The shift was subtle, almost fragile, like the slow bloom of a rose in harmattan. Something had changed between them that rainy night — not spoken aloud, but present in the way they moved around each other.
Fatima noticed the way Jamil's gaze lingered when she spoke, how he listened without interrupting, without judgment. And Jamil... he was beginning to realize that the woman he once labeled as entitled and proud was actually strong, selfless, and carrying burdens too heavy for her slim shoulders.
One quiet Friday afternoon, Fatima returned from the masjid and found the house decorated with simple white roses and gold ribbons. Confused, she stepped into the living room — only to find a small table set with her favorite pastries, a warm thermos of tea, and a handwritten note.
_"One month since we said 'Qubiltu.' I wanted to remind you that I still mean it."_
— *Jamil*
Her hands trembled. She had never imagined romance like this — not from a man like him. Not after all they had endured.
That evening, they sat side by side on the balcony, sipping tea, not speaking much — but comforted by each other's presence.
"I still have a lot of wounds," Fatima whispered."I'm not asking you to be healed overnight," Jamil replied. "Just let me stay beside you while you do."
That night, for the first time, Fatima fell asleep with her heart slightly open. Hope, it seemed, was finding its way in.
—