#halal romance

There's this girl. And she's in the arranged marriage market, right? Her parents find someone and everything seems good. The only thing is, both families refused to provide pictures so they don't know what their potential spouse looks like.

Instead each party agrees to meet at a coffee shop and explains what the other is wearing. All this communication is done between the families—they don't talk to eachother even once. [pretty normal actually]

Finally the day of the coffee date arrives. And she dresses up in the outfit she said she'd wear and goes with her mum. They park and walk towards the entrance. At that moment, her mum realizes that she forgot her phone in the car. She tells the girl to go ahead and wait near the door for her since she's an hour early any way (this fam do be like that)

So the girl goes in and instead of waiting outside in the hot sun, she goes inside. Suddenly she sees the guy in the black button down and grey jeans and a baseball hat covering his thick curly hair.

He waves at her—she realizes he recognizes her clothing. She smiles and walk toward him. She realizes that oh my god she hit the jackpot because his eyes are like the lightest shade of brown she's ever seen in her life, and his face his bronzed and his jawline clipped. Who was this man?

She sat down at the table not even knowing what had made her sit down without waiting for her mum.

Damn, how'd I get so lucky?

The guy before her looked confused for a second and then burst out laughing, "Sorry?"

Oh my god had she said that out loud?

Did she just play it off with a laugh or turn into a nervous ninny?

"Yo, Hamad! Well well, I didn't know you had company."

The guy I front of her chuckled, and his honey coloured eyes twinkled with amusement; "Neither did I."

Hamad?

"Wait, what? Oh my god." The chair slammed back as she got up, and it fell over. She bent to pick it up, but it slipped from her fingers and fell again. The loud clang echoed as though the whole cafe had gone silent to witness this interaction.

Hamad had gotten up from his chair, and walked over to help her with the chair. She was utterly mortified.

Once everything was back in its place, she took a deep breath and apologized. "I am so sorry. I mistook you for someone else. It won't happen again. Obviously. Okay I'm leaving now before I do something even more stupid."

"Wait—"

But it was too late.

Well actually in my brain her mum enters at that moment along with the other guy and his mum (he looks completely different btw. And while he is quite handsome, it's not the bonechilling Hamad kind of handsome—she realizes). And then she spends the entire two hours talking to him while also every once in a while slipping glances at the completely oblivious Hamad.

Except he isn't oblivious

He's been doing the exact same thing.

And the way she said "Damn, how'd I get so lucky?" keeps echoing in his mind.

[my friends helped me out with this part]

But wait, fun surprise, he's the potential groom's dad's trusted protégé at work.

And so obviously he's aware of the whole wedding arranging process. And they can't avoid hearing about each other..

Also, the original match doesn't work out for reasons that are nobody's fault. Which sets the stage for the romance 😂

[back to me]

The "over hearing" parts over the next year go from occasionally eavesdropping to hunting for gossip until it finally reaches agonized wanting

Okay, so after a long tedious year of back and forth and realizing how they feel, wanting to be together and convincing their parents... they're finally doing their nikkah

And after they sign the marraige contract and the imam finishes the nikkah. They go to the reception hall. She's on the stage and he goes upto her—and here all of the lil marraige traditions come into play. Finally, he gives her his signature smirk and lifts her veil. When he sees her face his smirk morphs into a soft smile. His eyes light up, widen and then an adoring look enters it. He whispers softly so only she can hear him;

"Damn, how'd I get so lucky?"

***

Is this a product of extreme loneliness and absolutely no romantic experiences? Yes, yes it is.

Part One: The Empty Side of the Bed

By Abu Hudhayfah Edwards

The house had learned a new language.

For thirty years it had spoken in familiar sounds: the soft creak of footsteps before Fajr, the quiet whistle of the kettle, the rustle of Qur’an pages turning while the rest of the neighborhood still slept. Those sounds had become as much a part of the home as its walls.

Now, several months after her husband’s passing, the house had become fluent in silence.

The visitors had long since stopped arriving.

The covered dishes neighbors had lovingly brought were replaced by ordinary dinners prepared for one. The sympathy cards that once covered the dining room table had been gathered into a small keepsake box and placed on the highest shelf of the hallway closet. Fresh flowers had come and gone. The phone rang less often now. Life, as it always does, had continued moving forward.

Only Haleemah remained standing where grief had first found her.

Every morning she woke before dawn just as she had for decades. Without thinking, her hand reached across the mattress toward the place where her husband had always slept.

Her fingers met only cool sheets and an untouched pillow.

She no longer gasped when she realized he was gone.

That pain had softened into something quieter, yet somehow heavier.

Something heavier.

She sat up slowly and whispered, “Alhamdulillaah,” the same words he had spoken every morning before placing his feet upon the floor. It felt strange saying them alone, yet she knew gratitude did not disappear simply because happiness had changed its shape.

After making wudu, she prayed in the stillness of the early morning. The room seemed larger now, though nothing had moved. When she completed her prayer, she remained seated upon her prayer rug, making dhikr until the first light of dawn slipped through the curtains.

Only then did she make her way to the kitchen.

Without thinking, she reached for two mugs.

Her hand paused.

She smiled sadly, returned one to the cabinet, and filled the other with tea.

There had been a time when neither of them needed to ask how the other preferred it. She still remembered the careful way he would prepare hers every morning, adding just enough honey without measuring, somehow getting it exactly right every single time.

She had tried making it the same way.

It never tasted quite like his.

When the tea was ready, she carried it into the living room.

His Qur’an still rested on the small table beside his favorite chair. The green cover had faded from years of careful use, its corners softened by countless mornings and evenings of recitation. A folded bookmark remained tucked between its pages where he had last left it.

She had not moved it.

Not because she believed it should never be touched.

Because, somehow, seeing it there reminded her that a life spent with the Qur’an leaves traces long after its reader returns to his Lord.

His reading glasses rested neatly beside it.

The lenses had gathered a fine layer of dust.

She picked them up gently, wiped them with the edge of her sleeve, and placed them back exactly where they had been.

A few moments later, the front door opened.

“Nana!”

The quiet disappeared beneath a chorus of excited voices.

Her oldest daughter stepped inside carrying a vegetable Quiche Lorraine while two grandchildren hurried past her toward the living room.

The youngest wrapped herself around Haleemah’s legs without asking permission before reaching up with small arms around her neck, as though she belonged there.

“You smell like cookies,” the little girl whispered.

“I haven’t baked any.”

“You always smell like cookies.”

Haleemah laughed for what felt like the first time that week.

Perhaps grandchildren possessed a kind of honesty adults forgot.

The afternoon filled with ordinary blessings.

Small shoes scattered across the hallway.

Blocks stacked into crooked towers.

A coloring book spread across the coffee table.

The children asked questions only children could ask.

“Did PopPop really know every bird’s name?”

“Who taught him to fix bicycles?”

“Did he always smile during Fajr?”

Each question became another thread woven into memory.

Haleemah answered every one.

By Maghrib, the house was alive again.

By ’Isha, it was quiet once more.

She stood at the front door watching the last car disappear down the street. She waved until the taillights vanished around the corner, then closed the door and rested her forehead against it for a moment.

The silence returned as faithfully as the dawn.

That evening she walked through the house, turning off lights one room at a time.

His jacket still hung on the hook near the entrance.

Dark gray.

Pressed neatly.

Ready for a day that would never come.

More than once she had thought about donating it.

More than once she had reached for it.

Each time she quietly changed her mind.

Perhaps one day.

Not today.

The weeks continued with their familiar rhythm.

The sisters at the masjid invited her for tea.

Neighbors stopped by from time to time.

Her children called almost every evening.

She volunteered again, organizing books in the masjid library and helping prepare meals for families welcoming new babies or recovering from illness. Serving others eased the loneliness for a little while, though it never erased it.

One Saturday afternoon, after a women’s Qur’an gathering, Haleemah remained seated while most of the sisters prepared to leave.

An elderly woman everyone affectionately called Umm Safiyyah settled beside her.

She had buried a husband years earlier and carried herself with the quiet gentleness of someone who understood grief without needing it explained.

For a while they simply watched the younger sisters talking nearby.

Then Umm Safiyyah spoke softly.

“You know…”

Haleemah turned toward her.

“…your ’iddah has ended.”

There was no pressure in her voice.

No expectation.

Only kindness.

Haleemah lowered her eyes.

“I know.”

Nothing else needed to be said.

She understood what the older woman meant.

Islam had lifted a waiting period. Her heart, however, had not yet lifted the weight of grief.

As they embraced before parting, Haleemah walked toward her car beneath the fading evening sky.

For the first time since her husband’s passing, she realized the future had quietly begun asking questions she was not yet prepared to answer.

She looked upward and whispered the du’aa she had made every day since burying the man she loved.

“O Allaah, guide me to whatever is most pleasing to You.”

The breeze stirred gently through the parking lot.

No answer came.