Love in Quiet Places
303 Words
Their house in Maiduguri was small but warm two bedrooms, a garden that bloomed with hibiscus, and a prayer mat always open by the window.
Mirha often worked late at night, her laptop glowing softly while Omar slept. Ahmad would bring her tea without being asked, place it gently beside her, and whisper, “Don’t forget to rest.”
She would smile and nod not just in gratitude, but in understanding.
They didn’t need to say much.
Their love had matured from fire to fragrance soft, steady, and always present.
Parenting in Pieces
Omar was growing fast curious, stubborn, and gentle.
He once asked his mother, “Did you always live in a house like this?”
Mirha paused. “No, Omar. Mama lived in many different places. Some had no lights. Some had no beds. But now, we have each other.”
He didn’t fully understand. But he hugged her tight, and that was enough.
Sometimes Mirha struggled balancing motherhood, mentorship, marriage, and memory. The past still whispered in her dreams.
One night, she woke up crying silently.
Ahmad pulled her close and said only this:
“You don’t have to be strong tonight.”
A Love Rekindled
On their fifth anniversary, Ahmad surprised her with a small dinner just the two of them, under the stars on their roof.
There were candles, two plates of jollof rice, and a small speaker playing soft Turkish violin music.
“You didn’t have to,” she said, touched.
“I did,” he replied. “Because you remind me every day of Allah’s mercy. And I never want to forget that.”
They laughed. They cried. They danced gently hands wrapped in du’a and gratitude.
In the quiet corners of their life, love grew.
Not loud.
Not flashy.
But true.
- Writer
