If I knew what the future held,
I would walk back to the moment
Allah allowed our paths to cross—
not to rewrite fate,
but to understand its wisdom sooner.
Because the truth is,
I did not know then
how profoundly a single encounter
could shift the landscape of my heart.
Your name did not enter me as coincidence.
It arrived with a familiarity I still cannot explain—
as though the soul recognized
what the body had never touched,
as though somewhere in the unseen
we had already met
in a realm beyond this world.
I believe now
that Allah places people in our lives
with intention—
some as gifts,
some as tests,
some as mirrors,
and some as gentle interruptions
to awaken what has fallen asleep inside us.
You were not merely a chapter.
You were a revelation.
Your queenship did not come from titles
or beauty alone.
It came from the resilience
that hardship carved into you—
from the way you carried silence
with dignity,
from the depth of your thought,
from the ache you never shared
and the faith you tried to keep
even when life made it difficult.
And your hands—
I remember imagining them,
not to possess them,
but to honour them.
Hands that struggled,
yet remained graceful.
Hands that comforted,
yet trembled in private.
Hands that sought truth,
even when truth was painful.
To me, they symbolized
not romance alone,
but partnership,
mercy,
and compassion—
qualities that Allah loves.
I lie awake at night,
not in rebellion to decree,
but in reflection.
This heart still feels,
but it bows to Qadr.
This soul still longs,
but it trusts in Allah’s plan.
Sometimes I think
our meeting was never about union,
but about awakening—
to remind me what sincerity feels like,
to show me where I must grow,
and to teach me patience
not as a punishment,
but as a refinement.
For Allah says:
“…it may be that you dislike something while it is good for you,
and love something while it is bad for you.
Allah knows, and you do not know.” (2:216)
Perhaps you were not written
as my destination—
but as my turning point.
Perhaps your presence
was meant to soften me,
to humble me,
to make me take responsibility,
to prepare me for what is still ahead.
If we were meant to walk together,
no ocean, no circumstance
could have kept us apart.
And if we were meant to separate,
no desire, no longing
could have held us together.
This is not weakness.
This is surrender.
Not to despair—
but to Divine wisdom.
If Allah wills reunion,
it will happen with ease,
without confusion,
without fear.
And if He does not,
then I pray—
with sincerity—
that Allah grants you a life
filled with sakinah
(tranquility),
rahmah
(mercy),
and nur
(light).
I do not hold you with attachment.
I release you with dua.
Because love that seeks goodness,
even in separation,
is still love.
And patience after heartbreak
is still victory.
So hear me,
not with worldly ears,
but with the soul—
I wanted you,
but I want Allah’s plan more.
And in that surrender,
there is peace,
there is dignity,
and there is the promise
that whatever is written for us—
whether together or apart—
will be better than anything
we could have chosen for ourselves.
For the One who authored hearts
knows where they truly belong.