You are mine habibi

--- "'Marriage?!' I repeated, my voice barely above a whisper. A wave of confusion washed over me, followed by a creeping sense of dread. I couldn't process what I was hearing." "Mom, I'm just 17!" I said, staring at my parents with shock etched across my face. "Yes, dear. I know, but we have no other choice," my mother said, her face heavy with sadness. I could see the guilt in her eyes, blaming herself for not providing me with a better life. She didn’t need to. I never thought of our life as something bad. I wished she could see that. I wished she would believe me if I told her. It hurt. It hurt so much "'The groom's family is coming tomorrow,' Dad said. 'It's the best decision for our family.'" "'But Daddy, I'm not ready,' I protested, my voice shaking." "I don't want to hear any more of your objections, Afrah" he said, brushing me off before walking away. I turned to Mom, hoping for some reassurance. But she remained silent, her eyes cast downward. "Good night, Mommy," I said softly, leaving before she could respond. I slammed the door, the sound still echoing in my mind. I shouldn't have done that. It wasn't going to solve anything. Throwing myself onto my bed—the only place that gave me solace—I let out a heavy sigh. "Marriage and me... no, it doesn’t make sense." But it had already been decided. I closed my eyes, taking a deep breath. "Ya Rabb, I trust in Your plan, but please, guide me. What do I do?" She had always dreamed about her wedding day—her dress, her husband, and the day she would become a mother. She had imagined it so vividly, always excited by the thought. But she had dreamed of marrying the love of her life—or at least someone she knew not a total stranger. Afrah's eyelids grew heavy, but her mind refused to rest, her thoughts swirling with anxiety as she struggled to force herself into a fitful sleep. ------ I woke up before dawn, performed my morning prayers, and begged Allah for guidance. What did He have planned for me? The sound of tires crunching on the gravel outside signaled the arrival of the groom's family. I couldn't believe I was getting married like this—it still felt like a dream. As I stood in front of the mirror adjusting my hijab, I whispered a silent prayer: "Ya Rabb, give me strength and wisdom to face what's coming." My hands trembled slightly as I smoothed out my dress. Shortly after, my mom came into my room to check if I was ready. "Oh my..." she said, her eyes filled with mixed emotions. "You look beautiful, my darling." I forced a smile, trying to reassure her. "I got it from you," I replied, attempting to lighten the mood. She laughed softly, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. "My dear, I'm sorry... I'm so sorry I couldn't do anything for you. I—" I interrupted her gently, placing a hand on her arm. "No, Mom, stop apologizing. You've never done anything wrong to me. I know this marriage is Allah's will, and Allah is the best of planners. He does everything for a reason, so please stop blaming yourself." She nodded, her smile trembling on her beautiful face. "You're all grown up now. At least I won't be worried about you too much. Now let's go; we shouldn't keep the groom's family waiting too long." I nodded, taking a deep breath. My heart was hammering inside my ribcage as I entered the living room. The scent of incense and fresh flowers filled the air, but I couldn't shake off the feeling of unease. I greeted everyone with salams, but my eyes scanned the room for the groom. Where was he? I saw people who I assumed were the groom's parents and relatives, but he wasn't there. "Afrah!" The woman I suspected to be the groom's mother approached me, her face glowing with excitement. "Afrah, my darling, you look so beautiful," she said with a wide smile. I smiled back, trying to hide my nervousness. "Thank you," I replied, my voice barely above a whisper. "Come, sit, sit," she urged, leading me to the couch and making me sit next to her. The air was thick with awkwardness as both my parents and the groom's parents tried to make conversation. Then, we heard someone say, "The groom is here." My heart skipped a beat as I waited for him to enter. What if he isn't handsome? I wondered. I know they say looks aren't all that matters, but I couldn't help but want a handsome guy. As the groom entered, my eyes were drawn to the dignified figure clad in a stunning white baju melayu with intricate gold embroidery. The outfit was perfectly tailored, accentuating his broad shoulders and lean physique. A delicate pattern of gold thread danced across the fabric, shimmering subtly in the light. Around his neck, a delicate songkok hat added a touch of elegance, while his hands were adorned with simple yet elegant white gloves. His face was chiseled and strong, with high cheekbones and a sharp jawline that framed his full lips. A well-groomed beard, flecked with hints of auburn, added a touch of rugged sophistication to his features. His dark eyes sparkled with warmth and kindness, and his gentle smile hinted at a compassionate heart. I felt a flutter in my chest as our eyes met, and I quickly looked away, trying to compose myself. I barely suppressed the urge to exclaim, "Ya Rabb, what a remarkable creation!" Instead, I focused on my breathing, trying to calm my racing heart. ------- It was almost time for the wedding to begin. Afrah stood nervously beside her soon-to-be husband, sneaking glances at him. His expression was polite yet distant, and he hadn't said a word since they met—not that she had said anything to him either. Afrah's gaze drifted to her wedding attire: a stunning milk-colored abaya that cascaded down her body like a river of moonlight. Delicate golden lace adorned the fabric, weaving intricate patterns that spoke of elegance and sophistication. The lace shimmered in the light, casting a warm, sun-kissed glow on the surrounding material. The abaya’s flowing design created a sense of movement, and its serene milk-colored hue provided the perfect backdrop for the golden accents, allowing them to take center stage and showcase their intricate beauty. The overall effect was one of understated opulence—a harmonious blend of modesty and glamour. -------- The wedding ceremony was a simple nikah, intimate and modest. The room was quiet except for the soft murmur of prayers and the occasional rustle of fabric as the few gathered guests adjusted their seats. There were no extravagant decorations or elaborate fanfare—only the solemnity of the moment and the heartfelt blessings of their families. The imam began reciting the necessary prayers. As he concluded, Afrah's hands trembled slightly while she signed the wedding papers. Ghazi's expression remained impassive, but Afrah sensed a hint of impatience in his eyes. Was she imagining things? Before she knew it, the ceremony was over, and she found herself officially married to Ghazi. My husband—whose name I had just learned was Ghazi—stood there with a polite smile, speaking to our parents. But why did I feel like he was avoiding me? From the beginning to the end of the ceremony, he hadn’t even looked at me. Does he think I’m not beautiful? I wondered, feeling a pang of hurt. Even if that’s how he feels, shouldn’t he at least try to hide it? We all stood outside as my parents prepared to send me off to my new home. “Afrah,” my mom called gently, walking closer. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she gazed at me, her face filled with a mix of emotions I knew so well. “Remember what we talked about?” she said. I nodded. Of course, I remembered. She had told me to never anger my husband, to respect him, and to fulfill my duties as a wife. “Yes, Mom,” I replied, tears flowing down my cheeks like a waterfall. It was just sinking in—I was leaving my home, my family, everything familiar. My mind had been so preoccupied with the rush of the marriage that I hadn’t fully grasped what it meant. I was going to live in someone else’s house, with new people, without my parents by my side. “Don’t cry, my love,” she said, pulling me into a hug and trying her best to console me, even as she cried herself. “Afrah,” my father called softly. I had to admit, I was still a little angry with him for arranging this marriage without consulting me. But that didn’t mean I wouldn’t miss him. I ran into his arms like a child, sobbing. “It’s alright. Don’t cry anymore, or you’ll look like a ghost on your way to your husband’s house,” he joked. The three of us chuckled softly, but the moment to leave came all too soon. As I got into the car with my husband—whom I had also started ignoring—I looked out the window at my parents. My tears threatened to spill again as I waved goodbye.