The Night Before
Chapter 47 – The Night Before
The night before the nikah didn’t feel like a romance movie.
It felt like paperwork.
Ironed clothes.
Last-minute WhatsApp messages.
A mother asking if the flowers were too much.
A father pretending he wasn’t nervous by cleaning a table that was already clean.
Isabelle sat in her room with her telekung folded neatly at the foot of her bed.
White.
Simple.
So different from the red cheongsam her cousins kept joking about.
Isabelle smiled weakly.
Tomorrow would be both.
Not in one ceremony.
But in one life.
Two worlds.
Two families.
One woman.
Isabelle.
She checked her phone.
Crystal had sent eighteen messages.
Most were voice notes.
All were dramatic.
Crystal: BELLE. IF YOU CRY TOMORROW I WILL CRY. AND IF I CRY, MY MAKEUP DIE. SO PLEASE DON’T.
Ivan had sent one message.
Ivan: Reminder: bring IC. Also, eat something in the morning.
Isabelle laughed softly.
ABIX.
Balanced chaos.
She then saw a message from Aleem.
Aleem: You okay?
Isabelle stared at it.
Her throat tightened.
She typed:
Isabelle: I’m okay. Just… heavy.
The reply came.
Aleem: I know. Can I call?
Isabelle hesitated.
Not because she didn’t want to.
Because tonight wasn’t only theirs.
Tonight belonged to their parents too.
To grief.
To fear.
To the last quiet breath before a new identity became public.
Isabelle typed:
Isabelle: Five minutes. My mom is still awake.
Aleem: Okay. Five.
The call came.
Isabelle answered quietly.
Aleem’s voice was low.
“Assalamualaikum,” he whispered.
Isabelle smiled.
“Waalaikumsalam,” she whispered back.
They were quiet for a moment.
Then Aleem asked,
“You ate?”
Isabelle laughed.
“Is that your love language?” she teased softly.
Aleem hummed.
“It’s my anxiety language,” he replied.
Isabelle smiled.
“I ate,” she whispered.
Aleem exhaled.
“Okay,” he said.
Another pause.
Then he whispered,
“Belle… I’m proud of you.”
Isabelle’s chest tightened.
Proud.
Not because she converted.
Not because she fought.
But because she stayed gentle.
Because she didn’t choose anger as a weapon.
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Aleem’s voice softened.
“I know you’re scared,” he said. “I’m scared too. But tomorrow… we do it properly. And after that, we keep doing it properly. One day at a time.”
Isabelle swallowed.
“Do you think my parents will be okay tomorrow?” she whispered.
Aleem paused.
He didn’t lie.
“I think they will be hurt,” he said gently. “But I also think they will show up. That’s love. Showing up while hurting.”
Isabelle’s eyes burned.
She whispered,
“My dad practiced the sentence.”
Aleem went quiet.
Then his voice broke slightly.
“Alhamdulillah,” he whispered.
Isabelle laughed softly.
“Not too loud,” she teased, echoing her father.
Aleem laughed quietly.
“Okay,” he murmured. “Not too loud.”
Another pause.
Then he said softly,
“Belle… tomorrow, when you walk in, don’t look at everyone. Just look at me. Then look at your parents. Then breathe.”
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
“Okay,” she whispered.
Aleem’s voice lowered.
“And if you feel like crying,” he added, “cry. Don’t hold until you break.”
Isabelle exhaled.
“I’ll try,” she whispered.
Aleem hummed.
“Okay,” he said.
He didn’t stretch the call.
He respected her boundary.
He whispered,
“Sleep, Belle. Tomorrow is big.”
Isabelle’s eyes burned.
“Goodnight,” she whispered.
“Goodnight,” he replied.
Call ended.
Isabelle stared at the screen.
Then she placed her phone down carefully.
As if it was sacred.
Outside her room, the house was unusually quiet.
Isabelle walked to the kitchen for water.
Her mother was there.
Sitting.
Not cooking.
Just sitting with a cup of tea.
Her eyes looked tired.
Isabelle’s chest tightened.
“Ma,” Isabelle whispered.
Her mother looked up.
For a second, Isabelle thought her mother might cry.
But instead, her mother patted the chair beside her.
“Sit,” she whispered.
Isabelle sat.
Her mother stared at her cup.
Then she asked quietly,
“Tomorrow… you happy?”
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
She nodded.
“Yes,” she whispered. “I’m happy.”
Her mother’s lips trembled.
Her eyes filled.
Then she whispered,
“Then I must be happy too… right?”
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
She reached for her mother’s hand.
“Ma…” she whispered.
Her mother’s voice broke.
“I don’t understand,” she cried softly. “But you are my daughter. If you happy… I cannot curse.”
Isabelle’s chest cracked.
She swallowed a sob.
“You’re not cursing,” Isabelle whispered. “You’re trying.”
Her mother wiped her cheeks.
“I’m scared,” she whispered.
Isabelle nodded.
“I know,” she whispered.
Her mother stared at her.
Then she asked the question Isabelle didn’t expect.
“Aleem… he good to you?”
Isabelle blinked.
She nodded.
“Yes,” she whispered. “He’s very good.”
Her mother exhaled.
Then she said quietly,
“Tomorrow… if I cry, you don’t be angry.”
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
“I won’t,” she whispered.
Her mother’s fingers tightened around Isabelle’s hand.
For the first time, it wasn’t halfway.
It was full.
A grip.
A mother holding on.
Her mother whispered,
“I want you to come back home sometimes. Even after marriage.”
Isabelle’s chest cracked.
“I will,” she whispered. “I promise.”
Her mother exhaled.
Then she nodded.
“Okay,” she whispered.
Okay.
Her mother’s love also looked like that.
A small word.
But heavy.
Later, Isabelle’s father knocked on her door.
Isabelle’s stomach tightened.
She opened it.
Her father stood there with his phone.
Serious-talk shirt.
Again.
He held the phone up.
Play.
Her recorded voice note played.
Arabic.
Slow.
He stopped it quickly.
“Tomorrow,” he muttered. “I say like this correct?”
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Correct.”
Her father stared.
Then he said quietly,
“You sleep early. Tomorrow you look good.”
Isabelle froze.
Look good.
In her father’s language, that meant:
Don’t be afraid. I’m here. I will show up.
Isabelle’s eyes burned.
“Okay,” she whispered.
Her father nodded once.
Then he walked away.
Not dramatic.
Just steady.
Isabelle closed her door.
She leaned against it.
Her heart pounding.
Tomorrow, her father would speak the sentence.
Tomorrow, her mother would sit in a mosque room and watch her daughter become someone new.
Tomorrow, Aleem would be waiting.
Tomorrow, ABIX would be outside the room, loud and proud.
Tomorrow, her life would shift.
Isabelle sat on her bed.
She unfolded her telekung.
She prayed.
Not asking for perfect.
Just asking for softness.
Just asking for mercy.
Just asking for everyone to make it through.
When she finished, Isabelle lay down.
She stared at the ceiling.
The house was quiet.
Not peaceful.
But held.
And in the dark, Isabelle whispered,
“Ya Allah… let tomorrow be gentle.”
Then she closed her eyes.
Because the night before wasn’t about excitement.
It was about courage.
Quiet courage.
The kind that looked like:
A father replaying Arabic.
A mother holding her daughter’s hand.
A man asking, Can I call?
And a girl who finally stopped shrinking.
Tomorrow.