The Sound of Letting Go
1286 Words
Chapter Ten
Aonat’s POV
The phone pressed against my ear felt heavier than it should have.
“Aonat… we need to talk.”
His voice was calm.
Too calm.
My heart started racing immediately.
“I’m listening,” I said, sitting up in bed. My fingers gripped the edge of my blanket.
There was a pause.
Not the comfortable kind.
The kind that rearranges futures.
“I spoke to my parents,” he began.
My breath caught.
“And?”
Another pause.
“They said no.”
The words were simple.
Soft.
But they hit like something sharp and final.
I stared at the wall in front of me as if it might change what I’d just heard.
“No?” My voice barely existed.
“They think I’m too young,” he continued. “Still in school. No job. No financial security. They said I shouldn’t be thinking about marriage right now.”
I swallowed.
“That’s… that’s normal,” I said quickly. “Parents say that at first. Maybe if you explain—”
“I did.”
Silence.
“And?”
“They won’t come.”
The room felt smaller.
I pressed my free hand against my chest, trying to breathe normally.
“Oh.”
That was all I could say.
Just one small word for something that felt enormous.
“Aonat,” he said gently, “listen to me.”
I wasn’t sure I wanted to.
“I’ve been thinking all night.”
That sentence made something inside me tremble.
“About what?”
“About everything.”
His voice was steady.
Measured.
Too measured.
“I care about you,” he said. “You know that.”
Do I?
“But my parents are right.”
The words felt worse than the refusal.
“What do you mean?” I asked, my throat tightening.
“I’m not ready.”he said, voice low, almost like a whisper.
There it was.
Not angry.
Not dramatic.
Just honest.
“I’m still building my life. I don’t have stability yet. Marriage isn’t just love. It’s responsibility. Provision. Pressure.”
My eyes began to blur.
“I never asked you to provide tomorrow,” I whispered. “Baba just wanted seriousness. An intention.”
“And what if I stand in front of him and promise something I can’t guarantee?” he asked quietly. “What if I fail you?”
“You don’t know that you would.”
“But I don’t know that I wouldn’t either.”
Each sentence chipped away at something I had been holding tightly.
“You said you wouldn’t let this go easily,” I reminded him softly.
“I’m not letting it go easily.”
“Then what is this?” My voice cracked. “Because it feels easy from here.”
Silence filled the line.
“I don’t want to be forced into something because of a deadline,” he finally said. “I don’t like being cornered, Aonat.”
Cornered.
So that’s what this was to him.
Pressure.
Not love.
I asked. Tears slipped silently down my face. My shoulders shook with each quiet sob, chest tight as if it might cave in
“So you agree with them?”
“Yes.”
The word was gentle.
But it shattered everything.
“Yes,” he repeated. “They’re right. I need time. I need to finish school. Get a job. Become something solid first.”
“And me?” I whispered.
Another pause.
“You’ll be okay.”
The kindness in his voice felt like cruelty.
“You’ll be okay,” he said again. “Maybe this is better. If it’s written, it will come back when the timing is right.”
Timing.
Written.
Later.
All the phrases people use when they are already walking away.
“So that’s it?” I asked.
“I don’t want you waiting for something uncertain,” he replied.
“I was already waiting.”
My voice was barely sound now.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.
And in that moment, something inside me went still.
Not dramatic.
Not explosive.
Just quiet.
I had held onto him like he was solid ground.
But maybe I had been standing on something that was never firm to begin with.
Maybe I had loved potential.
Maybe I had loved possibility.
Maybe I had loved the version of him that existed in hope, not reality.
“I understand,” I heard myself say.
And I hated how calm I sounded.
“Aonat…”
“It’s okay,” I whispered. “You don’t have to explain anymore.”
Because the truth was clear now.
He wasn’t ready.
And I had been clinging to someone who needed more time than I was allowed to give.
“Take care of yourself,” he said softly.
“You too.”
The line went dead.
And just like that—
It was over.
I lowered the phone slowly.
The silence in my room was suffocating.
No anger.
No screaming.
Just emptiness.
I sat there for several minutes, staring at nothing.
Then the tears came.
Not loud at first.
Just quiet sobs that shook my shoulders.
I had fought Baba for something that wasn’t even fighting for me.
I had cried for something that wasn’t standing firm.
And now—
There was nothing left to defend.
I washed my face before leaving my room.
My reflection looked hollow.
When I stepped into the sitting room, Baba was reading.
He looked up immediately.
“Well?”
My throat tightened.
“He spoke to his parents.”
“And?”
“They refused.”
Baba’s expression did not change.
“And him?” he asked.
“He agrees with them.”
There it was.
Spoken aloud.
Final.
Baba studied me carefully.
“Do you accept this?”
What choice did I have?
“Yes,” I said quietly.
He nodded once.
Then his voice softened — not in pity, but in resolution.
“When the time is right,” he said, “I will choose a suitable groom for you.”
The words felt heavy.
But not cruel.
Just certain.
“You will not be rushed. And you will not be given to someone careless. I will choose carefully.”
Tears burned my eyes again.
“Thank you, Baba,” I whispered.
He looked at me for a long moment.
“You have learned something,” he said.
I nodded.
Yes.
I had learned that love without readiness is fragile.
I had learned that timing matters more than emotion.
I had learned that sometimes heartbreak is simply clarity in disguise.
I returned to my room quietly.
Closed the door.
And this time, I didn’t try to stay composed.
I collapsed onto my bed and cried.
Not because he left.
But because I had believed he wouldn’t.
The tears felt endless.
I let them fall until my chest hurt and my head throbbed and my body felt exhausted.
Eventually, the storm slowed.
The pain didn’t disappear.
But it softened.
I wiped my face and stood slowly.
If I was going to let go—
I wanted to let go properly.
I performed wudu with trembling hands.
Spread my prayer mat.
And stood.
Two rak’ah.
Just two.
To ask Allah for guidance.
For peace.
For something better than what I had imagined.
In sujood, my tears fell again.
But this time, they felt different.
Less desperate.
More surrendered.
“Ya Allah,” I whispered.
“If this was not written for me, remove it from my heart completely. And replace it with something better.”
The room was quiet.
But for the first time since the deadline began—
So was my heart.
- Writer
