Learning Arc
Chapter 20 – Learning Arc
Belle had always thought learning a religion would feel like walking into a courtroom.
Judgement.
Rules.
A thousand invisible eyes weighing whether she deserved to be there.
Instead, on a quiet Wednesday evening, it felt like walking into a library.
Not silent–just… orderly.
A place built for people who were trying.
Aleem didn’t bring her to a café with “Islam 101” in a Google Doc.
He didn’t sit her down and start explaining doctrines like he was presenting a slide deck.
He didn’t turn her questions into debates.
Because Aleem understood something Belle was still learning:
Faith was not a topic.
It was a life.
So he did the most Aleem thing possible.
He arranged it properly.
A week after their first “private start,” he texted her with the same steady tone he used for everything.
I found someone you can speak to. Ustazah. Safe space. Women’s session. You can ask anything. No pressure.
Belle had stared at the message for a long time.
Ustazah.
A female religious teacher.
A human being who would look at her and know immediately that she didn’t belong.
Or… didn’t belong yet.
Belle’s stomach tightened.
She typed:
Okay. Where?
His reply came quickly.
An Islamic learning centre. Public area. You don’t need to wear tudung if you’re not comfortable, but dress modestly. Long sleeves. Loose. I’ll be nearby, but I won’t sit in.
I’ll be nearby.
But I won’t sit in.
Proper.
Belle’s chest tightened.
He was giving her space to learn without it becoming “learning for him.”
She didn’t know why that made her want to cry.
Maybe because her entire previous relationship had been a constant negotiation of what to become to be chosen.
And Aleem–Aleem kept making sure she knew she was already a person.
Not a project.
Not a conversion checklist.
Just a person.
Belle typed:
Okay.
Then she stared at the word okay.
Because it didn’t mean she wasn’t scared.
It meant she was going anyway.
On the day of the session, Belle stood in front of her wardrobe like it was an exam.
Long sleeves.
Loose.
No cleavage.
No tight skirt.
She chose a long, flowy blouse and a wide-leg pants.
Neutral colours.
Nothing loud.
Nothing attention-grabbing.
She tied her hair back into a low ponytail.
She stared at herself in the mirror.
She didn’t look like a different person.
But she felt like one.
Because she was walking into a place that had rules she didn’t know.
She checked her phone.
A message from her mother.
Eat dinner?
Belle’s throat tightened.
Her mother had become this way–asking not because she cared about food, but because food was proof Belle was still alive.
Belle typed:
Going out. Will eat later. Okay.
Her mother replied almost immediately.
Okay. Don’t come home too late. Call if anything.
Belle stared.
Call if anything.
Love-first.
Fearful.
Present.
She slipped her phone into her bag and left.
The learning centre was in an ordinary building.
Not grand.
Not intimidating.
No dramatic arches.
No cinematic choir.
Just signage.
A clean lobby.
A few posters about classes.
People moving in and out quietly.
Belle arrived early and stood outside for a moment, breathing.
Her palms were sweating.
She wiped them on her pants.
Then she saw Aleem.
He was across the street, near a convenience store, as if he had deliberately chosen a spot that wasn’t too close.
He wasn’t hovering at the entrance.
He wasn’t escorting her in like she was his responsibility.
He was simply… there.
A steady point in her peripheral vision.
When he noticed her, he didn’t wave wildly.
He just raised his hand slightly.
A small acknowledgement.
Then he walked a little closer–still keeping distance that didn’t make her feel watched.
“You okay?” he asked.
Belle exhaled. “I’m scared.”
Aleem nodded like that was normal.
“Okay,” he said softly. “Scared is fine. You’re still showing up.”
Showing up.
While hurting.
Belle’s chest tightened.
She nodded.
Aleem reached into his sling bag and handed her something.
Not hand warmers this time.
A small bottle of water.
And a packet of biscuits.
“You didn’t eat?” he asked.
Belle blinked. “How do you know?”
Aleem’s mouth twitched faintly.
“You always forget when you’re anxious,” he said.
Belle’s throat tightened.
She took the packet.
Not because she was hungry.
Because the care felt like permission to exist.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Aleem shook his head slightly. “No need.”
A beat.
Then he added, carefully, “If you want to leave at any point, you can. You don’t owe anyone staying. Not me. Not them. Not… anything.”
Belle stared at him.
The statement was so simple.
But it made her chest loosen.
Choice.
Always choice.
“Okay,” Belle whispered.
Aleem nodded once.
He glanced at the entrance.
“They’ll be expecting you. Ustazah Sara.”
Belle’s stomach tightened.
Sara.
A name that sounded normal.
Not a gatekeeper name.
Just a person.
Aleem’s voice softened. “I’ll wait nearby. Text me when you’re done.”
Belle nodded.
Then she hesitated.
Her fingers curled around the biscuit packet.
She looked up at him.
“Aleem,” she said softly.
He met her gaze.
Belle’s voice trembled. “Thank you for… not making this about you.”
Aleem’s expression tightened slightly.
Not discomfort.
Something like restraint.
“This has to be about Allah, if it becomes anything,” he said quietly. “Otherwise it’s not… clean.”
Clean.
Proper.
Belle’s throat tightened.
She nodded.
“Okay,” she whispered.
Aleem nodded back.
“Okay,” he said.
Then he stepped away.
Giving her the last thing she needed.
Space.
Inside, Belle was greeted by a receptionist who smiled warmly.
“Hi, are you Isabelle?” the woman asked.
Belle blinked.
She nodded. “Yes.”
The receptionist’s smile didn’t change.
No judgement.
No surprise.
Just welcome.
“Ustazah Sara is inside. You can leave your shoes here,” the woman said gently.
Shoes.
Belle looked down.
She had expected this.
Still, removing shoes felt intimate.
Like stepping into someone else’s home.
She slipped them off and placed them neatly.
Proper.
She followed the signs to a small room.
Not huge.
Carpeted.
Chairs arranged in a semi-circle.
A small whiteboard.
A shelf with books.
A few women were already seated.
Different ages.
Different races.
Some wore tudung.
Some didn’t.
Some looked like they had been Muslim forever.
Some looked like they were learning too.
Belle’s stomach tightened.
She chose a seat near the edge.
Not hiding.
Just… safe.
A woman in her thirties approached her with a calm smile.
Assured.
Gentle.
Not performative.
“Assalamualaikum,” the woman greeted softly.
Belle froze.
She knew the phrase.
She had heard Aleem say it.
She had heard it in videos.
But it still felt foreign on her tongue.
The woman’s smile softened.
“It’s okay,” she said kindly. “You can just say hi.”
Belle’s shoulders loosened slightly.
“Hi,” Belle whispered.
The woman extended her hand lightly.
“I’m Sara,” she said. “Ustazah Sara. You can call me Sara.”
Just Sara.
Belle blinked.
She shook her hand.
“Isabelle,” Belle said. “But… Belle.”
Sara nodded warmly. “Okay, Belle. Welcome.”
Welcome.
Not why are you here.
Not what do you want.
Just welcome.
Belle felt her throat tighten.
Sara sat on a chair at the front and addressed the room.
“Tonight is a Q&A session,” she said gently. “No tests. No pressure. We are here to learn. Learning is ibadah too.”
Belle didn’t know the word.
But she heard the tone.
Learning can be worship.
Not only prayer.
Not only ritual.
Even curiosity.
Even honesty.
Belle’s chest tightened.
Sara continued, “Some of you are Muslim and want to strengthen basics. Some of you are exploring. Some of you are here because you know someone. All are valid. What matters is sincerity.”
Sincerity.
Not performance.
Sara smiled. “If you don’t know what to ask, that’s okay. You can also just listen.”
Belle exhaled.
Okay.
She could listen.
The session began with a woman asking about prayer timings in Singapore.
Another asked about fasting while working.
Sara answered calmly, practical, grounded.
No dramatic voice.
No condemnation.
Just clarity.
Structure.
When someone asked, “What if I miss prayer?” Sara didn’t scold.
She said softly, “We don’t aim for perfect. We aim for returning.”
Returning.
Not quitting.
Belle felt something loosen in her chest.
Because Belle’s entire life lately had been about returning.
Returning to food.
Returning to sleep.
Returning to laughter.
Returning to herself.
When the room quieted, Sara looked gently around.
“Any questions from those who are exploring?” she asked.
Belle’s heart hammered.
She wasn’t sure if she could speak.
Then she remembered Aleem’s message.
If you want to leave, you can.
Choice.
That made speaking feel safer.
Belle raised her hand slightly.
Sara’s eyes softened.
“Yes, Belle?” she asked.
Belle swallowed hard.
“I… I’m new,” Belle said quietly.
A few women turned.
Not hostile.
Curious.
Belle’s cheeks warmed.
She forced herself to keep going.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” she admitted. “But I want to understand. Islam feels… structured. And calm. But also… I’m scared it’s too strict.”
The confession came out messy.
But honest.
Sara nodded slowly.
“That’s a good question,” Sara said gently. “When people see structure, they sometimes think it’s cruelty. But structure can also be mercy.”
Mercy.
Sara continued, “In Islam, we have boundaries because humans need guidance. But the boundaries are not meant to crush you. They are meant to protect you.”
Protect.
Belle’s chest tightened.
Sara looked at Belle kindly. “When you say ‘too strict,’ what do you fear losing?”
Belle blinked.
She hadn’t expected a question back.
She swallowed.
“Myself,” she whispered.
The word slipped out before she could stop it.
Silence.
Not heavy.
Held.
Sara’s gaze softened deeply.
“Islam should not erase you,” Sara said gently. “If anything, it should help you become more you–more sincere, more grounded, more responsible. But it does require you to be honest with your habits.”
Habits.
Belle stared at her hands.
Honest with habits.
That sounded… terrifying.
And oddly… safe.
Sara continued, “It’s okay to be scared. But don’t confuse fear with truth. Take time. Learn. Ask. Observe. Let your heart settle.”
Let your heart settle.
Belle’s chest tightened.
Settle.
She wanted that.
Sara smiled softly. “And also, Islam has gentleness. The Prophet taught gentleness. Allah is Al-Rahman, Al-Rahim. The Most Merciful.”
Merciful.
Belle’s throat tightened.
The word mercy kept following her.
Like a motif.
Sara glanced around the room.
“I always tell people,” Sara said, voice calm, “If someone is pressuring you, rushing you, scaring you–step back. That is not how faith should enter the heart.”
Belle felt heat in her eyes.
She remembered Aleem stepping away.
Waiting outside.
Not sitting in.
Not controlling.
Not taking.
Sara’s gaze returned to Belle.
“Your questions are welcome,” Sara said gently. “You don’t have to know everything. You only have to be honest.”
Belle exhaled shakily.
Okay.
Honest.
She could do honest.
The session continued.
People asked about halal food.
About modesty.
About why Muslims pray five times.
Sara explained with calmness and practicality.
Sometimes she used examples.
Like phone charging.
Like routines.
Not lectures.
Just bridges.
Belle listened.
She didn’t feel converted.
She didn’t feel “enlightened.”
She felt… steadier.
Like someone had given her permission to learn without being perfect.
When the session ended, Sara approached Belle again.
“Thank you for asking,” Sara said softly. “That took courage.”
Belle’s cheeks warmed.
“I was scared,” Belle admitted.
Sara nodded. “That’s okay. Scared people can still be sincere.”
Belle swallowed.
She hesitated, then asked quietly,
“Can I come again?”
Sara smiled warmly. “Of course. Come as many times as you need. No rush.”
No rush.
Belle’s throat tightened.
The phrase felt like a blessing.
Sara handed Belle a small booklet.
Not thick.
Not intimidating.
A gentle starter guide.
“Read if you want,” Sara said. “If you don’t, it’s okay. But if you have questions, write them down. Bring them next time.”
Belle nodded.
“Okay,” she whispered.
Sara’s smile softened. “Okay.”
Outside, the evening air was warm and sticky.
Singapore again.
But Belle felt like she had carried a bit of Hokkaido quiet out with her.
She texted Aleem.
Done.
A reply came instantly.
You okay?
Belle stared.
Okay.
She typed:
I’m okay. It was… gentle.
A beat.
Good. Want me to drive you home?
Belle hesitated.
They were still in their private start.
Protected.
But not hiding.
Still, she thought of her parents.
Don’t disappear.
If Aleem drove her home, her mother might see.
And she wasn’t ready for that scene yet.
She typed:
I’ll grab train. But can we talk for a bit?
Aleem replied:
Okay. I’m at the corner.
Belle looked up.
He was standing at a distance, just as he said.
Not near the entrance.
Not inside.
Waiting.
She walked toward him.
When she reached, he didn’t touch her.
He didn’t lean in.
He just looked at her face with quiet attention.
“How was it?” he asked.
Belle exhaled slowly.
“It wasn’t scary,” she said softly. “I thought it would be… harsh. But it was… structured. Calm.”
Aleem nodded, relief flickering in his eyes.
“Good,” he said.
Belle looked down at the booklet in her hand.
“She said… structure can be mercy,” Belle murmured.
Aleem’s gaze softened.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “That’s… how I feel.”
Belle swallowed.
She hesitated.
Then she looked up.
“Aleem,” she said softly, “she asked me what I fear losing.”
Aleem’s jaw tightened slightly.
“What did you say?”
Belle’s throat tightened.
“Myself,” she whispered.
Aleem stared at her.
His eyes softened.
He didn’t dismiss it.
He didn’t say, “You won’t.”
He nodded.
“That’s valid,” he said quietly. “And that’s why we go slow. So you don’t lose anything. So you only gain what’s true.”
Gain what’s true.
Belle’s eyes burned.
She nodded.
They stood there a moment, the city humming around them.
Then Belle asked, voice small,
“Do you feel… relieved?”
Aleem exhaled.
“A bit,” he admitted. “Not because you went. But because you felt safe.”
Belle’s chest tightened.
Safe.
Again.
She looked down.
Then she asked, barely above a whisper,
“Can I hold your hand?”
Aleem paused.
Proper.
Checking.
Then he nodded.
“Yeah,” he said softly.
Belle reached out.
Their fingers met.
Warm.
Solid.
Not rushed.
The simple touch steadied her more than any lecture could.
Aleem’s voice came quietly.
“You did good,” he said.
Belle let out a shaky breath.
“It was just one session,” she whispered.
Aleem’s thumb moved once, gentle.
“One session is still showing up,” he said.
Belle’s eyes stung.
Showing up.
While hurting.
She nodded.
“Okay,” she whispered.
Aleem’s voice softened.
“Okay.”
On the train home, Belle sat by the window and stared at her reflection.
Her face looked the same.
But her eyes looked… less empty.
She took out her phone and typed a message to her mother.
Had a class. Learned some things. I’m okay.
She didn’t say Islam.
Not yet.
Not because she wanted to hide.
Because she wanted to introduce the truth with care.
Her mother replied quickly.
Okay. Eat something before sleep.
Belle stared at the message.
Then she opened the packet of biscuits Aleem had given her.
She ate two.
Not because she suddenly loved biscuits.
Because she was learning that being cared for meant she had to care for herself too.
And in the quiet rhythm of the train, Belle realised something:
This learning arc wasn’t about religion as a requirement.
It was about gentleness.
About structure.
About returning.
Not to a man.
To her own heart.
And for the first time in a long time, she believed she could return.
Slowly.
Properly.
One “okay” at a time.