Nikah

Chapter 48 – Nikah

The day of the nikah arrived without fireworks.

No dramatic sunrise.

No cinematic music.

Just morning light slipping through curtains.

A kettle boiling.

A mother reminding.

A father standing too still.

Belle realised something as she sat in her childhood room, hair half-done, makeup half-done, heart fully awake.

Big days didn’t feel big because the universe announced them.

They felt big because the body knew.

Her hands were cold.

Her stomach was tight.

Her throat kept closing.

And yet, underneath the fear, something else pulsed.

A quiet certainty.

Not certainty that the day would be perfect.

Certainty that she had chosen with care.

That she had not been taken.

That she was walking into this properly.

Her mother fussed.

Not loudly.

Carefully.

“Don’t move,” her mother muttered as she pinned a strand of hair.

Belle sat still.

Her eyes followed her mother’s hands in the mirror.

Her mother’s hands trembled slightly.

Belle’s throat tightened.

“Mummy,” Belle whispered.

Her mother’s voice was brisk.

“Don’t talk,” her mother snapped gently. “Later lipstick smudge.”

Belle laughed weakly.

Her mother’s eyes shimmered.

Then her mother cleared her throat.

“Today you must eat,” her mother ordered.

Belle nodded.

“Yes,” Belle whispered.

Her mother stepped back.

She stared at Belle.

Her expression was complicated.

Pride.

Grief.

Love.

Fear.

Then she said softly,

“Okay?”

Belle swallowed.

“Okay,” Belle replied.

Her father waited in the living room.

He wore a simple shirt.

Neat.

Pressed.

Too neat.

Like he was trying to control something through fabric.

Belle stepped out.

Her father turned.

He froze.

Belle’s chest tightened.

Her father’s eyes moved over her.

Not in judgment.

In shock.

In the way parents see time happen.

Belle’s father’s throat moved.

He blinked.

He looked away quickly.

“Okay,” he said, voice rough.

Belle’s eyes burned.

“Okay,” Belle whispered.

Her mother appeared behind Belle.

She put a hand on Belle’s shoulder.

Her father stood too still.

Then he cleared his throat.

“Let’s go,” he said.

At Aleem’s side, the morning was also quiet.

Mak fussed in her own way.

Not makeup.

Not hair.

Clothes.

Buttons.

“Stand straight,” Mak snapped.

Aleem stood straight.

Mak adjusted his collar.

“You drink water,” Mak ordered.

Aleem nodded.

“Yes, Mak.”

Mak glared.

“Don’t be blur,” Mak snapped.

Aleem’s mouth twitched.

“I won’t,” he promised.

Ayah watched, calm.

He placed a hand on Aleem’s shoulder.

Not dramatic.

Just grounding.

Ayah’s voice was soft.

“Bismillah,” Ayah murmured.

Aleem’s throat tightened.

“Bismillah,” Aleem repeated.

Mak sniffed.

“Don’t make me cry,” Mak muttered.

Aleem looked at her.

“I’m not trying,” Aleem said.

Mak waved.

“Okay lah,” Mak huffed.

The venue was simple.

A private room.

Clean.

Quiet.

Intimate.

Not a stage.

A space.

Chairs arranged intentionally.

Belle’s parents had sightlines.

Ivan would have been satisfied.

A small corner room existed for Belle if she needed to breathe.

Crystal had already inspected it and declared it:

“THE CRYING ROOM.”

Ivan had corrected her.

“Private room,” he said.

Crystal had shrugged.

“Same thing,” she replied.

ABIX were present.

Not loud.

Not performing.

Ivan stood like a quiet pillar.

Crystal bounced with contained energy.

She wore a dress that said she was trying not to steal attention.

Trying.

She kept failing slightly.

Belle’s heart tightened when she saw them.

Family.

Belle arrived with her parents.

Her mother held her arm.

Her father walked slightly ahead.

As if shielding her from eyes.

When they entered the room, Belle saw Aleem.

He stood in deep blue.

Mak’s chosen baju melayu.

Pressed.

Neat.

Clean-cut.

No beard.

His hair was tidy.

His posture was steady.

But his eyes–

his eyes were soft.

He looked at Belle like she was something he had been entrusted with.

Not a prize.

Not a conquest.

An amanah.

Belle’s throat tightened.

Aleem’s gaze met hers.

The world quieted.

Not because people stopped moving.

Because Belle found the only thing she needed.

His eyes.

Steady.

The kadi greeted everyone.

A calm man.

Practical.

He explained steps.

He smiled.

He made space.

He did not rush.

Belle appreciated that.

Because everything inside her felt like it was rushing.

Her heart.

Her thoughts.

Her fear.

Her hope.

The kadi asked for Belle’s consent.

Belle’s voice shook slightly.

“Yes,” she said.

The room softened.

Her mother’s eyes filled.

Her father’s jaw tightened.

Aleem’s gaze stayed steady.

Then came the wali.

Belle’s father.

The moment Belle had feared.

The moment Belle had watched him practise.

Her father stood.

He looked like a man about to lift something heavier than himself.

Aleem stood too.

Opposite.

Two men.

One releasing.

One receiving.

Belle sat very still.

Her hands clenched in her lap.

Her mother squeezed her knee.

Mak sat on the other side, hands folded tightly.

Ayah’s gaze was calm.

ABIX watched with quiet reverence.

Even Crystal.

Even Crystal was silent.

The kadi guided Belle’s father.

Belle’s father held the paper.

His hands trembled slightly.

Belle’s throat tightened.

Her father looked at the transliteration.

Then he looked up.

He looked at Aleem.

Not hostile.

Just… heavy.

Then he began.

His pronunciation was not perfect.

He stumbled on one sound.

He paused.

Belle’s stomach dropped.

The room held its breath.

Belle’s father’s jaw tightened.

He tried again.

Slow.

Careful.

The words came.

Not smooth.

But sincere.

And when he reached the portion that mattered–

the consent–

the sentence steadied.

Belle felt her chest crack.

Because she could hear it:

her father pushing through discomfort.

Showing up.

Doing.

The kadi nodded.

Aleem responded.

Clear.

Firm.

His voice steady when he said the acceptance.

No shaking.

No hesitation.

Just a man taking responsibility with full awareness.

The kadi smiled.

“Alhamdulillah,” he said.

Alhamdulillah.

The room exhaled.

A release.

Not loud.

But felt.

Belle’s mother’s tears fell.

Mak’s lips trembled.

Ayah’s eyes softened.

Belle’s father sat down slowly.

Like he had just run a marathon.

Belle stared at her father.

Her throat closed.

She wanted to run to him.

But she stayed.

Because this was also part of proper.

Holding the moment without breaking it.

The witnesses signed.

The documents were handled.

Pens passed.

Names written.

Dates.

Official.

Real.

The kadi made dua.

Belle listened.

She didn’t understand every word.

But she understood the tone.

A gentleness.

A request for mercy.

For barakah.

For protection.

Belle’s chest tightened.

Mercy.

All the mercies.

The title of her life lately.

The way she had been carried.

When it was done, people stood.

Hushed congratulations.

Mak moved first.

Not to fuss.

To hold.

Mak hugged Aleem.

Brief.

Tight.

A mother’s grip.

Then Mak turned to Belle.

Mak hesitated.

Because hugging Belle still felt unfamiliar.

Then Mak stepped forward.

She held Belle.

Awkwardly.

Firmly.

Like she was afraid Belle would break.

“Okay,” Mak whispered into Belle’s hair.

Belle’s throat tightened.

“Okay,” Belle whispered back.

Mak pulled away quickly.

“Don’t cry,” Mak snapped. “Makeup.”

Belle laughed through tears.

Belle’s mother hugged Belle next.

Long.

Shaking.

Her mother whispered,

“Okay,”

and Belle whispered,

“Okay,”

and both of them cried quietly.

Then Belle turned to her father.

Her father stood, stiff.

He looked like he didn’t know what to do with his hands.

Belle stepped closer.

Her father’s eyes were wet.

He blinked fast.

Belle whispered,

“Dad… thank you.”

Her father’s jaw tightened.

He nodded.

Then he said,

“Okay.”

Not a speech.

Not a hug.

But his hand lifted.

He placed it briefly on Belle’s head.

A pat.

A blessing.

Then his hand dropped quickly.

As if he couldn’t hold longer without breaking.

Belle’s chest cracked.

Aleem watched.

His eyes softened.

He did not interrupt.

He did not steal the moment.

He stayed proper.

ABIX approached.

Crystal was already crying.

Of course she was.

“YOU DID IT,” Crystal whispered dramatically.

Belle laughed.

“I did not do anything,” Belle protested.

Crystal shook her head.

“You sat there and survived,” Crystal argued. “That’s everything.”

Ivan nodded once.

“Okay,” Ivan said.

Crystal glared.

“STOP,” Crystal hissed.

Ivan blinked.

“It’s appropriate,” Ivan replied.

Belle laughed through tears.

Aleem’s mouth twitched.

When the room began to empty, Belle finally found a moment alone with Aleem.

Just a small corner.

Just two people.

Belle looked up at him.

Her eyes were wet.

Aleem’s gaze was steady.

He reached for her hand.

Not pulling.

Just holding.

“Hi,” Belle whispered.

Aleem’s eyes softened.

“Hi,” he replied.

Belle’s throat tightened.

“We’re… married,” Belle whispered.

Aleem nodded.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “We are.”

Belle exhaled.

Her voice shook.

“Are you okay?”

Aleem’s mouth twitched faintly.

“I’m okay,” he said. “I’m just… grateful.”

Grateful.

Belle’s chest tightened.

Aleem’s voice was low.

“I won’t waste this,” he murmured.

Belle’s throat closed.

“I know,” Belle whispered.

Aleem squeezed her hand.

“Okay?” he asked.

Belle nodded.

“Okay,” she replied.

Aleem’s voice was soft.

“Okay.”

Nikah.

The sentence spoken.

Not loud.

Not flashy.

But sacred.

And as Belle stood there, hand in Aleem’s,

she understood something she had never understood before.

Mercy wasn’t always a miracle.

Sometimes mercy was a father trying.

A mother holding.

A man staying steady.

A woman choosing sincerity.

And a sentence that didn’t just change her name.

It changed her life.