Faith in the Background
Chapter 6 – Faith in the Background
The first time Isabelle really saw Aleem pray, it wasn’t in a mosque.
It wasn’t during a religious talk.
It wasn’t during Ramadan with dramatic atmosphere and lantern lights and people speaking about spirituality like it was a performance.
It was on an ordinary weekday, in an ordinary moment, inside a quiet corner of her life.
Which was why it hit her the way it did.
Because it wasn’t staged.
It was real.
It happened at the office.
Isabelle had returned to work physically–hybrid schedule–after two weeks of forcing herself to function through a blur. She told HR she was “dealing with personal matters.” People nodded, sympathetic in that vague corporate way, then returned to their deliverables.
She appreciated that.
She didn’t want to be the tragic story at the pantry.
She just wanted to be invisible.
Aleem worked in the same building, but on a different floor. Not always. Not consistently.
But on that day, he messaged her around noon.
Aleem: Lunch? If you’re free. No pressure.
Isabelle stared at the message.
She should have said no.
Not because she didn’t want company.
Because company required pretending.
But ABIX had taught her that isolation was dangerous.
And Aleem’s messages never demanded performance.
So she replied:
Isabelle: Ok.
One word.
Still surviving.
They met at the ground floor lobby.
Aleem was in office attire–clean shirt, sleeves rolled neatly, hair slightly messy in a way that made him look more human than corporate.
He nodded at her like it was normal.
No dramatic “how are you?”
No pity.
Just presence.
“You ate?” he asked, as if it was the most important question in the world.
Isabelle blinked. “Not yet.”
Aleem nodded once. “Okay. Let’s go.”
They walked to a nearby mall.
The lunchtime crowd was thick–people in lanyards, chatter, trays clattering. Isabelle felt herself shrinking, her mind searching for exits.
Aleem seemed to notice the shift.
He didn’t comment.
He simply steered them toward a quieter corner with fewer people.
“Here,” he said.
They sat.
Aleem ordered for himself.
Then asked Isabelle, “You want soup? Rice? Something light.”
Isabelle shrugged. “Anything.”
Aleem nodded like he’d expected that answer.
He ordered porridge and a drink.
When the food arrived, Isabelle stared at it.
Her appetite still came and went.
Some days she ate like a normal person.
Other days her body rejected the concept of nourishment.
Aleem didn’t tell her to eat.
He ate his own food slowly, quietly, like he was modeling normal without forcing it.
After a few minutes, Isabelle picked up the spoon.
She ate.
Two mouthfuls.
Then three.
Her stomach settled.
Aleem didn’t praise her.
He only said, “Good.”
A word that felt like a hand on her back.
Halfway through lunch, Aleem glanced at his watch.
His expression shifted slightly.
Not stressed.
Focused.
“I need to step away for a bit,” he said.
Isabelle blinked. “Oh. Work?”
Aleem shook his head.
“No. Prayer.”
The word made Isabelle pause.
Prayer.
It wasn’t a foreign concept to her–Isabelle grew up Christian, after all. She knew hymns. She knew Sunday service. She knew praying before meals when she was younger.
But she hadn’t seen prayer in the middle of an ordinary day.
Not like this.
Not like it was a fixed appointment, as essential as breathing.
Aleem hesitated, then asked–softly, politely–
“Is it okay if I leave you for ten minutes?”
Isabelle stared.
He was asking permission.
For ten minutes.
It was… strange.
And unexpectedly gentle.
Isabelle nodded. “Yeah. Of course.”
Aleem nodded. “Okay. I’ll be back.”
He stood.
Then paused.
“If you want,” he added, “you can come with me. Not inside the prayer room if you don’t want. Just… nearby. So you’re not alone.”
Isabelle’s chest tightened.
It wasn’t flirtation.
It wasn’t intimacy.
It was the same survival logic he always applied:
Don’t leave her alone in the heavy places.
Isabelle swallowed.
“I can come?” she asked.
Aleem nodded. “Yeah. But only if you’re comfortable.”
Isabelle stood slowly.
“Okay,” she said.
They walked through the mall.
Aleem moved with quiet familiarity, heading toward a corridor Isabelle barely noticed before.
A small sign on the wall:
Prayer Room / Surau
Aleem stopped outside.
“Here,” he said, voice low. “You can sit there.”
He gestured toward a bench outside the surau.
Isabelle sat.
The corridor was quiet.
The air-conditioning was colder here.
It smelled faintly of soap and something clean.
Aleem glanced at her.
“You okay?”
Isabelle nodded.
Aleem nodded back.
Then he stepped into the surau.
The door closed softly.
Isabelle was left alone in the corridor.
But not alone in the way she feared.
This wasn’t abandonment.
This was… routine.
Something stable.
Isabelle stared at the closed door.
She imagined Aleem inside.
Washing.
Standing.
Bowing.
Words whispered to a God she did not fully understand.
And for the first time, Isabelle felt curiosity–not the kind that demanded answers, but the kind that gently opened a window.
What did it feel like?
To have something that steady.
To have a practice that returned you to yourself.
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
Because she realized, suddenly, that she had been praying too.
Not to God.
To her ex.
To the idea of him coming back.
To the fantasy of undoing.
And that prayer had only made her emptier.
Isabelle stared at the wall.
A small thought came, uninvited:
Maybe I’ve been worshipping the wrong thing.
The thought scared her.
She pushed it away.
She was Christian.
She had her own faith.
She didn’t want to blur lines.
Boundaries.
But the corridor was quiet.
And the quiet felt… healing.
Not dramatic.
Not supernatural.
Just peace.
Aleem came out ten minutes later.
His face looked the same.
But something about him felt… lighter.
Like the act of prayer had put his spine back into alignment.
He sat beside Isabelle, leaving the usual respectful distance.
“Thanks,” he said.
Isabelle blinked. “For what?”
“For waiting,” Aleem replied.
Isabelle’s brows knit. “It’s only ten minutes.”
Aleem nodded.
“Still,” he said. “Thank you.”
Isabelle stared at him.
Why did he keep doing that?
Thanking her for things that cost her nothing.
Asking permission for things that were his right.
Treating her like a person with agency even when she was barely holding herself together.
A strange warmth rose in her chest.
Not romance.
Not yet.
Just… admiration.
Isabelle swallowed.
“Can I ask something?” she said softly.
Aleem looked at her. “Yeah.”
Isabelle hesitated.
Then: “Does it help?”
Aleem’s eyes softened.
“Prayer?”
Isabelle nodded.
Aleem thought for a moment.
Then he said, carefully,
“It doesn’t remove problems,” he said. “But it… organizes the heart.”
Isabelle’s breath caught.
Organizes the heart.
The phrase landed deep.
Because her heart felt like a room after a fight–chairs overturned, glass shattered, everything out of place.
Organizes.
Isabelle looked down at her hands.
“Does it ever feel… quiet?” she asked.
Aleem’s gaze stayed on her.
“Yes,” he said. “Sometimes. Especially when everything else is loud.”
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
Because everything in her had been loud for weeks.
Her memories.
Her regret.
Her anger.
Her shame.
She swallowed.
“I didn’t know you pray at work,” she admitted.
Aleem nodded. “I try to.”
Isabelle’s voice went softer. “Even when you’re busy?”
Aleem’s lips pressed together.
Then he said, honest,
“Especially when I’m busy.”
Isabelle stared.
There it was again.
That steadiness.
That discipline.
A quiet kind of devotion.
Not just to God.
But to being the kind of person who doesn’t collapse into chaos.
Isabelle didn’t know why it comforted her.
She only knew that sitting in that corridor outside the surau, hearing nothing but the hum of air-conditioning and distant mall footsteps, her chest had felt lighter for the first time in days.
And she hadn’t done anything.
She had only witnessed someone else return to something sacred.
When they walked back to the food court, Crystal messaged in the group chat.
Crystal: HELLO ABIX. DINNER TONIGHT? I WANT KBBQ
Ivan: No. Too expensive.
Crystal: You’re too expensive. Emotionally.
Ivan: That doesn’t make sense.
Crystal: It makes perfect sense to me.
Isabelle stared at the messages.
A small smile tugged at her lips.
Aleem noticed.
“You okay?” he asked.
Isabelle nodded slowly.
“Yeah,” she said.
The word felt unfamiliar.
But not wrong.
She hesitated.
Then added, quieter,
“Just… I feel calmer.”
Aleem’s gaze softened.
He didn’t say, Alhamdulillah.
He didn’t make it religious.
He simply nodded.
“Good,” he said.
They returned to the crowd.
Back to noise.
Back to work.
Back to life.
But Isabelle carried something small with her now.
Not a conversion.
Not a confession.
Just a quiet curiosity.
A question she didn’t dare ask out loud yet:
If his faith can hold him steady like that…
What would it feel like to understand it?
Isabelle swallowed.
Boundaries.
One step.
But the thought stayed with her–
soft,
persistent,
like a warm drink in her hands.