The Message That Stops His Hand Mid-Reach

Chapter 8 — The Message That Stops His Hand Mid-Reach

Forgiveness did not arrive like fireworks.

It arrived like fatigue that finally let your muscles unclench.

Back in Makkah that night, Aleem walked with Malek through the hotel corridor, sandals slapping softly against the floor, his body exhausted from the day’s heat and steps. His calves still carried the echo of the mountain. His shoulders held the dull ache of effort.

But his mind was unnervingly clear.

He had spoken a truth he never said out loud before.

He had admitted a prejudice and called it what it was.

Fear.

And Almahirah—Almahirah had not defended herself.

She had not argued.

She had simply acknowledged, quietly, that she had not been a good person then.

Aleem expected that confession to satisfy his anger.

Instead, it softened it.

Not into romance.

Into something stranger.

Peace.

He hated how close peace could feel to vulnerability.

In the elevator mirror, Aleem caught his own reflection—tired eyes, a face older than it had been at twenty.

He realised something that unsettled him:

He could remember Almahirah now without rage.

But the warning still lived in him like an emergency light.

Complicated.

Off and on.

Uncertainty.

That word was the shape of humiliation.

That word was how you became second choice while still being told you mattered.

Malek looked at him as they reached their floor.

“You are quiet,” Malek observed.

Aleem exhaled. “I am thinking.”

Malek’s eyebrows lifted. “You are always thinking. I mean… you are quiet in a different way.”

Aleem paused.

Malek’s voice softened, careful now, as if he did not want to push Aleem off a cliff that was inside his chest.

“Are you still angry?” Malek asked.

Aleem’s mouth tightened.

He searched for honesty.

“No,” Aleem said finally. “I am… careful.”

Malek nodded slowly.

Then he said something that sounded like a reminder and a warning at once.

“Forgiveness is not the same as returning,” Malek said.

Aleem did not answer.

Because part of him already knew.

But part of him still wanted to reach.

Later, Aleem went back to the Haram.

Not because the group schedule demanded it.

Because his chest demanded it.

Night at Masjid al-Haram was a different world.

The marble glowed under floodlights. The air carried coolness and the faint scent of perfume and dust. People moved like a constant river, and the Kaabah stood in the centre like the only thing in existence that never wavered.

Aleem walked until he found a spot where he could stand without being pressed by bodies.

He raised his hands.

He stared at the Kaabah.

And he made a dua that was not romantic.

Not desperate.

Not greedy.

Ya Allah, he prayed silently.

If this is a door, open it with dignity.

If this is a lesson, let me pass it without humiliation.

He swallowed.

The next line came with the heaviness of history.

Do not let me become a backup again.

He lowered his hands.

He did not feel answered.

Not immediately.

But he felt heard.

And sometimes, being heard was enough to stop you from lying to yourself.

In the hotel lobby later, a small moment happened.

Small enough that no one else would have called it an event.

An aunty struggled with a plastic bag of food, her hands full, her steps slow.

Almahirah moved without hesitation.

She took the bag gently, spoke softly, guided the aunty toward a seat.

There was no performance.

No looking around to see who noticed.

Just instinctive kindness.

Aleem watched from a distance.

His chest tightened.

Because that version of her—quietly considerate, naturally attentive—was the version his younger self had loved.

And seeing it again, in adulthood, without the haze of teenage dreams, made it more dangerous.

More believable.

Almahirah laughed softly at something the aunty said.

The laugh was brief.

Contained.

But it carried warmth.

Aleem looked away.

He told himself not to be foolish.

Then he realised he was already standing in the place where foolishness began.

Hope.

Not hope that demanded.

Hope that simply existed.

Like a hand reaching before the mind could pull it back.

That night, in his room, Aleem sat on the edge of the bed with his phone in his hand.

Malek was in the bathroom, water running, humming off-key as if the world had no problems.

Aleem stared at the blank screen.

He did not want to ambush Almahirah.

He did not want to be emotional.

He did not want to create a private situation where she had to respond out of politeness or discomfort.

If he was going to attempt anything, he would do it properly.

Respectfully.

Openly.

With dignity.

He thought of Almahirah’s mother.

She was on this trip.

She was a guardian in the traditional sense.

And she had been kind, not hostile.

Aleem unlocked his phone.

Opened WhatsApp.

Scrolled until he found the number saved in the group list.

He stared at the chat.

His thumb hovered.

This should have been easy—just words.

But words had once turned him into a backup.

Words had once kept him waiting.

Words had once made him believe he mattered when he didn’t.

Aleem began typing.

He erased.

Typed again.

Erased.

Every version sounded either too cold or too eager.

Too proud or too hopeful.

He wanted to be respectful.

He also wanted to protect himself.

Finally, he wrote something simple.

Proper.

Adult.

Not poetic.

Because some moments did not deserve poetry.

They deserved clarity.

Assalamualaikum Auntie. I hope you are well. May I ask, is Almahirah currently single? If she is, with your permission, I would like to get to know her properly with good intentions.

He stared at it.

His heartbeat sounded louder than it should.

He read the message again.

It was not a confession.

It was not a plea.

It was not a demand.

Just a door knocked on quietly.

He pressed send.

The message delivered.

A small grey tick.

Aleem’s stomach tightened.

He hated the waiting immediately.

Because waiting was where his younger self had lost himself.

Waiting was where he became convenient.

Waiting was where he learned to keep his pride folded away so someone else could step on it.

He placed the phone face down.

Then picked it up again.

Then put it down again.

His hands did not know what to do.

He stood, walked to the window, stared at the lights of Makkah.

The city outside was alive.

Inside him, something old stirred.

Malek came out of the bathroom and saw Aleem pacing.

“What are you doing?” Malek asked, towel around his neck.

Aleem stopped mid-step.

“Nothing,” Aleem said.

Malek’s eyes narrowed. “That is the biggest lie you tell.”

Aleem hesitated.

Then, because honesty had been demanded of him these past days, he said quietly, “I texted her mother.”

Malek’s expression shifted.

Not surprised.

Not pleased.

Just attentive.

“For what?” Malek asked.

“To ask if she is single,” Aleem replied.

Malek’s gaze stayed steady. “And now you are waiting.”

Aleem did not deny it.

Malek walked closer, voice low.

“Aleem,” Malek said, “if your peace depends on a reply, you are already losing yourself again.”

The sentence hit hard.

Because it was true.

Aleem’s throat tightened.

He looked away.

Malek sighed gently. “Sit. Breathe. Let Allah handle what you cannot.”

Aleem sat.

He tried.

Minutes stretched.

The phone stayed silent.

Aleem’s mind played the worst scenarios like a cruel loop.

She is engaged.

She is dating.

She is not interested.

She is with someone else.

He told himself not to spiral.

Then the phone vibrated.

Aleem’s heart dropped before it rose.

He picked it up.

A message.

From her mother.

He opened it.

The reply was not long.

Not dramatic.

Not cruel.

It was kind.

And that kindness made it hit harder.

Waalaikumsalam Aleem. Thank you for asking politely. Alma is not married. But she is in a complicated relationship with someone. It is off and on. Right now, during this Umrah, it is the off period. She sent him a long message, but until now, he has not read it or replied.

Aleem stared at the words.

Complicated.

There it was.

The word he feared.

The word that had shaped years.

His chest tightened.

Not with jealousy.

With something more personal.

Humiliation trying to return.

The old wound reaching for his throat like it wanted to climb back into place.

This is how it starts.

This is how you become an option again.

His fingers went numb around the phone.

He read the message again.

The detail that hurt was not that she had someone.

It was the off-and-on nature.

The unread message.

The waiting.

The uncertainty.

It painted a picture of a man who could ignore her and still have her waiting.

And Aleem—Aleem had been that waiting man once.

Not in the same story.

But in the same humiliation.

He swallowed.

His mind tried to flare into anger.

Tried to revive the prejudice-rule like a shield.

See?

They are all the same.

But Aleem refused.

Because he had already admitted the rule was fear.

And he would not return to fear as if it was wisdom.

He placed the phone down.

His hands trembled slightly.

Malek watched him closely.

“What did she say?” Malek asked.

Aleem’s voice came out quieter than he intended.

“She is in a complicated relationship,” Aleem said.

Malek nodded slowly, eyes soft.

Aleem stared at the floor.

The room felt suddenly too small.

Too warm.

Too quiet.

He felt grief.

Not the dramatic kind.

Not the sobbing kind.

The clean kind.

The kind that came when you realised you had to choose dignity over desire.

He thought of Almahirah’s face on the mountain.

Her regret.

Her quiet sincerity.

He did not think she was evil.

He did not think she was playing him.

He thought she was tired.

Confused.

Stuck.

And still—still, Aleem knew he could not enter a story where someone else already held the pen.

He exhaled slowly.

“I am not doing this,” Aleem said.

Malek’s brows lifted slightly. “Not doing what?”

“Waiting,” Aleem replied.

The word tasted bitter.

But it also tasted like freedom.

Malek’s shoulders loosened as if he had been holding his breath.

He stepped closer and sat beside Aleem.

“Sometimes the biggest ibadah,” Malek said softly, “is walking away clean.”

Aleem stared at the phone again.

He felt tears threaten, not from heartbreak, but from the weight of choosing something hard.

Malek continued, voice steady. “You are not rejecting her. You are rejecting being someone’s option.”

Aleem swallowed.

He nodded once.

Not because he was suddenly strong.

Because he was finally tired of humiliation.

He picked up his phone, opened the chat with Almahirah’s mother, and typed.

Then stopped.

He didn’t know what to say.

Anything he wrote could become pressure.

Anything he wrote could become hope.

Anything he wrote could become another hook.

So he did not write.

He placed the phone down.

He stood, walked to the prayer mat, and sat.

He did not immediately pray.

He simply sat with his palms open.

He let the disappointment exist without turning into a story.

He let the softness exist without becoming foolish.

And in the quiet, Aleem whispered something he had never been able to whisper before.

Not to Almahirah.

To his own heart.

“I forgive you,” he murmured.

Not as reconciliation.

As release.

He stayed seated for a long time.

Outside, Makkah continued living.

Inside, Aleem felt mercy in an unexpected shape.

Not in a reunion.

Not in a door opening.

But in a door closing gently—

so he did not have to slam it himself.