The Quiet Rules
Chapter 38 – The Quiet Rules
After the meeting, Isabelle’s house became a place of quiet rules.
Not rules spoken aloud.
Rules written in body language.
In pauses.
In what people avoided.
In what people tolerated.
In what people pretended not to notice.
Isabelle learned them quickly.
Rule one: don’t say “Allah” too loudly.
Rule two: don’t mention “mosque” like it’s exciting.
Rule three: don’t talk about marriage unless her father starts it.
Rule four: don’t let her mother catch her crying, because then her mother would cry harder.
Rule five: keep being a daughter first.
Everything else could wait.
Isabelle obeyed.
Not because she was ashamed.
Because she was trying to love properly.
The hardest rule wasn’t spoken.
It was felt.
Rule six:
Don’t make this house feel like it’s not yours anymore.
Isabelle didn’t realize how much she feared that until she found herself hesitating outside her own home.
Key in hand.
Breath held.
Like she needed permission to enter.
She hated that feeling.
So she fought it with small acts.
She came home early.
She cooked dinner on weekdays.
She bought fruits her father liked.
She watched TV with her mother even when her mind was elsewhere.
She asked her father about his day.
She made sure she was still present.
Still Belle.
Not a stranger who returned only to sleep.
Aleem noticed.
Of course he did.
He noticed in the way Isabelle’s replies grew shorter.
In the way she stopped sending voice notes.
In the way she said, I’m okay too quickly.
So one night, he asked her to meet.
Not for a date.
For air.
For honesty.
They walked at the park near her block.
Late enough that aunties weren’t sitting around judging.
Early enough that it wasn’t unsafe.
Just a quiet strip of grass and lights.
Isabelle walked with her hands in her jacket pockets.
Aleem walked beside her, not too close.
Not making it obvious.
Not making it harder.
Aleem spoke softly.
“How’s home?” he asked.
Isabelle exhaled.
“It’s… quiet,” she admitted.
Aleem nodded.
“Quiet good or quiet scary?”
Isabelle laughed weakly.
“Both,” she whispered.
Aleem hummed.
Then he said gently,
“Tell me the rules.”
Isabelle blinked.
“The rules?”
Aleem nodded.
“I can see you’re living by rules,” he said. “Tell me.”
Isabelle swallowed.
She didn’t want to sound dramatic.
But she was tired.
So she listed them.
Don’t say Allah too loudly.
Don’t talk about mosque.
Don’t mention marriage.
Don’t cry.
Be daughter first.
As she spoke, her voice cracked.
Aleem’s gaze softened.
When she finished, Isabelle whispered,
“I feel like I’m shrinking.”
Aleem stopped walking.
Isabelle stopped too.
They stood under a streetlight.
Aleem’s voice was quiet.
“You’re not shrinking,” he said. “You’re… managing.”
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
“It feels like shrinking,” she insisted.
Aleem nodded slowly.
“Okay,” he said. “Then we find a way to manage without you disappearing.”
Disappearing.
Isabelle’s chest tightened.
That word hit.
Because she had disappeared before.
After the breakup.
After the depression.
And Aleem had been the one to pull her back.
Now she was afraid she would disappear again.
Just… quieter.
More polite.
More invisible.
Aleem exhaled.
“Belle,” he said, “your parents are grieving. But grieving doesn’t mean you lose yourself.”
Isabelle swallowed.
“How do I not?” she whispered.
Aleem thought.
He didn’t give quick answers.
He stared at the path.
Then he spoke.
“Small anchors,” he said.
Isabelle blinked.
“Anchors?”
Aleem nodded.
“Things you do consistently,” he said. “So you stay yourself. So your faith stays yours. So you don’t feel like you’re performing depending on who is watching.”
Isabelle’s chest tightened.
Anchors.
Aleem continued.
“For example,” he said, “your prayers. You don’t have to announce. But you also don’t have to hide like you’re doing crime.”
Isabelle swallowed.
“I don’t want to trigger my mom,” she whispered.
Aleem nodded.
“I know,” he said. “So we do it gently. But we don’t erase it.”
Erase.
That word again.
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
Aleem continued.
“And you still go home,” he added. “You still eat with them. You still love them. But you also… don’t lie. If you’re fasting, you say you’re fasting. Not ‘I’m not hungry.’ If you need to pray, you say you need to pray. Not ‘I’m going to shower.’”
Isabelle’s chest tightened.
That level of honesty scared her.
Because honesty caused tears.
But honesty also prevented rot.
Isabelle whispered,
“My dad will say I’m making it obvious.”
Aleem shook his head.
“Your dad is scared of people,” he said. “But your home shouldn’t be run by other people’s mouths.”
Isabelle blinked.
Aleem continued, voice soft.
“And if he’s afraid of people, then you being gentle helps. You don’t need to post. You don’t need to announce. But in your house… you should be able to breathe.”
Breathe.
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
She whispered,
“I don’t know if I can.”
Aleem’s eyes softened.
“You can,” he said. “Not all at once. But step by step. Slowly. Proper.”
Proper.
Always.
Isabelle exhaled.
Then she asked the question she hadn’t dared to ask.
“Aleem,” she whispered, “are you okay with how slow this is?”
Aleem blinked.
He looked at her.
His voice was quiet.
“Yes,” he said.
Isabelle stared.
“Really?”
Aleem nodded.
“I waited years for you to even look at me like this,” he admitted. “I can wait more.”
Isabelle’s chest tightened.
Years.
She had never realized how long Aleem had quietly held space for her.
Aleem’s voice softened.
“But I won’t wait if waiting means you die slowly,” he added.
Isabelle froze.
Die slowly.
Aleem continued, gentle but firm.
“I won’t let you shrink until you disappear,” he said. “If home becomes too much, we find support. We find balance. We don’t let you drown.”
Isabelle’s eyes burned.
Her throat tightened.
She whispered,
“I’m tired.”
Aleem nodded.
“I know,” he said.
Isabelle inhaled shakily.
Then Aleem asked,
“Can I hold your hand?”
Always asking.
Isabelle nodded.
“Yes,” she whispered.
Aleem took her hand.
Warm.
Steady.
Not claiming.
Just present.
They stood under the streetlight for a moment.
Then Isabelle whispered,
“I feel like my faith is mine only outside my house.”
Aleem’s grip tightened slightly.
“Then we make sure you have spaces,” he said. “Outside. And inside. Both.”
Isabelle swallowed.
“How?”
Aleem exhaled.
He looked toward the void deck.
Then he said,
“We start with one honest thing.”
Isabelle blinked.
“One?”
Aleem nodded.
“Tomorrow,” he said. “When you need to pray, you tell your mom you need a few minutes. You don’t need to explain. Just… you need time. And you come back. Like it’s normal.”
Isabelle’s chest tightened.
That sounded terrifying.
But also… freeing.
Isabelle swallowed.
“Okay,” she whispered.
Aleem nodded.
“Good,” he said.
They walked again.
Slow.
Quiet.
Isabelle’s heart still heavy.
But the heaviness felt less like a cage.
More like weight she could carry.
Because now she had a plan.
Not to rebel.
To breathe.
And when Isabelle returned home later, she stood outside her door with her key again.
But this time, she didn’t hesitate as long.
She inhaled.
Then she whispered,
“Bismillah.”
And stepped in.
Because even if her home had quiet rules,
Isabelle was learning something new:
Rules could exist.
Grief could exist.
Fear could exist.
And she could still exist too.
Not loud.
Not defensive.
Just… steady.
Still Belle.
Still daughter.
Still Muslim.
Still breathing.