Ramadan.
The month of mercy.
The month of forgiveness.
The month where hearts turned toward their Creator.
Nine years.
Nine Ramadans.
For every single one of those thirty blessed days, I carried the same hope within my heart.
With Yusuf's help, I was blessed with the opportunity to lead the Taraweeh prayers.
Every night, I performed Salat al-Hajah.
Every morning before dawn, I stood in Tahajjud.
And just as Prophet Musa عليه السلام called upon his Lord, I repeated the same supplication through every prayer and every sujood.
"Rabbi inni lima anzalta ilayya min khayrin faqeer."
"My Lord, indeed I am in need of whatever good You send down to me."
I graduated early.
I completed my degrees within two years of university.
The countless nights I spent studying, the exhaustion I endured, and the sacrifices I made slowly carried me forward.
Even during Ramadan, while fasting through the day and attending classes, I continued striving.
After iftar, I would stand upon my prayer mat and pour every worry, every hope, and every longing before Allah.
I cried.
I struggled.
I persevered.
And I trusted that my Lord heard every whisper, even the ones I could not put into words.
For those nine years, I lowered my gaze.
I restrained my heart.
I tried to become a better man.
Because if she was ever meant for me...
It would only happen by the decree of the One above the seven heavens.
Allah is Al-Rahman.
Allah is Al-Wahhab.
And what He decrees is always better than what I could desire for myself.
Mother had suggested many other proposals throughout the years.
I respectfully declined each one.
Not because I believed I deserved Ariya...
But because my heart had already chosen where it wished to be.
I wanted to become a husband she could find comfort in.
A person she could trust.
Someone she would choose willingly, not someone she accepted because of pressure or expectation.
I feared that revealing my feelings too soon would only burden her.
Her happiness mattered more than my own desires.
I promised myself...
If she refused me, I would accept it.
I would step away.
I would never force my feelings upon her or make her carry the weight of my love.
Because love without respect was not love.
The walls I built around my heart for all those years began to weaken.
The silence became heavier.
The pain became harder to hide.
Mother's insistence grew stronger, and I knew more proposals would eventually reach her family.
I couldn't remain silent forever.
With my Lord's will...
If it was written for me, it would happen.
And if it wasn't...
Then I would accept His decree and walk away with gratitude for ever knowing her.
The love I carried for her was quiet.
It was never loud.
It was never demanding.
Yet it remained.
I knew I would be the happiest man alive if we were to marry.
I would consider it a blessing beyond measure.
But even if she never knew...
Even if she never learned about the countless nights I spent praying for her...
I was content.
Because I had prayed for her happiness.
Her achievements.
Her success.
Every milestone she reached-
Her excellent grades.
Her acceptance into a prestigious university.
Every moment of joy that reached her life...
I stood before Allah, thanking Him with a heart full of gratitude.
Because loving her had never only been about having her.
It had also been about wishing the best for her.
...
Mother's eyes held a mixture of hope and anticipation as she gently held my hand.
The silence stretched between us.
Too long.
But I already knew my answer.
I had known it since the day I first saw her.
My lips parted, yet hesitation briefly held me back.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.
Then, with all the respect and sincerity I carried within me, I spoke.
"I have someone in mind."
My voice remained steady despite the nervousness inside me.
"Mother... Father... I ask for your help in seeking her hand."
They exchanged glances, their expressions filled with surprise.
Father's usual composed demeanour shifted as he studied my face.
For once...
He sat upright, waiting patiently for me to continue.
"Do we know her?"
Mother asked eagerly, the worry that had filled her moments ago completely disappearing.
I gave a small nod.
My heart felt heavy as I finally spoke the name I had carried silently for years.
"Muazzin..."
Their eyes widened.
Mother's reaction was far more expressive than Father's.
"Ariya?"
She nearly rose from her seat.
I nodded once more.
Admitting this secret aloud felt strangely overwhelming.
For years, this feeling had belonged only to me.
I lowered my gaze briefly before continuing.
"I would like to marry her."
Mother immediately looked toward Father.
"You have thought about this for a long time, haven't you."
My silence seemed to have answered his question and then-
A smile slowly appeared on both their faces.
They were pleased.
Perhaps even happier than I expected.
"Don't worry, son."
Mother squeezed my hand gently.
"I'll send a proposal immediately