The First Mosque
Chapter 18 – The First Mosque
Isabelle didn’t tell her mother she was going to a mosque.
She told her mother she was meeting Crystal for lunch.
It wasn’t a malicious lie.
It was a protective one.
A borrowed umbrella against a storm she wasn’t ready to stand under.
Isabelle hated that she was lying at all.
But she also knew her mother.
Her mother heard mosque and her imagination would sprint ahead of her.
Conversion.
Marriage.
Loss.
Isabelle wasn’t ready for that conversation.
Not yet.
So she wore a simple long-sleeved top, a long skirt, and a cardigan even though Singapore was humid.
She tied her hair neatly.
She slipped a light shawl into her bag–just in case.
Then she stared at herself in the mirror.
She didn’t look like someone having a religious crisis.
She looked like Belle.
Normal.
And that was the strange part.
She wasn’t being dragged.
She wasn’t being forced.
She was walking into this with her own feet.
And that made it heavier.
Because if she chose it, she couldn’t blame anyone else.
Aleem met her outside a MRT station.
He was dressed plainly.
Clean shirt.
Dark pants.
His hair neat.
He looked like someone going somewhere important.
Isabelle’s heart thumped.
Aleem looked at her.
“You okay?”
Isabelle nodded, trying to sound casual.
“Yeah,” she said. “I’m just… nervous.”
Aleem nodded.
“That’s normal,” he said.
He hesitated.
Then he asked, softly,
“Do you want the shawl?”
Isabelle blinked.
He meant for her hair.
For modesty.
For respect.
Isabelle’s cheeks warmed.
She pulled the shawl out of her bag.
“I brought one,” she murmured.
Aleem’s shoulders eased a fraction.
“Okay,” he said.
They walked.
Not holding hands.
Not close.
But Isabelle felt him beside her like a steady line.
The mosque wasn’t what Isabelle expected.
It wasn’t intimidating.
It wasn’t dark.
It wasn’t harsh.
It was… open.
Bright.
Quiet.
The architecture made the sky feel closer.
White surfaces reflected sunlight.
The air felt cooler inside, like the building itself was designed to calm people down.
Isabelle paused at the entrance.
The signboard listed prayer times.
People moved in and out with gentle familiarity.
Some families.
Some elderly.
Some young.
No one stared at her.
No one pointed.
No one made her feel like an intruder.
Aleem slowed beside her.
“You okay?” he asked again.
Isabelle nodded.
“Yeah,” she whispered.
Then, quietly,
“It’s… peaceful.”
Aleem’s gaze softened.
“Yeah,” he said.
Isabelle swallowed.
She tied the shawl loosely around her head, not perfect, just enough to be respectful.
Aleem didn’t correct her.
He didn’t adjust it.
He simply nodded like she was doing fine.
And somehow that made Isabelle’s throat tighten.
Because it meant she wasn’t being managed.
She was being trusted.
They removed their shoes.
Isabelle followed Aleem’s lead.
The carpet under her socks was soft.
The prayer hall was large, with rows of space.
High ceilings.
Gentle patterns.
A quiet that felt like it had weight.
Not oppressive.
Sacred.
Isabelle’s chest tightened.
She didn’t know why.
She just felt… small.
Not in a humiliating way.
In a humbling way.
Like stepping into a forest.
Like standing near the sea.
Aleem didn’t bring her deep inside.
He guided her to a side area.
“Just sit here,” he said softly. “You can observe. No need to do anything.”
Isabelle nodded.
She sat.
Aleem sat a small distance away.
Still respecting.
Still careful.
Isabelle watched people settle.
Some read quietly.
Some whispered.
Some sat in stillness.
Then the call to prayer echoed.
It was not loud.
Not aggressive.
It flowed through the hall like water.
Isabelle’s skin prickled.
Her chest tightened.
The sound was unfamiliar.
But the feeling…
The feeling was the same as the surau corridor.
Organized.
Quiet.
A rhythm.
Isabelle’s eyes burned unexpectedly.
She looked down quickly, embarrassed.
Why was she crying?
Nothing sad was happening.
No one was hurting her.
No one was yelling.
No one was leaving.
Yet her heart felt like it was unclenching after months of being held too tight.
Aleem stood.
He moved into the prayer line.
Isabelle watched him.
His posture was calm.
His movements deliberate.
He looked like someone who knew exactly where he belonged.
Isabelle swallowed.
This was what she had been sensing for months.
Not just discipline.
Belonging.
And suddenly, Isabelle understood why his faith made him steady.
Because when you belong to something bigger than your own emotions, your emotions stop being your only anchor.
Isabelle pressed her hands to her lap.
Her breathing slowed.
The prayer began.
Aleem bowed.
Prostrated.
Rose.
The movements were simple.
Repetitive.
But in that repetition, Isabelle felt something deep.
Not conversion.
Not belief.
Just… relief.
As if someone had finally turned down the volume of her inner chaos.
Isabelle blinked back tears.
She didn’t want to cry in a mosque.
It felt inappropriate.
But the tears were quiet.
They fell without drama.
And no one noticed.
Or if they did, they didn’t make it a problem.
Isabelle’s shoulders loosened.
Her chest softened.
When the prayer ended, people sat quietly.
Some made du’a.
Some left.
Aleem returned to the side area.
He sat down again, leaving respectful space.
He looked at Isabelle.
“You okay?”
Isabelle’s voice came out fragile.
“I don’t know why I cried,” she whispered.
Aleem’s gaze softened.
“It happens,” he said quietly.
Isabelle blinked. “It happens?”
Aleem nodded.
“Sometimes when you finally feel calm,” he said, “your body releases what it’s been holding.”
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
Release.
She wiped her cheek quickly.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured.
Aleem’s brows knit.
“Don’t apologize,” he said. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Isabelle’s breath trembled.
Then she asked, quietly,
“Do you feel like this every time?”
Aleem looked at her.
His voice was soft.
“Not every time,” he admitted. “Sometimes I’m distracted. Sometimes I’m tired. But…”
He paused.
“It always brings me back,” he said.
Back.
Isabelle stared at him.
That was the word.
Prayer wasn’t escape.
It was return.
Isabelle looked around the hall again.
The light.
The quiet.
The soft murmur of people.
She didn’t feel threatened.
She didn’t feel like someone was trying to steal her from her faith.
She felt like someone was offering her a way to breathe.
When they left the mosque, the sunlight outside felt harsher.
The road noise felt louder.
Singapore felt chaotic again.
Isabelle’s shawl slipped slightly.
She untied it and folded it back into her bag.
Her hair fell free.
Aleem walked beside her.
Quiet.
Isabelle’s mind felt full.
Not overwhelmed.
Full.
She didn’t know what she believed.
But she knew what she felt.
Aleem glanced at her.
“You okay?” he asked, like a reflex.
Isabelle exhaled.
Then she said the truth.
“I feel… lighter,” she whispered.
Aleem’s gaze softened.
“Good,” he said.
They reached the MRT station.
People moved around them.
Normal life.
But Isabelle’s chest held something new.
Not love.
Not certainty.
Not conversion.
Just a quiet, undeniable curiosity.
A question she could no longer ignore:
If this is what peace feels like…
What have I been living on all this time?