The Night She Chose
Chapter 30 – The Night She Chose
Isabelle didn’t convert in a moment of romance.
Not in Aleem’s arms.
Not after a kiss.
Not because she wanted the relationship to survive.
If she ever did it–
it would have to happen alone.
Where no one could accuse her of being pulled.
Where no one could tell her she was weak.
Where even she couldn’t lie to herself.
So she waited.
Weeks.
Then months.
Not because she was procrastinating.
Because she was listening.
To her mind.
To her heart.
To what felt like truth.
And what felt like fear.
Some days, church felt like home again.
Some days, it felt like a place she was visiting.
Some days, the mosque felt like a calm room she borrowed.
Some days, it felt like a doorway.
She didn’t rush through it.
She stood at the threshold.
She learned.
She asked.
She cried.
She prayed in half-formed sentences.
She didn’t tell Aleem everything.
Not because she was hiding.
Because she wanted to know, first:
Would she still choose this if Aleem disappeared tomorrow?
That became her private test.
Her private integrity.
It happened on a Thursday.
An ordinary weeknight.
No special date.
No anniversary.
No cinematic sign.
Isabelle came home late.
Work had been heavy.
Her mother was asleep.
Her father was in the living room reading quietly.
Isabelle walked past him, tired.
Her father looked up.
He stared at her a moment.
Then he said,
“You look tired.”
Isabelle nodded.
“Work,” she whispered.
Her father’s voice was low.
“Sit,” he said.
Isabelle froze.
Not again.
Not another heavy conversation.
Her chest tightened.
But she sat.
Her father put his book down.
He looked at her for a long time.
Then he asked,
“Are you still learning?”
Isabelle swallowed.
“Yes,” she whispered.
Her father nodded slowly.
Silence.
Then he asked,
“Do you believe?”
The question hit Isabelle’s chest.
Not do you love him.
Not do you want to marry.
Do you believe.
Her throat tightened.
She stared at her hands.
She didn’t know what to say.
Because belief wasn’t a switch.
It was a slow drift.
A steady pull.
Isabelle swallowed.
“I… I don’t know,” she whispered.
Her father’s jaw tightened.
He sighed.
“Belle,” he said quietly, “you’ve been like this for months. If you don’t know… then maybe you don’t.”
Isabelle’s eyes burned.
Maybe.
But Isabelle knew something.
She knew she was changing.
She knew her prayers were changing.
She knew her heart responded differently now.
Her father’s voice softened.
“I’m not asking to trap you,” he said. “I’m asking because I don’t want you to float forever.”
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
Float forever.
Yes.
The uncertainty was exhausting.
Her father continued.
“If you don’t believe, then stop,” he said. “And if you do… then be honest.”
Be honest.
The pastor said that.
The asatizah said that.
Now her father.
Isabelle swallowed.
Her voice trembled.
“I’m scared,” she admitted.
Her father’s eyes softened a fraction.
“Of what?”
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
“Of hurting you,” she whispered.
Her father stared.
Silence.
Then her father exhaled.
“You’re my daughter,” he said. “You can’t hurt me by searching for God.”
Isabelle froze.
The sentence landed like a crack of light.
Her father continued, voice strained.
“You can hurt me by lying,” he said. “By hiding. By choosing a man and then blaming him for your choice.”
Isabelle’s eyes filled.
Her father’s voice lowered.
“But if you choose… then choose properly,” he said.
Properly.
That word again.
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
Her father leaned back.
His gaze stayed steady.
“I can’t bless it yet,” he admitted. “But I can respect you.”
Isabelle’s breath caught.
Respect.
That was all she wanted.
Not approval.
Not celebration.
Just respect.
Isabelle nodded, tears spilling.
Her father’s voice softened.
“And Belle,” he added quietly, “don’t do it for Aleem.”
Isabelle’s chest tightened.
“I won’t,” she whispered.
Her father nodded.
“Good,” he said.
Then he picked up his book again.
Conversation over.
But Isabelle sat there, shaking.
Because something had shifted.
Her father had just given her permission.
Not to convert.
To choose.
That night, Isabelle didn’t text Aleem.
Not immediately.
She went into her room.
She closed the door.
She sat on the floor with her back against the bed.
She took out the booklet.
The notes.
The scribbled questions.
The verses the asatizah had written down.
She looked at them.
And she thought of Aleem.
Of his steadiness.
Of his boundaries.
Of his honesty.
Then she forced herself to imagine life without him.
No Aleem.
No ABIX laughter.
No secret dates.
No mosque visits with his quiet presence.
No “you okay?”
If Aleem vanished tomorrow–
would Isabelle still search?
Would she still believe that God was one?
Would she still want to bow her head?
Would she still feel peace in the idea of surrender?
Isabelle closed her eyes.
She breathed.
In.
Out.
Then she whispered,
“God… I’m trying.”
She paused.
Her voice trembled.
“If You are the truth… guide me. And if I’m wrong… stop me.”
She sat in silence.
No sign.
No voice.
Just her own breathing.
Then Isabelle did something she hadn’t done before.
She didn’t pray like a Christian.
She didn’t pray like a Muslim.
She prayed like a person who was finally admitting what her heart had been doing quietly for months.
She whispered the shahada to herself.
Not loudly.
Not for anyone.
Just a test of truth.
“Ashhadu an la ilaha illallah…”
Her throat tightened.
“…wa ashhadu anna Muhammadan rasulullah.”
The words fell into the room like a confession.
Isabelle waited.
She expected fear.
She expected guilt.
She expected betrayal.
But what she felt–
was stillness.
A stillness that didn’t feel empty.
A stillness that felt… right.
Isabelle’s eyes filled.
She didn’t know if she was ready.
But she knew she was close.
Very close.
The next day, Isabelle asked the asatizah for a private appointment.
Not the usual lesson.
Something else.
Her hands trembled when she typed.
Isabelle: Ustazah, can I meet you alone? I think I’m ready to talk about conversion. Not because of Aleem. Because I believe.
The reply came gentle.
Asatizah: Alhamdulillah. Yes. We meet. Take your time. We do it properly.
Properly.
Always.
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
On the evening of the appointment, Isabelle didn’t tell Aleem she was going.
Not yet.
Because she wanted the moment to be hers.
Not his reward.
Not his relief.
Not his confirmation.
Just hers.
She entered the small office room.
The asatizah greeted her warmly.
Isabelle sat.
Hands trembling.
The asatizah poured water.
Then she asked softly,
“Isabelle… are you sure?”
Isabelle inhaled.
She nodded.
“Yes,” she whispered.
The asatizah’s eyes softened.
“Why?” she asked.
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
Because of peace.
Because of truth.
Because of God.
Isabelle swallowed.
“Because I believe God is one,” she whispered. “And because the more I learned, the more… it felt like I was returning. Not leaving.”
The asatizah nodded.
“Good,” she said.
Then she asked,
“And Aleem?”
Isabelle’s chest tightened.
Isabelle shook her head.
“He’s not the reason,” she said firmly. “He’s part of my life. But he’s not the reason.”
The asatizah smiled.
“Alhamdulillah,” she whispered.
Then she guided Isabelle gently.
Explaining again.
Making sure Isabelle understood.
No rush.
No coercion.
Isabelle answered questions.
She affirmed.
She trembled.
She cried.
Not out of fear.
Out of weight.
Because choosing faith was not just choosing God.
It was choosing a life that would change.
Then the asatizah asked softly,
“Are you ready to take shahada?”
Isabelle inhaled.
Her chest rose.
Fell.
She thought of her mother.
Her father.
ABIX.
Aleem.
But then she forced herself to think of only one thing.
Truth.
She nodded.
“Yes,” she whispered.
The asatizah spoke the words.
Isabelle repeated.
Her voice trembling.
But clear.
When it was done, the room went quiet.
The asatizah smiled.
“Welcome to Islam, Isabelle,” she said softly.
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
She didn’t feel fireworks.
She felt… stillness.
A stillness that finally had a name.
The asatizah asked,
“Do you have a Muslim name you like?”
Isabelle blinked.
A name.
A new label.
A new identity.
Isabelle shook her head.
“I want to keep Isabelle,” she said softly.
The asatizah smiled.
“You can,” she said. “Your name is beautiful.”
Isabelle’s eyes filled.
Beautiful.
Not erased.
Not replaced.
Still Isabelle.
Just… Isabelle who had chosen.
That night, Isabelle stood outside her block before going home.
Her hands trembled.
Her chest felt strange.
Not lighter.
Not heavier.
Just… different.
She opened her phone.
Aleem’s name hovered.
She stared.
Then she typed.
Isabelle: Aleem. Can you call me?
The reply came immediately.
Aleem: Now?
Isabelle: Yes.
The call came.
Isabelle answered.
“Hello,” Aleem said.
His voice was calm.
But concerned.
“Belle, you okay?”
Isabelle closed her eyes.
Her throat tightened.
She whispered,
“I did it.”
Silence.
Aleem’s breathing paused.
“What… did you do?” he asked quietly.
Isabelle inhaled.
And for the first time, she said it out loud.
“I took shahada,” she whispered.
Silence.
Then Aleem’s voice broke.
Not crying.
Just… cracked.
“Belle…”
Isabelle’s eyes filled.
Aleem inhaled shakily.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
Isabelle nodded, even though he couldn’t see.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Not for you. Because I believe.”
Aleem’s breath trembled.
Then his voice softened.
“Alhamdulillah,” he whispered.
Isabelle’s chest tightened.
Aleem didn’t cheer.
He didn’t sound relieved like he had “won.”
He sounded… grateful.
Quietly grateful.
Then he said softly,
“Can I see you?”
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
“Yes,” she whispered.
“I’m downstairs,” she added.
There was a pause.
Then Aleem said,
“Stay there. I’m coming.”
Isabelle’s breath caught.
When the call ended, Isabelle stared at the night.
Her hands trembled.
Her heart pounded.
Because now the journey had a new truth.
Not just love.
Not just interfaith.
Not just possibility.
Now it was real.
And Isabelle knew–
this choice would not end the storm.
It would start a new one.
But tonight, in the quiet after shahada,
Isabelle didn’t feel fear.
She felt… steadiness.
The kind that came only when you finally stopped floating.
The kind that came when you chose.