What’s unfortunate is that many of these arguments come from people who were raised to conflate culture with religion. While I do believe the adults who raised them carry some responsibility for that misunderstanding, there also comes a point in adulthood where that responsibility becomes your own. We can acknowledge childhood influences or even trauma, but we cannot spend our entire lives blaming them for the choices we make as adults.

In Islam, wearing the hijab is indeed a religious obligation, but our faith also places immense emphasis on using our intellect — seeking knowledge, reflecting, and making conscious, informed choices. Accountability is part of adulthood. At some point, each person has to decide whether they will pursue understanding or remain attached to misinterpretations.

Allah says in the Qur’an:

“O Prophet, tell your wives and your daughters and the women of the believers to bring down over themselves part of their outer garments. That is more suitable that they will be recognized and not be harmed. And Allah is Ever-Forgiving, Most Merciful.” (Qur’an 33:59)

What I take from this ayah — the idea of being recognized and protected — always reminds me of something that happened to me in West Philly. I was walking to the masjid for prayer with two other Muslim men. Because I was wearing a hijab, people in the neighborhood immediately recognized me as Muslim. At one point, a shooting broke out just a block away. Members of the community — people who weren’t even Muslim — quickly stopped me and said, “Sister, there’s a shooting! There’s a mosque right there, go there for safety.”

It was such a powerful moment for me. It showed the care and protection within the Black community, but it also reminded me that my hijab itself was part of why I was recognized and protected in that moment.

So when someone continues to frame the hijab purely as oppression, it often reflects their own unresolved struggle rather than the essence of the religion itself. Allah is the Most Just and the Most Merciful, and Islam consistently calls us to seek knowledge and clarity.

Not every act of devotion will feel like freedom to the person who no longer believes in its purpose — but that does not make it oppression for those who do.

I keep asking myself a question that should not be rhetorical, but somehow is: did my family immigrate to the United States, to Germany, or to Israel? Because when you strip away the flags, the anthems, the rehearsed language of freedom, what remains is the same authoritarian instinct—rebranded, recycled, sanctified by different borders.

It is 2026, and Americans still speak of 2016 like it was a lost paradise instead of what it actually was: the opening act. That nostalgia is not innocence; it is denial. Maybe the obsession exists because on some cellular level, we knew. We knew we were entering a decade that would expose the lie of permanence. We called it democracy and believed it would always protect us, as if belief alone could outpace history. As if nations built on violence ever stop perfecting it. We called it democracy and believed it would shield us, forgetting that history has never protected anyone simply because they believed in it.

What’s happening now is exactly what we feared would happen when he first took office in 2016. We were dismissed as dramatic, divisive, unpatriotic. We were told the courts would save us, the Constitution would save us, the “good ones” inside the system would intervene. But systems do not correct themselves. They reveal themselves. And this one is revealing who it was always built to serve. It is inevitable.

They say every generation goes through its own version of hell. Is that meant to remind us? Or prepare us? For the Antichrist, maybe? I don’t know. Truthfully, I don’t know much anymore.

Nothing happening today is accidental. Every past oppression was a test run—a way to measure how much violence could be normalized, how much cruelty could be rebranded as policy. How far can they go before people resist? How much brutality can be justified as security? Today is not the climax. It is the rehearsal. Martial law isn’t paranoia—it’s trajectory.

Authoritarianism does not arrive with tanks at first. It arrives with paperwork, slogans, executive orders, and the slow criminalization of dissent. It arrives normalized, legalized, applauded. By the time people understand what it is, participation has already been mandated.

I no longer pretend to understand everything. Confusion is a rational response to watching history repeat itself in real time. History collapsed inward once again, feeding on itself. I once believed deeply in democracy because my grandparents did. In the 1950s, when they were my age, all they wanted was freedom that did not require permission. They fought for it across Hargeisa, Palestine, Oromiya, and Ogaden—not for empire, not for dominance, but because the violation of human dignity demanded resistance.

That resistance lives in me. It was inherited, not learned. “Does your blood not move?” (Dhiiga kuma dhaqaaqo?)—a Somali expression my people used whenever they witnessed injustice, oppression, or the slow violence of power. It was a question, a challenge, a call to feel, to act, to recognize the humanity being violated. Today, in 2026, I ask myself the same question. Watching history repeat itself, watching democracy betray those it claims to protect, I feel that same blood coursing through my veins—a legacy of resistance, of bearing witness, and of refusing to remain silent in the face of oppression in any nation.

Humanity is my nation. Nothing else has earned my loyalty. Not a fabricated democracy that survives by pardoning white supremacy. Not a state that defines freedom so narrowly it only applies to those closest to power. A system willing to sacrifice entire communities to preserve its authority is not malfunctioning—it is functioning exactly as intended.

In Minnesota, we understand this in our bones. Minnesotans did not stop with George Floyd in 2020, and we are not stopping in 2026 with Renee Good. This state has never been one where the “lesser of two evils” is accepted as moral cover. Minnesota has always been a place of community and refusal. From Native nations who have always known state violence, to Black Americans who built this country, to Nordic immigrants, to Latino and Somali communities who rebuilt home after displacement—our histories are different, but our commitment to humanity is shared.

That is why this administration will always hate Minnesota.

Authoritarian power depends on isolation. It depends on convincing people that survival is individual, that solidarity is dangerous, that silence is safety. Minnesota has consistently rejected that lie. Here, people show up for one another—not because it is convenient, but because it is necessary.

My friends outside Minnesota, outside the United States, keep asking how I am doing. My white friends ask too, carefully, as if the answer might implicate them. I do not know how to make this moment digestible. I am still privileged. I am still safe—for now. But history does not reward proximity to comfort. It punishes complacency.

Precedent is never accidental. It is a warning.

I do not know when the line will finally be crossed. Only God knows that. And I trust Him—not institutions, not borders, not men in power—to protect my loved ones, my community, and my neighbors when the illusion finally collapses.

Because when democracy fails, it does not fail evenly. And when it falls, it does not ask everyone to prove their humanity—only the same people it has always been willing to discard.

The question is no longer whether history is repeating itself.

The question is who will admit they recognize it—and who will pretend they don’t.

At twenty-seven, she felt like a girl standing at the intersection of three people:

— the girl she once was, soft-spoken and afraid of disappointing anyone but herself;

— the woman she wanted to be, sharp, grounded, certain;

— and the person she was right now, floating somewhere between both, unsure which direction felt like home.

Sometimes she wondered if she was allowed to start over without apologizing for it. Sometimes she feared she was becoming unrecognizable, even to herself.

That afternoon, she walked to her favorite overlook, the one she escaped to during every unspoken identity crisis. The wind tugged at her hijab like it was trying to loosen something stuck inside her. And for the first time, she let the thought rise without pushing it down:

Maybe I’m allowed to change. Maybe I’m supposed to.

She closed her eyes and felt the world shift with her—quiet, gentle, patient. And in a voice that felt like it came from both her past and her future, she whispered to herself:

“Grow as you please. If I have to get to know you again, I’ll do that.”

The words settled over her like sunlight—warm, forgiving.

Maybe she didn’t need to choose between who she was and who she wanted to be. Maybe she just needed to let herself grow, messy and miraculous, like every version of her was part of the same story, unfolding in its own time.

When she stood to leave, she didn’t feel certain. But she felt possible.

And for twenty-seven, that was enough for another year of growing…again.

Sunlight spilled over the outdoor patio, warming the wooden tables. The air smelled like oat milk and citrus cleaner and early afternoon. Normal things. Safe things. She wrapped her hands around her matcha, letting the ceramic anchor her.

Hayat listened quietly at first.

Too quietly.

That was how she knew this wasn’t going to go the way she hoped.

“So,” Hayat said finally, voice low but steady, “let me make sure I’m understanding you.”

She nodded, eyes fixed on the green surface of her drink.

“You think the man who’s been watching you,” Hayat continued, “is the same man who stepped in the alley.”

“Yes.”

“And you think he’s also the one who killed your stalker.”

“Yes.”

Hayat leaned back in her chair slowly, scanning her friend’s face like she was checking for cracks.

“And instead of being terrified,” Hayat said carefully, “you feel… what? Safe?”

She hesitated. “Not safe. Just—less afraid.”

Hayat exhaled sharply. “That’s worse.”

Her head snapped up. “What?”

“That’s worse,” Hayat repeated, firmer now. “Fear is your body protecting you. This—whatever this is—it’s confusing your instincts.”

She opened her mouth to argue, but Hayat lifted a hand.

“No. Listen to me. I love you. I love you too much to pretend this is romantic or mysterious or protective.”

Hayat leaned forward, lowering her voice.

“He killed someone.”

Silence fell between them, thick and heavy.

“I know,” she said quietly.

“And I don’t care how bad that man was,” Hayat pressed. “I don’t care how scared you were. You do not build safety on top of a body.”

Her throat tightened. “You don’t understand—”

“No,” Hayat interrupted, eyes sharp but not cruel. “I understand exactly. You’ve survived men who didn’t take no for an answer. Men who thought they owned you. Men who followed you, trapped you, violated you.”

Hayat’s voice softened, but her words didn’t.

“And now there’s a man who decides he gets to choose who lives and who dies for you?”

She flinched.

“That’s not protection,” Hayat said. “That’s control with better manners.”

The patio noise swelled around them—laughter, cups clinking, someone calling out an order—but her world narrowed to Hayat’s gaze.

“You need to tell Lieutenant Hale,” Hayat continued. “Today. Before this turns into something you can’t get out of.”

She shook her head. “If I tell him, they’ll come after—”

“Good,” Hayat said. “They should.”

She stared at her friend, stunned.

“You can’t trust someone who killed someone,” Hayat said plainly. “I don’t care how gentle his voice is. I don’t care if he brought you your keys. I don’t care if he makes you feel seen.”

Hayat reached across the table, squeezing her hand.

“Safety isn’t supposed to feel like suspense.”

She swallowed hard.

“Sumaya, you are romanticizing him because you’re tired,” Hayat said softly. “Because for once, someone stood between you and danger.”

Tears burned behind her eyes.

“But real safety,” Hayat finished, “doesn’t hide in shadows.”

Inside the café, just beyond the glass doors that led to the patio, he stood completely still.

The noise of the café blurred into static. The espresso machine hissed. Someone laughed behind him. None of it reached him.

He had heard everything.

Every word.

Every accusation.

Every truth.

You can’t trust someone who killed someone.

His jaw tightened.

That’s control with better manners.

His chest felt too tight, like his ribs were closing inward.

He hadn’t meant to overhear them. He hadn’t followed her there. He’d walked in for coffee, seen her through the glass, recognized the tilt of her head, the way she always wrapped both hands around her cup.

And then he’d stayed.

Because some instinct had told him to.

Now he stood frozen on the other side of the entryway, unseen, separated by glass and sunlight and reality.

Hayat was right.

That was the worst part.

He had decided.

He had chosen violence.

He had crossed a line no amount of intention could erase.

And hearing it spoken out loud—by someone who loved her, someone who wanted her safe in a way that didn’t involve blood—made something inside him fracture.

He wasn’t angry.

He was terrified.

Because for the first time since he stepped into her life, he felt something slipping beyond his control.

Not the stalkers.

Not the threats.

But her.

If she told the lieutenant, everything would unravel. The careful distance. The invisibility. The fragile permission he’d given himself to exist near her.

His fingers curled slowly at his side.

Not in violence.

In restraint.

He turned away from the glass doors, heart pounding, knowing one undeniable truth:

Protecting Sumaya from danger had been easy.

Protecting her from himself was going to cost him everything.

The single sentence inside — You’re safe now — lived in her mind like a whisper that didn’t fade. Some nights it soothed her. Other nights it felt like a ghost’s hand brushing her shoulder.

She hadn’t told the detective what she feared most:

That the letter didn’t frighten her.

It comforted her.

What kind of woman feels comforted by the presence of an unseen killer?

A woman who has survived too much.

A woman who knows danger intimately enough to recognize when it isn’t directed at her.

Still, she tried to move forward. Morning routines. Work. Coffee. Errands. Life stretching thin and fragile, but still moving.

And then—three weeks later—something happened that shifted everything.

A man approached her at a quiet bookstore.

Not in the suffocating, predatory way she had seen a hundred times before.

No.

He approached like someone afraid he might scare her.

Tall, with a steady demeanor, dressed simply—dark jacket, quiet presence, nothing flashy. His eyes were the kind that didn’t dart around. They observed. They absorbed.

He paused a respectful few feet away.

“Excuse me,” he said softly. “You dropped this.”

He held out a small silver keychain—one she recognized instantly. Her friend had given it to her months before. She must’ve dropped it near the counter.

She took it carefully. “Thank you.”

His smile was faint, almost reluctant.

“You’re welcome.”

She expected him to leave. Most men lingered, stretched conversations, looked for openings. But he simply nodded and walked away—no request for her name, no attempt to follow.

He gave her space.

And that was why she noticed him.

That night, she stood on her balcony. The street below glowed faintly under the streetlamps. She felt something shift in the air—an intuition she had earned through pain and survival.

Someone was watching her.

She didn’t panic this time.

Because her body didn’t react with dread.

Her pulse didn’t quicken.

Her chest didn’t tighten.

Instead…

She felt warmth. An odd safety she couldn’t logically justify.

She turned her head just slightly—enough to see a reflection in the sliding glass door. A silhouette across the street. Standing still. Not hiding.

Not approaching.

Just watching.

Not like a predator.

Like a guardian.

The same silhouette she’d noticed in old reflections. The same quiet shadow present before the stalker’s body was found.

The mysterious protector.

Her breath trembled—but not from fear.

This was different.

Dangerous in a different way.

At the police station the next morning, Lieutenant Hale scanned the latest printouts from the forensic lab.

“Strange,” he muttered, and she leaned forward.

“What is?”

He tapped the paper.

“The handwriting in the note you received? It’s not familiar from any criminal profiles we have. No matches in state or federal databases.”

She frowned. “What does that mean?”

“It means your stalker’s killer isn’t a criminal—at least not one with a record.”

A beat.

“Most vigilantes don’t stay invisible this long. They want glory. Proof. Contact.”

She swallowed. “So what do you think he wants?”

The detective stared at her carefully.

“I think he wants you safe,” he said quietly.

“And I don’t think he’s done watching you.”

She left the station shaken—but not in the way she expected.

Her fear had blended with something else—something she hated to name.

Curiosity.

Pull.

A slow, dangerous warmth toward a man she had never spoken to.

A man who had killed for her.

A man who lingered in the shadows but somehow made her feel less alone.

Was he a threat?

Or was the threat already gone because of him?

Was he protecting her?

Or was this a new kind of danger?

Love and fear often lived in the same room.

She knew that too well.

Two nights later, it happened.

She was walking to her car after a late shift when a hooded figure appeared at the end of the alley. Her body tensed. Her mind screamed run.

But before she could move—another figure stepped out of the darkness behind her.

The road lights flickered.

The air stilled.

Her skin prickled.

The second figure was calm. Controlled.

His voice low, steady, familiar in a way she couldn’t place.

“Get behind me.”

She didn’t question him.

Her body responded before her mind could catch up.

The first man—hooded, trembling, too close—froze at the sight of the shadowed protector. And then he ran, sprinting into the street and disappearing into the night.

She stood there, breathless, her pulse thundering.

The man in front of her didn’t move.

The bookstore.

The keychain.

The silhouette on the balcony.

It was him.

He turned slowly, stepping into the light.

His face was gentle but haunted. His jaw tense. His eyes—steady and dark—held something she had never seen directed at her before:

Not obsession.

Not hunger.

Not entitlement.

But protectiveness.

Bone-deep and unwavering.

“You’re safe,” he said, voice low.

Her lips parted.

“Who… who are you?”

He hesitated.

And then, with an expression that was both soft and terrifying in its sincerity, he answered:

“Someone who refuses to let anything hurt you again.”

Her heart stumbled.

Because for the first time in years…

She believed it.

He wasn’t a hero. Not even close. Heroes wore badges and wrote reports and waited for permission to intervene. He had stopped believing in that a long time ago.

But the night he saw her—really saw her—everything shifted.

It was two years ago, long before she ever knew she was being watched. He’d been leaving a late shift, walking through the top level of a dim parking garage, when he heard footsteps echoing too closely, too quickly, around the corner.

A woman’s footsteps. And a man’s. Too close behind her.

He saw her first—the way she held her keys between her fingers, the way her shoulders tightened, the way she kept glancing back even though she tried not to look afraid.

He recognized fear. He had lived with it once. He had sworn he’d never let it touch him again.

Then he saw the man behind her. The smile. The entitlement. The predatory patience.

He didn’t step in that night. He didn’t need to.

Because the man backed off when he saw someone else on the level. When he saw him.

And in that moment—when her shoulders dropped a fraction, when she silently exhaled relief—something inside him quietly attached to her.

Not obsession. Not fantasy. But recognition.

She was the kind of woman who had lived through things alone. Who carried her safety like a burden. Who moved through the world as if someone might follow.

He knew that feeling too well.

So he began watching—not her, but the men who watched her.

The first stalker was easy to spot.

Predators always look the same to someone who used to hunt monsters.

He noticed the man weeks before she did. Not the actual stalking—no, the stalker was too sloppy for that—but the intent. The pattern. The circling.

The lingered look when she parked her car. The way he pretended to be on his phone but always faced her direction. The way he followed her profile online from accounts with no posts.

The man didn’t scare him. He infuriated him.

He shadowed the stalker quietly, learning his schedule, his habits, his weaknesses. He didn’t intend to kill him. Not at first.

He only wanted to understand the threat.

But everything changed the day he saw the envelope delivered to her doorstep.

He had watched from across the street. Seen the stalker’s smirk. Seen him slip the note under her door like it was some twisted love letter.

He had seen the photograph inside before she ever opened it—because he had watched the stalker take it.

That was the moment he made his decision.

Some men don’t deserve warnings. Some men understand only the ending.

He didn’t regret killing him.

He regretted that she ever had to be made afraid before he acted.

He left no trace, no signature—he wasn’t stupid. But he left the one line she needed to sleep again:

You’re safe now.

He meant it.

He would not let the world treat her as prey again.

But after the stalker’s death, a new question haunted him:

Now that she was safe… what did that make him?

A savior? A shadow? A threat with a conscience?

He didn’t know.

He only knew that he couldn’t stop watching her. Not out of obsession, but something far more dangerous:

He cared.

He cared in a way he couldn’t explain, a way he wasn’t sure he had ever felt before. He cared enough to stay invisible. To keep his distance. To be nothing more than a silhouette on the edge of her life.

He watched from rooftops, from alleys, from crowded sidewalks. Always far. Always unseen.

He didn’t want her to love him. He didn’t need her to know his name.

He only needed her to live.

But then she dropped her keychain at the bookstore. And he picked it up before anyone else noticed. And when he handed it back to her… her eyes met his.

Soft. Tired. Brave.

She smiled—something small, but real—and for the first time he felt something warm crack inside his ribcage.

A bad sign. A dangerous sign.

He told himself to walk away.

He didn’t.

Three weeks later, when he saw the second man in the alley—twitchy, erratic, approaching her too quickly—he didn’t hesitate.

He stepped in front of her before her fear could swallow her whole. He heard the tremble in her breath. He felt her get behind him without a word.

She trusted him. A shadow. A stranger.

When she asked, “Who are you?” he almost lied.

But he was tired of lies. Tired of pretending he wasn’t orbiting her life like a silent planet.

So he told her the truth he could give her:

“Someone who refuses to let anything hurt you again.”

And when she looked at him—really looked at him—he felt something impossible.

Not fear. Not suspicion.

But a flicker of safety.

From him.

A man in the shadows.

And he realized, with a terrifying clarity, that he was far past the point of walking away.

He would protect her. Even from himself, if he had to.

But something deeper whispered in him:

He didn’t just want to save her.

He wanted to be someone she could look at in daylight and not feel afraid.

PART I

She never liked the sound her phone made when it lit up in the middle of the night. Notifications felt like knocks. Each vibration, a stranger tapping on the other side of the glass.

At first, it was harmless—just burner accounts watching her stories. Weird, yes, but manageable. Block, delete, exhale. She could handle that.

But then the screenshots started.

Random usernames began reposting her pictures—pictures she didn’t even remember taking. A photo of her at a café. One of her laughing with her best friend. A blurry shot of her walking to her car. Images that shouldn’t have existed outside her phone.

It felt orchestrated. Intentional. Diabolical.

And in the city of Pointe—a sunlit coastal town with a reputation for beauty and secrets—intentional always meant dangerous.

But she wasn’t new to danger. She carried the memories in the tense way she gripped her steering wheel, in the way she checked her mirrors twice, in the way she always sensed someone walking too close behind her.

A man had once loosened the bolts on her tires. Another had followed her home through three intersections, headlights glowing like eyes. Others changed numbers, identities, faces—but always the same hunger.

She survived them all. By the grace of God, she survived more than most people would believe.

So when the screenshots started appearing, she tried to brush it off. She refused to be afraid again. She refused to shrink her life down to shadows.

But one night, after an evening shift, she came home to something new.

On her doorstep lay a small, square envelope.

No return address. No stamp. Just her name—written in handwriting she didn’t recognize.

Inside was a printed photo: Her. Standing at her balcony two nights ago, leaning on the railing, scrolling through her phone.

Taken from across the street.

At the bottom of the photo were five words, typed in capital letters:

I NEVER STOPPED WATCHING YOU.

Her breath caught. The room tilted. Every alarm inside her awakened at once.

She called the police. They took the note. They asked the usual questions. They told her the usual lines:

“We’re monitoring it.”

“Tell us if it escalates.”

“Stay aware of your surroundings.”

But fear sharpens instincts in a way bureaucracy never can.

And she noticed something the officers hadn’t: the faint reflection in the balcony window. A silhouette. A shape behind the camera. A figure with a distinct tattoo on the wrist.

A spiral. She had seen that spiral before.

Years ago.

On the wrist of a man who had once cornered her in a parking garage. The same man who waited outside places she frequented. The same man who changed numbers to reach her after she blocked him a dozen times.

The same man she thought had disappeared.

Two days later, Pointe police received a dispatch: A body had been found behind an abandoned warehouse near the harbor.

Male. Early 30s.

Time of death: sometime that morning.

Cause of death: blunt force trauma.

And on the man’s wrist, partially hidden under dried blood—

A spiral tattoo.

The detective in charge, Lieutenant Omar Hale, immediately recognized the pattern of obsession, of stalking, of violence. And after interviewing her, after seeing the fear expertly masked behind her calmness, he realized something else:

This wasn’t a random murder. It was the end of a long hunt.

But the case cracked wide open when forensic techs examined the victim’s apartment. On the walls were hundreds of printed photographs—her face from every angle. Pictures of her friends. Her family. Her workplace. Her car. Her balcony.

And most chilling of all:

Images taken just two days before the murder—the same angle as the photo left on her doorstep.

But among the clutter, they found something unexpected:

A second set of photographs.

Taken by someone else.

Someone watching him.

The stalker had his own stalker.

A predator hunted by another predator.

And somewhere in that blurred overlap, a murder had erupted.

For weeks, the detectives tried to identify the second photographer. No fingerprints. No name. No digital trail. Whoever this person was, they knew how to move in the shadows.

But one detail haunted Lieutenant Hale:

Why had the killer delivered no message? No threat? No contact with her?

It made no sense. Obsession breeds attachment, but this killer remained invisible.

Until one evening, she returned home to find a new envelope at her door.

Smaller this time. No picture. No threats.

Inside, only a single sentence:

“You’re safe now.”

The handwriting was clean. Steady. Someone who didn’t want credit—only closure.

Someone who wasn’t trying to be seen.

Lieutenant Hale studied the note for days, holding it up to lights, analyzing strokes, searching for pressure points.

“It isn’t your stalker,” he eventually told her.

“And it isn’t someone new.”

“Then who?” she whispered.

He hesitated.

“Someone who knew what he did to you. Someone who knew the police would never catch him in time.”

A pause.

“Someone who decided to end it.”

The case remains unsolved.

The killer never sent another note. Never took another photograph. Never resurfaced.

But sometimes—late at night—when she steps onto her balcony, she feels something she has not felt in years:

Not fear. Not dread. Not anxiety.

But the strange, unsettling certainty that someone out there has already killed for her once…

…and is watching to make sure she never needs saving again.

She loved with a heart that didn’t yet understand its

own worth.

She trusted because she wanted to believe the best.

She forgave because she thought that’s what made

her good.

She stayed longer than she should have in places

she had already outgrown.

She felt lonely in rooms full of people she cared

about.

She softened herself for those who never learned to

handle her gently.

But she wasn’t failing.

She was learning.

She was surviving.

She was doing the very best she could with the little

she had.

And like every girl, she carried a tenderness the world wasn’t patient with. She tried to be strong and small at the same time. She tried to be enough for everyone but herself. She tried to hold everything together, even when she was the one falling apart.

But still—she kept going.

And that mattered more than anything.

Because now, the woman she has become finally understands the depth of that courage.

This woman knows how hard it was to show up every day with a heart that bruised easily but refused to close. She knows the quiet tears, the swallowed disappointments, the way that younger version whispered maybe tomorrow will be betterand believed it with everything she had.

And the woman she is now doesn’t look back with shame.

She looks back with awe.

She wants to wrap her arms around that girl and say, You deserved gentleness. You deserved protection. You deserved rest. And she is determined to give her all of that now.

She will never speak poorly of her again.

She honors her.

She thanks her.

She loves her fiercely—for surviving, for trying,

for not giving up.

And perhaps the most beautiful part is this:

She takes great comfort in knowing there are even better versions of herself she hasn’t hugged yet— women she is still growing toward, women who will look back at this version of her with the same tenderness, the same gratitude, the same awe.

Because the truth remains:

The woman she is now was built on the strength of the girl she once was… and the women she is becoming will be built on the strength of the woman she is now.

And boy, did that ruin my entire shift.

My patient was hallucinating, shaking, sweaty, cussing me out like I was the reason his day went to hell. But the real problem? That post. A harmless, tiny, stupid Instagram post. Somehow it made me feel both empty and full, like my whole life flashed before my eyes in one scroll.

Because I knew exactly who I thought of when I read it.

I still remember the first time I saw you at that party. You were vibing with your friends, and I was mid-conversation with my home girl when I suddenly heard someone say my name,

I looked up. And there you were.

Looking unfairly good. Like someone airbrushed you into real life. You smiled—big, bright, genuine—the kind that makes people believe in fate again.

We did the small talk thing.

You: “What are you doing here?”

Me: “Same thing as you, pretending to have fun.”

You laughed. I pretended I didn’t like that you did.

We spent the rest of the night weaving in and out of each other’s orbit. Maybe I was just enjoying myself, and you were enjoying watching me do it.

I noticed. I just pretended not to.

At one point, I even told you I was kind of interested in someone else you knew. And you, being your smug, detached self, said, “Just go for it.”

Like I wasn’t standing right there, practically made for you.

By 3 a.m., it was time to head out. We carpooled home, because of course we did.

We hadn’t even pulled out of the parking lot before the night started showing off—the full moon hanging low, stars scattered like diamonds, 90s R&B humming through the speakers.

We were both giddy, talking nonsense, laughing too hard, still surprised we’d run into each other. You were laughing at my wit, and I was laughing at your charm. Then our song came on. Our song, even though we didn’t know it yet.

One glance. That’s all it took.

The light in your eyes felt like a window—warm, familiar, home. I remembered your words from earlier, “just go for it,”and for once, I listened.

I leaned in. You did too. Our lips barely touched, just a breath apart, but I swear I felt your heartbeat sync with mine. Sparks. Everywhere. From the back of my neck down to my spine.

Maybe your advice wasn’t so bad after all. You were just talking about the wrong guy.

We didn’t even notice the song ending. It just faded out somewhere between the laughter and the silence.

Your hand brushed mine, barely there, like you were testing gravity.

I turned toward you, and everything felt suddenly still. Even the air between us felt heavy, like it knew something we didn’t yet.

“Are you sure?” you whispered.

I smiled, pretending I wasn’t trembling.

“You told me to go for it, remember?”

And then there was no more pretending.

You kissed me slow, like we had all the time in the world. It wasn’t hungry, it wasn’t rushed—it was warm. The kind of kiss that lingers in your lungs long after it’s over. My fingers found the side of your neck, and your breath caught, like you weren’t expecting it to feel that good.

We pulled away, barely an inch, both of us smiling like idiots.

The drive home blurred into the soft hum of the tires and the smell of your cologne on my dress. You dropped me off and waited until I was inside. I waved at you through the door window. You waved back with that grin that still ruins me.

I swear I didn’t sleep that night. I just lay there replaying every moment like a movie I didn’t want to end.

The morning after felt like the world was still holding its breath. The kind of quiet that makes you wonder if last night really happened, or if your mind just dreamed it too vividly.

I woke up with your cologne still clinging to my dress and a grin I couldn’t shake. My phone was already lighting up.

You: “Good morning, sunshine.”

Me: “Good morning.”

You: “I’m flying back today.”

Three words that hit harder than they should’ve. I didn’t even know I wanted to see you again until you said you were leaving.

Me: “Already?”

You: “Yeah.”

Then, after a pause:

You: “Or you could just let me know when you want me to cut your ticket.”

I stared at that message longer than I want to admit. “Cut your ticket.” Like it was that easy. Like he hadn’t just rewritten my definition of chemistry in one night.

I didn’t know what to say, so I sent back the safest lie I could think of:

Me: “Haha, we’ll see.”

Because the truth was too loud. The truth was I’d already started missing someone who hadn’t even fully arrived in my life yet.

When he finally texted, “Boarding now,”

I just sent back a heart.

I stared at the picture we took together at the party, until I realized how easily something can start and still feel infinite.

And that was the thing about him. He didn’t just leave. He lingered—in playlists, in half-sent drafts, in every night sky I looked up at for weeks after.

That was the morning I realized distance doesn’t just mean miles. Sometimes it’s the space between what happened and what could’ve been.

Dear old friend,

Because saying ex–best friend feels diminishing.

When someone asks me what genuine friendship is, I immediately think of you. Of the way you showed up for me without asking questions. Of how you helped me at my lowest—how you stayed on the phone when I had nothing to say, how you carried pieces of my pain as if it were your own. You were my safe place when the world felt unbearable, and for that, I’ll always be thankful for you.

We really thought we’d have each other forever, didn’t we? That kind of innocent, blind faith that only exists before life humbles you. You were my person. The one I ran to with every heartbreak, every laugh that turned into tears, every secret I never said out loud to anyone else. And I think that’s what makes losing you so gut-wrenching—it wasn’t a dramatic ending. It was quiet. A slow unraveling that neither of us had the courage to name. One day we just… weren’t us anymore.

Still, I’ve come to understand something: it’s empathy.

Understanding that people are complex—that we were complex. You probably saw the best parts of me, and I definitely saw the best parts of you. The way your heart could stretch wide even when it was breaking. The way you loved people who didn’t always deserve it. And I know, if we had both been met with more softness—in our upbringing, in our friendships, in the love we were shown—we would’ve flourished instead of relying on hurtful coping mechanisms to make it through.

There’s a version of us that still lives somewhere in time—two girls who loved each other loudly and believed forever meant permanent. And I miss them sometimes. I miss us. The version of me who existed in your orbit. But I’ve learned that missing someone doesn’t mean you need them back—it just means you can finally honor what it was without trying to make it something it no longer can be.

Our friendship was beautiful. It was honest and healing and exactly what I needed for who I was then. But not for who I am now. Growth has a way of stretching people in different directions, and I’ve learned that not everything sacred is meant to stay.

You were the proof that friendship can be soul-deep. That love between friends can feel like home. And losing you—God, it hurt—but it also taught me that not all goodbyes are failures. Some are quiet acts of love, a release that allows both hearts to keep growing, even apart.

So when I think of you, it’s not with anger. It’s with tenderness.

Because what we had was real. Messy, beautiful, unforgettable. And it made me better.

Some bonds don’t need to be rekindled to be eternal.

Some people you love from afar, thank silently in your prayers, and carry with you in the background of who you’ve become.

Maybe that’s what genuine friendship really is— loving someone enough to let them go with softness,

and remembering them with grace long after they’re gone.

xx.

And the room went quiet—

until someone whispered,

“Have tawakkul. Have sabr.”

Don’t get me wrong— there’s nothing wrong with those words. They’re sacred. They’re soft reminders that we are human, that pain is part of the test, that faith is the light that gets us through the dark.

But somewhere along the way, we forgot that community is the soil where sabr and tawakkul grow.

We forget the hands Allah sends—

disguised as people,

as places,

as moments that catch us

just before we fall apart.

It’s the friend who wipes your tears after your first heartbreak, telling you, “Your soulmate is out there.”

That friend is not just a person—

they are a tool,

a mercy,

a gift from Allah Himself.

It’s the doctor’s voice saying, “We have options.” It’s the chemo drip,

the nurse’s quiet dua under her breath.

That’s not coincidence—

that’s tawakkul in motion.

That’s Allah saying, “Trust Me. I’ve provided the means.”

No one is ever ready for heartbreak, for loss, for trauma— but you are always given the tools to survive it.

Look around. The help is already there. In friends. In family. In strangers. In professionals. In the whispers of people who remind you that your story isn’t over yet.

You’ll get through it—

not because you’re unbreakable,

but because Allah promised you would.

"Fa inna ma‘al-‘usri yusrā." Surely, with hardship comes ease.

Not after it.

Not around it.

With it.

Ease is stitched into the pain, hidden in the community, woven through the people Allah sends your way.

So have sabr. Have tawakkul. But also— open your eyes to the mercy standing right beside you.

What brought me back to sanity, or maybe even the insanity of writing again — as someone who once dreamed of being a writer and storyteller, maybe as a form of art or escapism — was a TikTok challenge earlier this year, 2025.

The prompt was: “I met up with my younger self for coffee…” and you just write something short about what that would look like for you.

When I decided to participate, it came after a lot of reflection and quiet thought. I knew exactly what I wanted to write about — but I also knew it would come with a trigger warning.

My TikTok isn’t popular (thank God). It’s mostly just for my close friends, locals, and the occasional person who creeps to see what I’m up to. So, was I brave enough to share something so raw and intimate, so publicly?

The decision was simple: who fcking cares.*

Here it is:

I met the younger version of myself for a coffee at our hometown cafe. She was ten minutes late, and I was two minutes early—some things never change.

I had already ordered for us both: lemonade, a pastry, and a baked good, the same way we always did when our dad would take us to cafés as a little girl. The taste of nostalgia sat between us before we even exchanged words.

She was brimming with excitement, eyes wide with curiosity. I was just as eager, though time had softened the way I showed it.

"So... did you figure it out?

Lawyer, writer, or nurse practitioner?" she asked, leaning forward, full of wonder.

I smiled. "Our path shifted.

We're becoming a flight nurse, then a CRNA."

Her face lit up. "So, like... the Power Ranger of nurses?"

I laughed, admiring the wit we never outgrew.

"Yeah, something like that."

She took a sip of lemonade, then asked,

"What about the ten kids?"

I shook my head, amused.

"Honey, we haven't even gotten married yet."

She raised a brow. "Still don't believe in relationships?"

I smirked. "Let's just say... we've learned Allah knows best, literally"

She nodded, satisfied, then grew serious. "So we're practicing Islam more?"

A warmth spread through me. "We second-guess being immodest now. We love reading the Quran, and speaking about it. Faith feels like home."

She smiled, that knowing, hopeful smile I used to wear so often.

Before we parted, I looked into her eyes-my eyes, just a little brighter, a little less weathered by time-and said,

"We found our people.

We’ve been there for every moment that matters. Our parents are still here, still being the best. You watched your siblings all grow up. Life is joyful, and we're living it by making it feel lighter for those around us. We've made beauty out of the presence."

She inhaled sharply, like she wanted to memorize the moment, then whispered,

"I'm happy that I never ended our story too early."

And as she walked out, I realized—I was always proud of her, too.

And then I remembered — I love to write just as much as I love to talk.

Later this year, I came across Substack. One random night, close to midnight, I texted my book-lover girlfriends:

“I decided since I always wanted to be a writer, imma post on Substack & live out that fantasy.”

Their reactions and support were all I needed to continue this journey.

Thank you, S, A, and O.