The Farewell That Becomes a Beginning
Chapter 10 — The Farewell That Becomes a Beginning
The last days in Makkah did not feel like an ending.
They felt like a soft unwinding.
Aleem prayed, walked, ate, rested, repeated—life reduced to essentials, as if the city demanded that you learn what mattered by taking everything else away. He moved through the Haram with a steadier intention now, not because his heart was suddenly perfect, but because it was no longer frantic.
The sadness remained.
But it had changed shape.
It was clean.
Like a bruise that no longer bled.
Malek noticed.
Not the sadness.
The cleanliness.
“You look… less tight,” Malek said one morning, adjusting his sling bag before they left the hotel.
Aleem exhaled slowly. “I am just tired.”
Malek’s lips curved faintly. “You were tired before too. But you were tired and angry. Now you are tired and… human.”
Aleem frowned slightly. “That is the same thing.”
Malek chuckled under his breath. “No. Anger is armour. Human is skin.”
Aleem did not respond.
Because part of him knew Malek was right.
And part of him did not know how to live without armour yet.
Almahirah remained present in the background like a thread Aleem refused to tug.
He saw her in the lobby sometimes, her posture composed, her voice soft when she spoke to her mother. He saw her in the Haram, hands raised in dua, eyes lowered, devotion steady.
But there was something worn in her now.
Not dramatic.
Not performative.
Just the subtle exhaustion of someone carrying uncertainty too long.
Aleem noticed it in the way she checked her phone when she thought no one was watching.
A glance.
A pause.
A small tightening around her mouth.
Then she would put it away and return to calm.
Aleem felt empathy rise.
He held it.
Empathy was easy.
Availability was dangerous.
He was learning the difference.
On the second last night, after Maghrib, the group gathered again in the hotel’s small function space.
People ate quietly, sharing bread and rice, laughing softly between exhaustion and gratitude. The ustaz gave a brief reminder about carrying Umrah home—not as souvenirs, but as an internal discipline.
When the gathering ended, Almahirah’s mother approached Aleem.
She walked slowly, her face warm.
“Aleem,” she said softly.
Aleem stood a little, out of respect. “Yes, Auntie?”
She smiled. “Thank you for being respectful,” she said. “Allah sees adab.”
Aleem swallowed.
He felt his chest tighten with a strange blend of gratitude and grief.
“Please make dua for all of us,” the aunty added.
Aleem nodded. “InsyaAllah.”
The aunty hesitated as if considering whether to say more.
Then she simply patted his arm, gentle and maternal, and walked away.
Aleem sat back down.
Malek watched him with a quiet expression.
“She likes you,” Malek murmured.
Aleem frowned. “Auntie likes everyone who says please.”
Malek’s smile softened. “That too.”
Aleem looked away.
He did not want to imagine the life that could have been simpler.
Because imagining was a form of reaching.
And he was trying to keep his hands clean.
Later that night, the decisive break arrived.
Not with drama.
With a screen lighting up.
Aleem stepped out into the corridor to refill his water bottle from the dispenser near the elevator. The hotel floor was quiet, lights dimmed, carpet muffling footsteps.
He saw Almahirah at the far end near a corner window, half-hidden by a pillar.
She stood alone.
Her posture looked steady at first.
Then Aleem noticed her hands.
They were trembling slightly.
The phone in her hand glowed.
Her shoulders rose and fell as if she was trying to breathe through something.
Aleem slowed.
He did not want to intrude.
But he could see, even from a distance, the way her face had tightened—how composure was fighting collapse.
He hesitated.
Then he saw the moment her eyes grew wet.
Not loud tears.
Just the shine of them under corridor lights.
She pressed her lips together hard as if swallowing a sound.
Aleem’s chest tightened.
This was his test.
Step in and become her comfort.
Or stay clean and become cruel.
His instincts argued inside him.
His heart wanted to move.
His boundary wanted to hold.
He chose a third thing.
Human decency.
Not rescue.
Aleem approached slowly, stopping at a respectful distance.
He did not say her name first.
He did not ask what happened.
He simply offered the simplest kindness.
“Are you okay?” Aleem asked softly.
Almahirah startled slightly, then quickly wiped at her eyes, as if ashamed to be seen.
“Yes,” she said, voice too quiet. “I am fine.”
The lie sounded like one Aleem used to tell.
Aleem held his water bottle up slightly. “Do you want water?” he asked.
Almahirah hesitated.
Then she nodded.
Aleem unscrewed the cap, handed it over.
Their fingers brushed lightly.
She drank a small sip, then held it like it was something to ground her.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Aleem nodded.
He did not ask again.
He let silence do what words could not.
They stood in the corridor’s dimness, two adults held in a moment neither of them planned.
Almahirah stared at her phone again, then lowered it.
“It is… settled,” she said quietly.
Aleem’s heart tightened.
He kept his voice neutral. “He replied?”
Almahirah nodded.
Her eyes held a tiredness that made her look older than four years of nursing should.
“It was short,” she said. “Cold.”
She exhaled.
Then, as if the truth had nowhere else to go, she added, “I think I knew already. I just… kept hoping.”
Aleem felt that sentence in his chest.
Because hoping without being chosen was a familiar humiliation.
He did not comment.
He did not say I told you so.
He did not say You deserve better.
He waited.
Almahirah’s fingers tightened around the bottle.
Then she spoke again, voice low.
“I need to say something,” she said.
Aleem’s throat tightened.
He nodded once.
Almahirah stared at the carpet.
Her voice came out carefully, like she was pulling glass from her own mouth.
“I am sorry,” Almahirah said.
The words were simple.
They did not arrive with theatrics.
They arrived with weight.
Aleem’s chest tightened.
Almahirah continued, still not looking at him.
“For what I did to you,” she said. “When we were younger.”
Aleem swallowed.
The past, long avoided, finally stepped into the room.
Almahirah’s voice remained steady, but her hands trembled.
“I treated you like a backup,” she admitted.
The sentence landed like a punch without sound.
Aleem’s stomach tightened.
She continued, as if once spoken, it had to be finished.
“I told myself I was confused. I told myself it was complicated. But the truth was… I liked the safety you gave me. And I liked the attention. And I was immature.”
Her breath shook slightly.
“I did not think about what it would do to you,” Almahirah whispered. “And by the time I realised… it was too late. You were already different.”
Aleem stared at the wall.
His mind tried to protect itself.
His pride tried to rise.
But the place they were standing in—the shadow of the Haram, days of worship still clinging to their skin—made pride feel small.
Almahirah’s voice softened further.
“I have regretted it for years,” she said. “But I was ashamed. I did not know how to face you.”
Silence.
The air felt heavier.
Aleem’s throat tightened.
He had imagined this apology as a moment that would heal him.
Instead, it made him grieve.
For the eighteen-year-old boy who had waited.
For the nineteen-year-old who had tried to be patient.
For the twenty-year-old who had cracked and decided never again.
Aleem exhaled slowly.
“I forgive you,” Aleem said quietly.
The words surprised him.
Not because he did not mean them.
Because they sounded like a man he did not know he could be.
Almahirah’s shoulders shook slightly.
Aleem continued, voice low, steady.
“But I also need to say something,” Aleem said.
Almahirah lifted her gaze.
Aleem’s chest tightened.
“I turned what you did into a rule,” Aleem admitted. “And it was not fair. I punished other people for your mistake. I called it logic. But it was fear.”
Almahirah’s eyes softened.
Aleem swallowed.
“And I am sorry for that,” Aleem said.
A silence fell that felt strangely mutual.
Two apologies crossing in a corridor.
Not to restart a romance.
To release a wound.
Aleem’s voice remained controlled.
“I forgive you,” Aleem repeated, softer this time, as if speaking to the younger version of himself too. “But forgiveness does not automatically mean… us.”
Almahirah’s breath caught.
Aleem’s gaze stayed steady.
“I cannot enter anything uncertain,” Aleem said quietly. “I cannot be second choice again.”
Almahirah nodded slowly.
There was no argument.
No manipulation.
Just understanding.
“I know,” she whispered.
And in that whisper, Aleem heard something that sounded like dignity beginning.
Almahirah looked down at her phone.
Her thumb hovered above the screen.
Then she inhaled.
“I am ending it,” she said.
Aleem’s chest tightened.
Not with hope.
With respect.
Almahirah typed.
Not frantic.
Not pleading.
Firm.
Clean.
Aleem did not read the words.
He did not ask to.
He simply watched her face as she pressed send.
Her shoulders dropped slightly, as if she had placed down a burden.
Her eyes filled again.
But this time the tears looked different.
Not humiliation.
Release.
Almahirah handed the water bottle back.
“Thank you,” she said, voice steadier. “For… not being cruel.”
Aleem’s throat tightened.
He nodded once.
“I am not here to be cruel,” Aleem replied softly. “I am here to be clean.”
Almahirah’s eyes held his for a moment.
Then she looked away.
“I should go back,” she said.
Aleem nodded.
She walked away down the corridor, her steps quiet.
Aleem watched her disappear.
His chest felt heavy.
But not dirty.
He stood there for a long moment, alone, breathing slowly.
Then he turned back toward his room.
The final night in the Haram arrived like a gentle curtain.
Aleem went with Malek, walked through the glowing precinct, and felt the city’s sacred gravity pulling his heart into stillness.
He did not search for Almahirah.
But at one point, in the moving river of pilgrims, he saw her.
Not close.
Not far.
Just present.
She stood with her mother, hands raised in dua.
Their eyes met briefly.
No smile.
No promise.
Just acknowledgement.
A mercy that did not demand a story.
Aleem turned back to the Kaabah.
He raised his hands.
His dua was simple.
Ya Allah, he prayed.
If she is written for me, let it return clean.
If she is not written for me, let it leave clean.
He lowered his hands.
He felt tears in his eyes.
Not from heartbreak.
From gratitude.
Because he had come here hoping for peace.
And he was leaving with something rarer than romance.
A heart that did not need to guard itself like a wound.
At the airport, Malek and Aleem walked through the bright halls with carry-on bags and tired bodies.
The air smelled of coffee and duty-free perfume.
Pilgrims gathered in clusters, families hugging, people taking final photos.
Malek nudged Aleem lightly. “You okay?”
Aleem exhaled.
He thought about the mountains.
The tawaf.
The Sa’i.
The apology.
The message.
The decision.
“Yes,” Aleem said quietly.
Malek’s brows lifted. “That is a big word from you.”
Aleem’s mouth twitched faintly. “Do not get used to it.”
Malek laughed softly.
Aleem looked ahead.
He did not know what would happen next.
He did not know whether fate would return Almahirah to him in a clean way.
He did not know whether mercy would release them completely.
But he knew one thing.
He was no longer the boy who waited in humiliation.
He was no longer the man who hardened into prejudice.
He was simply a man walking home with a quieter heart.
And that—
that felt like the beginning of something.