A Clean Distance

Chapter 9 — A Clean Distance

After the message, the world did not collapse.

That was the strange part.

Aleem woke the next morning with the same ceiling above him, the same air-conditioning hum, the same ache in his legs from days of walking. The city outside was still alive, still indifferent, still full of pilgrims moving toward prayer as if everyone’s heart was not carrying something.

And yet, something in him had changed.

Not because he was suddenly healed.

Because he had chosen dignity.

The decision sat in his chest like a stone that had finally been placed down.

Heavy.

Stable.

Not moving.

Malek was already awake, tying his shoelaces with the calm of a man who trusted the day.

Aleem sat up, rubbed his eyes, and reached for his phone.

The chat with Almahirah’s mother was still there.

Complicated.

Off and on.

Unread message.

Aleem stared at the words again.

He felt the familiar urge to interpret the entire future from a single paragraph.

He forced himself to stop.

This was not a puzzle to solve.

This was a boundary to hold.

Malek glanced over. “Do you feel regret?”

Aleem’s throat tightened.

He thought about it.

Regret would have been easier.

Regret would have meant he could tell himself he made the wrong choice and redo it.

But the truth was quieter.

“I feel… sad,” Aleem admitted. “But I do not feel wrong.”

Malek nodded once, as if that was the only answer that mattered.

“That is good,” Malek said. “Sadness is not failure. Sadness is proof you are human.”

Aleem exhaled.

They left the room.

The day was ordinary in structure.

Prayer.

Meals.

Reminders from the ustaz.

A gentle lecture in the lobby about guarding the heart after worship, about not returning from Makkah as the same person who arrived.

Aleem listened with a heaviness he did not try to hide.

He understood something now.

The hardest part of worship was not the rituals.

It was what you carried into them.

It was what you chose not to carry out.

In the lobby, Almahirah passed by once, walking with her mother.

Her eyes flicked briefly toward Aleem.

Not a stare.

Not a challenge.

Just awareness.

Aleem lowered his gaze politely.

He did not want to punish her.

He did not want to tempt himself.

He wanted a clean distance.

And clean distance, he learned, was its own kind of mercy.

Malek noticed the restraint.

Later, as they walked toward the Haram, Malek spoke quietly.

“You will see her,” Malek said. “You cannot erase her existence.”

Aleem nodded.

“Just do not turn seeing into searching,” Malek continued. “And do not turn searching into suffering.”

Aleem breathed slowly.

He kept walking.

Night came again.

The Haram glowed.

People moved like stars around a centre that did not shift.

Aleem entered the mosque with Malek beside him, then drifted slightly away—not abandoning his friend, just giving himself space.

He found a place where he could stand and watch without being pushed.

The Kaabah stood there.

Steady.

Uninterested in his personal confusion.

Aleem raised his hands.

His dua came without polish.

Ya Allah, he prayed silently.

You know what I wanted.

You know what I feared.

You know what I refused to repeat.

He swallowed.

Then he asked for something he had never asked for before, not because he did not need it, but because he had never been brave enough to admit he did.

Give me a heart that can love without losing itself.

His throat tightened.

He lowered his hands and exhaled.

He did not feel fireworks.

He felt quiet.

He looked at the Kaabah again.

He thought of the prophet in the cave of Hira—solitude before revelation.

He thought of Hajar between hills—striving before relief.

He thought of Adam and Hawa—reunion after distance.

And he realised something that felt almost cruel in its clarity:

Not every sacred symbol was meant to become your story.

Sometimes you visited a place about reunion and learned to accept separation.

Sometimes mercy looked like a door closing.

Not to punish you.

To protect you.

The next day, the group schedule included a short gathering after Maghrib.

A simple meal.

People sharing small reflections.

Aunty laughter.

Uncles talking about their knees.

A few younger pilgrims crying quietly when they spoke about their parents.

Aleem sat beside Malek, listening.

He did not speak much.

Words felt too loud for what he was carrying.

At some point, Almahirah’s mother approached.

Aleem’s shoulders tensed instinctively.

He prepared himself for discomfort.

But the aunty’s face was warm.

Not accusing.

Not suspicious.

Just… maternal.

“Aleem,” she said softly.

Aleem stood slightly out of respect. “Yes, Auntie?”

She smiled, the kind of smile that did not require explanation.

“Thank you for asking properly,” she said. “Not many young men know how to be respectful these days.”

Aleem swallowed.

He felt his chest tighten with something like embarrassment.

“It was nothing, Auntie,” Aleem replied.

“It is not nothing,” she corrected gently. “Adab is never nothing.”

Aleem nodded once.

The aunty hesitated, then added softly, “Alma is a good girl. But she is… tired.”

The word tired landed like a small confession.

Aleem kept his expression neutral.

“I understand,” Aleem said quietly.

The aunty’s gaze held his for a moment.

There was no request.

No pressure.

No attempt to pull him into a story.

Then she patted his arm lightly, like a blessing, and walked away.

Aleem sat back down.

Malek watched him.

“You did well,” Malek murmured.

Aleem did not know what to say.

He simply nodded.

Because “doing well” in this context did not mean winning.

It meant staying clean.

That night, Aleem saw Almahirah again.

Not close.

Not far.

Just somewhere in the moving crowd near the hotel lobby.

She looked like she had been crying earlier.

Not dramatically.

Just the subtle redness around the eyes of someone who had tried to be strong in private.

Aleem’s chest tightened.

His instinct surged—approach, ask, comfort.

The soft part of him reached forward.

Then the boundary held.

Not because he did not care.

Because care without dignity became self-betrayal.

He looked away gently, giving her privacy.

He walked past as if he had not noticed.

He hated how hard it was.

He loved that he did it.

In the elevator, Malek stood beside him, silent.

Aleem stared at the floor indicator lights climbing.

He heard his own heartbeat.

On their floor, Malek spoke quietly.

“You can forgive someone and still not be available to their uncertainty,” Malek said.

Aleem exhaled.

“Yes,” Aleem replied.

His voice was steady.

He surprised himself.

Back in the room, Aleem sat on the bed and stared at his hands.

He thought about the younger version of himself who would have waited.

Who would have stayed hoping.

Who would have accepted ambiguity because he was afraid of losing the small warmth he was offered.

Aleem felt grief for that boy.

He also felt pride.

Not the arrogant kind.

The quiet kind.

The kind that came from growth.

He opened his phone, stared at the chat again.

Then he closed it.

He did not send anything.

He did not ask for updates.

He did not hover.

He let fate decide.

Not in a romantic, cinematic way.

In a clean, adult way.

Because fate was not a shortcut.

Fate was what happened when you stopped forcing a story to fit your wounds.

That night, before sleeping, Aleem prayed one more time.

Not for reunion.

Not for closure.

For cleanliness.

Ya Allah, he whispered.

If she is not written for me, let my heart accept it without becoming bitter.

If she is written for me, let it come without me losing my dignity.

He lay down.

Malek’s breathing slowed across the room.

Outside, Makkah continued glowing.

And inside Aleem, something settled.

Not happiness.

Not love.

A clean distance.

A mercy that did not require reunion to exist.