I thought our friendship had ended on Sunday, but it really ended two days later. I had known this would happen eventually—everything about our connection felt like borrowed time—but I still wish I had made better use of those last conversations. Instead, I sat there quietly, hiding parts of myself I should have let him see. Maybe it was meant to happen this way. Maybe without this ending, I would never have found the strength to step away.
He was right when he said Ishq-e-Haqiqi is never a bad thing, because even when it fails, it pushes you closer to God. And perhaps that is what all of this is doing to me. I did want something romantic with him at one point, but deep down I knew it would destroy the peace we had. Fights would replace the calm. His refusal to work would clash with what I believed a man should do. We would have argued; or maybe we wouldn't. I will never know. We never reached that point.
I knew from the beginning it would end badly. I was overconfident, promising myself that whatever heartbreak came would be worth the knowledge I gained. I thought I could endure it. I thought I could live with it.
Looking back, the signs were always present. I think I finally understand why this happened, why I was drawn to him so intensely. Aside from the obvious—him being handsome and my type—he resembled my old best friend so much that a part of me was simply repeating old patterns. I was trying to heal myself through him because he reminded me of her. With her, I never missed her as a person. I missed the conversations, the way she expanded my mind. I told myself that if I got that same depth with him, I would stop longing for her. I convinced myself I didn't miss her; I missed the way she made me think.
We talked about connection and attachment once, and he said, "Connection doesn't hurt. Attachment does." It was an aha moment, painfully true. He also once told me we were like two travelers who found shade under the same tree for a while before moving on. Even back then, those words had pierced something in me. I knew he was warning me. I knew this would not last.
And that is exactly what happened.
For two days straight, I felt like crying. I couldn't bring myself to, but the ache was sharp and persistent. My anxiety came back. And I think I finally understood the real problem: instead of filling my heart with Allah's love, I filled it with another human being. First with Areej. Now with him. And here I was, suffering all over again.
Gradually, though, the attraction began to fade. It felt strange but peaceful, like my heart was finally exhaling. I had been praying for clarity, and maybe this was the answer.
Funny enough, when I first started liking him, I kept getting videos about limerence. I ignored them at the time. But during Ramadan, one video appeared again, and for the first time I watched it with a calm heart. Everything made sense. Limerence was exactly what I was experiencing. It also made sense that as soon as Ramadan began, the obsession began to loosen its grip.
Then he texted me asking about my Ramadan. It was afternoon. Instead of feeling happy like I used to, I felt irritated. I thought he wouldn't message during Ramadan. Now I felt obliged to reply. I waited until after iftar, but then gave in. I started ranting about my day and how unwell I felt. The conversation fizzled out, but the guilt stayed.
Some days later, he stopped texting first. The last time we spoke, he had been checking in daily, asking about my health. Now that I was fine, I had no excuse to reach out. I knew it was my turn, but I had nothing to say. It was always the same cycle: I moved on, made peace, and just as the ache began to disappear, he reappeared. And I would be back at the beginning, imagining possibilities he had never once suggested.
My anxiety grew worse for days. I thought it would fade, but it didn't. And the strange part was that he had been the first person to give me tips to calm down, so now I felt myself wanting to ask him again. But how could I? Was I really supposed to say, "Hey, new anxiety issue, help"? It felt ridiculous.
My routine was collapsing too. My iman felt low. I missed all my salah one day and didn't feel like praying the next. The guilt of it, especially in Ramadan, sat heavy on my chest. I thought skipping prayers would give me rest, but instead it made me feel disconnected and restless. I kept thinking maybe Allah was upset with me, and that was why my heart refused to settle.
I wanted to go back and read the quotes he had said and I had written down, hoping they would bring comfort again. But I realised something: the time I used to spend reflecting, grounding myself, meditating—I now spent replying to his long messages and voice notes. Thirty, forty minutes a day. It became part of my routine. And when I skipped it, I felt like something was missing. That was on me. I overloaded myself, and now I was paying for it with anxiety and guilt.
When I saw him again sometime later, he had just started a job at an NGO. His hair was short. I noticed instantly. I had already said a mental goodbye to him on the last day of my vacations, but seeing him in this new role, with this new look, did something strange to me. He even asked me if I was okay because I looked worried, and that made me realise how much my mind had already begun letting go.
That day was the first time in ages where I had true free time. No clinic, no rush, no endless tasks. Just me and my thoughts. And I realised how often we take things for granted: health, free time, quiet days, chances to meet people we love, the ability to step outside without stress. We only understand their worth when they slip out of our hands.
Later, we had several calls. Short ones at first, then longer ones. There was a night when he fell asleep mid-conversation and didn't even realise. It irritated me so much. Some days we talked about work. Some days about faith. Some days just random things.
We kept crossing paths—calls during my clinic hours, him explaining things I didn't ask about, our timings weirdly synchronised during rashan distribution. I was surprised and annoyed at how easily he slipped into my day.
The rashan work was a mess. Riyan kept messaging me, being overly personal in a way that made me uncomfortable. Even when I complained, he simply said to ignore it with dignity, adding, "We do not ask for ourselves." I didn't even understand what that meant. I was already annoyed.
Then came the visits to the NGO. Delivering rashan bags with my friends. The long calls after. The endless small responsibilities he kept giving me. It wasn't cute anymore; it was draining. He began forgetting tasks, delaying things, leaving me to handle them. And I kept allowing it.
Then came the weekend of my research competition. The busiest week of my house job. I was drowning in presentations, edits, anxiety. My body was exhausted.
At 5 p.m., he video-called me.
I told him I didn't know anything about arranging a medical camp, but he insisted I stay to help. My colleague had gone to the gym, so I ended up juggling both their calls, relaying everything like a middle person. It was draining.
At 5:45 p.m., when I was ready to collapse from exhaustion, he called again. He said someone urgently needed dental treatment before 8. I panicked. I thought it was his mother or father, so I spent an hour searching for clinics like a maniac. When I texted him updates, he didn't reply. Later I found out he had guests over. The "urgent patient" was a random volunteer with mild tooth sensitivity who did not even need emergency care.
I was furious. I realised then that he did not value my time. Or maybe even me. I was always available, always ready to help, and he had begun to assume I would always pick up, always respond, always solve whatever he needed.
He could take hours to reply to my messages, but the second he needed help, he expected instant access.
And that was not entirely his fault.
It was mine.
I had positioned myself that way.
If I wanted to regain my worth, I had to change something.
I knew then that I had given him too much. Too much effort, too much energy, too much love, too much access. And I knew I needed to pull back. Not out of spite. Not even out of heartbreak. But simply out of self-respect.
This, finally, was enough.
I was done being taken for granted.
I was done losing myself for someone who never asked me to, and never realised when I did.
And maybe, in some quiet way, God was pulling me back too.
Toward myself.
Toward peace.
Toward Him.