Before We Knew

Quiet Things at Home

Saturday mornings at the Faris household were a quiet affair. No alarm clocks, no frantic shoe-hunting or burnt toast. Just the low hum of the fan, the distant sound of the neighbor’s radio, and the soft clink of teacups from the kitchen.

Ruhi sat at the dining table, her fingers curled around a warm mug. She wasn’t much of a tea drinker, but her mum had placed it there with the kind of care that didn’t ask questions. And sometimes, that was comfort enough.

Across the room, her father sat reading something on his tablet—an article in a language Ruhi couldn’t quite place—while her younger brother sat on the rug, humming softly as he pieced together a puzzle.

It should have been a peaceful morning. And in some ways, it was. But her mind was elsewhere.

The scholarship.

She’d done everything right—submitted it early, proofread it twice, rewritten her personal statement three times. But still, the uncertainty gnawed at her like a slow drip.

Her mother entered the room with a light knock on the wooden frame, though the door had been open the whole time. “You haven’t touched your tea.”

“I will,” Ruhi said softly.

Her mother’s eyes were warm but observant. “You’ve been thinking a lot lately.”

Ruhi didn’t answer immediately. Then, gently, “Just waiting to hear back. About school. About the next step.”

There was a pause before her mother smiled, walked over, and adjusted the scarf around Ruhi’s shoulder like she used to when she was younger. “What is written for you will not pass you. What passes you was never yours. Allah’s timing is always precise.”

Ruhi nodded, eyes downcast. “I know.”

But knowing didn’t always quiet the ache of uncertainty.

Later that day, in the privacy of her room, she sat by the window, journaling in soft, slanted lines. Not about Junaid. Not directly. But about people who noticed things without being asked. About conversations that lingered. About moments that made her wonder why silence felt so loud around certain people.

Across town, Junaid was in his room too—surrounded by wires, circuits, and the quiet hum of his computer. He was finalizing the last piece of his project proposal for the robotics mentorship program. His fingers moved with quiet focus, but his thoughts weren’t all circuitry and code.

He paused once, thinking of the library, of Ruhi’s quiet nod.

It wasn’t anything.

And yet—it was.

Sometimes, the smallest exchanges carried the most weight.