.
"I'm going to marry her, yes."
"But I swear to you, I will come back for you."
She froze. Her lips parted.
"I'll do it the right way. I'll make you my second wife. I'll make it halal. I'll fix everything. Just wait for me."
"You expect me to just sit here?"
"No." He stepped closer. "I expect you to trust me."
She didn't say anything for a moment.
And then, her voice dropped — low, desperate.
"Don't make me a sin, Kadir. Don't love me in secret and call it patience."
"Then stay," he said. "Stay where I can find you. I swear by Allah, I will."
And she stayed.
Weeks passed. Months.
She stayed in the same city. Same apartment. Same street.
She didn't move on.
She didn't run.
She waited.
And Kadir?
He carried that wait like a wound.
🕊️ Back to Present – Nikah Ceremony
The imam's voice cleared the fog.
"Amarisa Lamiya Al-Rawhani… do you accept this marriage to Kadir El-Ameen Mahzoun, in accordance with the Qur'an and Sunnah?"
A hush.
She felt her heartbeat in her throat.
Her fingers curled tighter.
"Na'am. I accept."
It was soft. But the words hung heavy.
A thread stitched through her future.
"Kadir El-Ameen Mahzoun… do you accept this marriage to Amarisa Lamiya Al-Rawhani?"
He didn't flinch.
But inside, something caved in.
He gave up the only woman who made him feel seen.
He gave up comfort for legacy.
He gave up peace for obedience.
"Na'am," he said.
And somewhere in his chest, the rain kept falling.
🎞️ Flashback – Amari, Two Nights Ago
She'd stood at her window, hugging her Qur'an.
She didn't love Kadir. She didn't know him.
She just wanted to be chosen.
Not for obedience.
Not for modesty.
But for her.
For her mind. For her quiet. For her softness. For her heart.
But maybe this was the test. Maybe this was how love would come — later. After Nikah. After patience.
So she closed her eyes and said,
"Ya Allah, place love between our hearts, if it is good for us."
🕌 Present – After the Ceremony
People clapped lightly. Someone made a short, gentle dua.
The fathers shook hands. The mothers hugged.
But the bride and groom?
They did not speak.
They did not touch.
They didn't even look at each other.
Only silence.
Amari stood quietly beside her mother. Her hands were cold. Her smile forced.
"You'll grow into love, habibti," her mother whispered. "It will come."
She nodded.
But in her chest, something already felt… lost.
Kadir offered salaam to his in-laws. He was kind. Polite. Even smiled once.
But the whole time, he didn't let himself feel anything.
Because feelings were dangerous.
Feelings reminded him of a girl who was still waiting.
And the woman who now wore his name didn't even know his favorite surah.
They stood at the door. Cameras flashing. Guests chattering. A pause in the moment.
She looked up at him, just once.
He looked back
No warmth. No cruelty. Just distance.
Two people.
One Nikah.
No love.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
When hearts say Qadr, it doesn't always sound like love.
Sometimes… it just sounds like surrender.