BETWEEN THE LINES OF DUA
The sunlight that morning filtered through my curtains like golden threads. Fajr had wrapped my heart in calmness, and the world outside was gently stirring to life. Birds chirped near my window as I tied my hijab, whispering the duas Mumma taught me.
"Ya Allah, guard my eyes, my words, and my intentions. Let me walk today with You in every step."
At college, things had returned to their usual rhythm — at least from the outside.
Students rushing between classes. The cafeteria buzzing with laughter. Friends waving across the campus garden. Teachers hurrying in heels and hurried minds.
But inside me… something was different.
Not chaotic. Not romantic.
Just… quieter than before.
Lily was unusually cheerful.
"You know today's youth session, right? He's coming again."
"Who?" I asked, genuinely unsure.
"Fatimaaa," she dragged my name dramatically. "You know who. Ehsan."
"Oh," I said, trying to sound unaffected. "Well, he's here to teach. That's all."
She tilted her head. "You really think so?"
I nodded. "Yes. I think we're just overthinking. He's a speaker, a leader. He probably looks at everyone the same. He's not here for me."
Lily stayed quiet for a second.
Then smiled.
"Maybe you're right."
But part of me wasn't sure if I believed it anymore.
That afternoon, the event began. It was a workshop on Islamic leadership and responsibility in modern society. I was one of the volunteers — my role was simple: registration and guidance.
I stood near the welcome desk, flipping through the attendance sheets.
And then I heard his voice.
Calm. Respectful. Familiar.
"Excuse me… Fatima?"
I turned, slowly.
Ehsan stood there, holding a clipboard.
Not nervous. Not flirty. Just respectful and to the point.
"Yes?" I replied, surprised he knew my name.
"There's been a last-minute change in the group assignments. We need someone from the student council to speak briefly during the closing session. Your name was suggested."
I blinked. "Why mine?"
He paused. "Because they said your words carry sincerity. And sincerity is louder than volume."
I looked away, heart suddenly uneasy. Was this happening? Was I being pulled into something I didn't want to feel?
But I nodded. "Okay. I'll do it."
"Thank you," he said kindly, offering a respectful nod before turning to leave.
He didn't linger. He didn't stare.
He walked away like he came — respectfully.
And I stood there, confused not by him… but by myself.
Later that evening, I sat in the masjid corner of our home. My Qur'an open, but my eyes closed.
"Ya Allah… if this is from You, let it come in clarity. If not, erase it before it roots. Don't let my heart chase what's not written. Don't let my mind decorate what is only meant to pass."
That same night, in his own quiet apartment, Ehsan sat on his prayer mat, head bowed low after Isha.
"Ya Allah… I do not know her, but I respect what she carries. If this heart notices her, it must go through You first. Let my interest never disturb her peace. Let my words never reach her before my intentions reach You."
The next day at college, things felt back to normal again.
Classes resumed. Assignments piled. The canteen filled with chai and complaints. Lily ranted about a professor's boring lecture. I laughed along.
And for a moment, I almost forgot the feeling of being noticed.
"He probably speaks this way to all students. I'm just another face. It's foolish to let anything more grow from a moment."
So I went back to reading, writing, praying.
And he… went back to planning workshops, giving talks, and doing what he always did — serve the youth through faith and character.
But beneath all the normalcy, there were two hearts making quiet dua.
Not for love. Not for a person.
But for peace.
And whatever story Allah might write — if any at all.
End of Chapter 4