Two Houses
Chapter 28 – Two Houses
After she asked the question, Isabelle felt strangely… empty.
Not numb.
Not broken.
Just… quiet.
Like the air after a storm.
Everything was still standing.
But the ground had shifted.
Aleem’s honesty didn’t end the relationship.
It didn’t even weaken it.
It clarified the shape of it.
And clarity–
clarity was both mercy and terror.
Because once you knew the truth, you couldn’t hide behind “maybe.”
You had to move.
Or stop.
Isabelle went home that night and sat on her bed with her shoes still on.
She stared at the wall.
Then she opened her drawer.
The one that used to hold wedding brochures.
BTO documents.
A future she had almost touched.
She had cleared it months ago, after the breakup.
Empty drawer.
Like a scar.
Now she pulled out the small booklet the asatizah had given her.
Basic beliefs.
Basic practices.
A gentle introduction.
She traced the cover with her finger.
She didn’t feel pressured.
She felt… responsible.
For herself.
For her family.
For Aleem.
For God, if God was listening.
Isabelle swallowed.
Then she whispered into the quiet room,
“Okay. Then I’ll do it properly.”
The next session with the asatizah, Isabelle went alone.
No Aleem.
No “boyfriend influence.”
No quiet safety net.
Just Isabelle.
A woman with questions.
A woman with fear.
A woman trying to figure out whether her peace was real or borrowed.
The asatizah greeted her warmly.
“Assalamualaikum,” she said.
Isabelle smiled, still awkward with the phrase.
“Waalaikumsalam,” Isabelle replied softly.
The room was small.
Simple.
Chairs.
A table.
Books lined neatly.
It didn’t feel like a recruitment office.
It felt like a classroom.
Isabelle sat down.
The asatizah poured water.
Then she asked, gently,
“How have you been, Isabelle?”
Isabelle exhaled.
She didn’t know whether to start with love.
With fear.
With her father.
She chose truth.
“I asked Aleem something,” she admitted.
The asatizah nodded.
“And?”
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
“He said… if I never convert, he doesn’t know if he can marry me,” Isabelle said.
The words sounded heavier out loud.
The asatizah didn’t look shocked.
She didn’t look pleased.
She looked… calm.
She asked,
“How did you feel?”
Isabelle swallowed.
“Hurt,” she admitted. “But… also relieved. Because at least he didn’t lie.”
The asatizah nodded slowly.
“Truth can be painful,” she said. “But truth is clean.”
Clean.
That word again.
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
Then Isabelle said the sentence that had been forming in her chest all week.
“I’m not here to convert for him,” she whispered.
The asatizah’s eyes softened.
“Good,” she said simply.
Isabelle blinked.
No lecture.
No suspicion.
Just… approval of principle.
Isabelle’s chest loosened a fraction.
“I’m here because…” Isabelle hesitated.
Because it feels peaceful.
Because prayer sounds like water.
Because my heart unclenches in the mosque.
Because I want to know if God is here.
Isabelle swallowed.
“…because something in me responds,” she whispered.
The asatizah nodded.
“That’s a beginning,” she said.
Isabelle’s eyes burned.
Then she asked what she had been too scared to ask.
“Ustazah… what if I learn and I still don’t believe?”
The asatizah didn’t flinch.
She smiled gently.
“Then you don’t,” she said.
Isabelle blinked.
“That’s it?”
The asatizah nodded.
“That’s it,” she said. “Islam does not need forced love. God does not need forced worship.”
Isabelle swallowed.
The sentence hit her like relief.
Then the asatizah leaned forward slightly.
“But Isabelle,” she added, “if you learn and you do believe… you must be brave enough to admit it. Even if it changes your life.”
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
Changes your life.
Yes.
That was the terror.
Isabelle nodded slowly.
“I know,” she whispered.
The asatizah’s voice softened.
“Tell me,” she asked, “what are your biggest questions?”
Isabelle stared at her hands.
Then she opened her mouth.
And for the next hour, Isabelle became not someone’s girlfriend.
Not Aleem’s project.
Not her parents’ fear.
Not a potential convert.
Just a human being asking real questions.
About God.
About Jesus.
About prophets.
About prayer.
About why suffering existed.
About whether faith could be chosen without betraying the love she grew up with.
The asatizah answered patiently.
Sometimes with clarity.
Sometimes with, “I don’t know, but here is what we believe.”
Sometimes with, “It’s okay to sit with that question for a while.”
Isabelle left the session with her brain full.
But her chest… strangely calm.
Not because she had answers.
Because she felt allowed to search.
That Sunday, Isabelle went to church.
She hadn’t stopped going.
But she hadn’t been fully present either.
After the breakup, church felt like a place where people asked, “How are you?”
And Isabelle had to smile.
Now, church felt like something else.
A home she was afraid of losing.
She sat in the familiar pew.
The air-conditioning was cold.
The worship songs rose.
Voices around her.
Hands raised.
The words were familiar.
But Isabelle’s heart didn’t move the way it used to.
Not because she hated it.
Because she was… unsettled.
She watched the cross at the front.
A symbol she had respected her whole life.
Her throat tightened.
Isabelle prayed in her own way.
Not scripted.
Not loud.
Just a whisper inside her chest.
God… if You are real… show me what is true.
She paused.
Then she added, guilt rising,
And please don’t hate me for asking.
The guilt was sharp.
Isabelle felt it like a sting.
The sermon that day was about surrender.
About letting go of control.
Isabelle almost laughed.
Even here, the theme followed her.
Surrender.
Return.
Peace.
After service, Isabelle waited until the crowd thinned.
Then she approached the pastor.
Her hands trembled.
“Pastor,” she said softly.
He turned, smiling.
“Isabelle,” he greeted. “How are you?”
That question again.
Isabelle swallowed.
This time, she answered honestly.
“I’m… confused,” she admitted.
The pastor’s smile softened.
“Do you want to talk?”
Isabelle nodded.
They sat in a quiet corner.
And Isabelle did something she never thought she would do.
She told her pastor she was learning about Islam.
She didn’t say Aleem’s name.
Not at first.
She kept it as truth without romance.
“I’m learning,” she said. “Because I’m curious. Because it feels… peaceful. And I don’t know what to do with that.”
The pastor listened.
He didn’t panic.
He didn’t accuse.
He asked gently,
“Do you feel like you’re being forced?”
Isabelle shook her head.
“No,” she whispered. “No one is forcing me.”
The pastor nodded.
“Then,” he said, “your questions are not sinful. Questions are part of faith.”
Isabelle blinked.
Her eyes burned.
The pastor continued.
“If your faith is real, it can handle questions,” he said. “And if your faith changes, that will be painful… but it won’t make you evil.”
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
Not evil.
That was the fear.
That her family would look at her like she betrayed them.
The pastor’s voice was gentle.
“Be honest,” he said. “Be careful. Don’t rush. Don’t convert to make a person happy. But also–don’t stay where your heart is not convinced just to make people comfortable.”
Isabelle inhaled shakily.
The sentence hit her like truth.
It wasn’t what she expected a pastor to say.
But it was… wise.
Isabelle whispered,
“Thank you.”
The pastor smiled.
“Whatever happens,” he said, “you are still loved.”
Isabelle’s eyes filled.
Loved.
Not conditional.
Not measured.
Loved.
Isabelle nodded.
And as she walked out of church, she felt something strange.
Not abandonment.
Not betrayal.
A quiet permission.
Permission to search for truth with integrity.
That night, Isabelle met Aleem.
Not a date.
Not a romantic dinner.
Just a walk.
A slow walk under HDB lights.
Aleem listened as she told him she went to the asatizah alone.
He nodded.
“Good,” he said.
Isabelle blinked.
“That’s it?”
Aleem glanced at her.
“You wanted to make sure it’s you,” he said. “Not me. That’s good.”
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
She hesitated.
Then she admitted,
“I also talked to my pastor.”
Aleem’s steps slowed.
He looked at her.
Not jealous.
Not threatened.
Just attentive.
“Okay,” he said.
Isabelle swallowed.
“I thought you might… feel weird,” she whispered.
Aleem shook his head.
“No,” he said. “That’s proper.”
Proper.
Always.
Isabelle’s chest softened.
She looked up at the night sky.
Not many stars.
But still sky.
Isabelle’s voice came small.
“Aleem,” she asked, “what if I end up not converting?”
Aleem’s gaze stayed steady.
“Then we face it,” he said. “With respect. With honesty.”
Isabelle swallowed.
“And if I end up believing?” she whispered.
Aleem’s jaw tightened slightly.
Not because he wanted to control the answer.
Because it mattered.
His voice was quiet.
“Then I will be grateful,” he admitted.
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
Grateful.
Not “finally.”
Not “good girl.”
Grateful.
Like faith was a gift, not a trophy.
Isabelle exhaled.
Then she said the sentence that surprised even herself.
“I want to keep going,” she whispered.
Aleem looked at her.
“You mean learning?”
Isabelle nodded.
“Yes,” she said. “I want to keep going. Not because of you. Because… I need to know.”
Aleem’s gaze softened.
He nodded.
“Okay,” he said.
He didn’t grab her hand.
He didn’t pull her close.
Boundaries.
But his voice went low.
“I’m proud of you,” he said.
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
She whispered,
“Thank you.”
They walked in silence.
Not awkward.
Not empty.
A silence that held something sacred:
Two people standing between two houses.
Not rushing.
Not burning bridges.
Not pretending the bridge didn’t exist.
Just… building.
One honest step at a time.
And for the first time, Isabelle realized:
Faith wasn’t supposed to be chosen out of fear.
It was supposed to be chosen out of truth.
Even if truth changed everything.