They didn't rush anything. Weeks passed. Hamza recovered and was discharged. Mira returned to her rounds, lectures, and long nights of study. But he stayed in her thoughts — not as a distraction, but as a reflection.
He reached out through proper means. A respectful message through her academic email, followed by a request to speak — not privately, but in a public café near campus, in daylight. Mira appreciated that. It spoke of intention, not infatuation.
When they met, Hamza came with a book of du'as in his hand and a notebook filled with quotes from scholars. "I'm learning to make Allah my center again," he said. "You inspired that."
She smiled, quietly moved. "And I'm still learning too."
They began studying together — not just their coursework, but the deen. They would share lectures by scholars, attend Friday khutbahs at the nearby masjid, and text each other Qur'anic verses that matched their moods.
He didn't rush to impress her. He worked on himself — therapy, prayer, journaling. She noticed how he lowered his gaze, how he asked about her mother, how he never once overstepped.
It wasn't fairy-tale love. It was Islamic love — built on mercy, honesty, and shared accountability.
One day, Hamza said, "When I think of the future, I no longer fear it. Because if Allah could bring light into your life after everything you faced… then maybe He's doing the same for me."
Mira, tearing up, whispered, "He is. We're not healed yet, Hamza. But we're walking home to Him. Together."
And that — that was enough.
Their story wasn't about two people fixing each other.
It was about two broken hearts, walking side by side, trusting that Allah is the One who mends.