Accepted With Flaws

-Fragments of Past-

Prophet said:
O young men, whoever among you can afford to get married, let him marry, for it is more effective in lowering the gaze and protecting the private parts. Whoever cannot do that, then let him fast, for it is a protection for him.
(Sahih al-Muslim)

Omaiza's POV

The day began with a sense of anticipation as I stood before the mirror, scrutinizing my attire. My sky-blue blouse and pastel pink parallel pants contrasted perfectly with the grey hijab and flats I had chosen. A deep breath, and I couldn't help but ask Mahira the dreaded question, "Do I look fat?"

Her reassuring smile washed away my self-doubt. "No, you look perfect," she complimented me, her words causing a gentle flush to color my cheeks. Compliments had never been my strong suit, neither giving nor receiving.

But as I gazed at her, I realized I was so preoccupied with my insecurities that I hadn't reciprocated her fashion statement. "Oye!" she exclaimed, snapping me out of my thoughts. My deer-in-the-headlights expression must have been quite amusing to her. "Aren't you going to say anything about how I look?" she prodded, a hint of annoyance in her tone.

"You look stunning," I managed to reply, feeling somewhat inadequate in the compliment department. "Do I even have to say it? You're born beautiful, Ma shaa' Allah (God has willed it)," I added, my cheeks flushing again. Compliments weren't the only thing I struggled with; accepting them was just as difficult.

Her giggle resonated in the room as she waved off my words. "Oh, shut up," she playfully retorted, ruffling her turquoise maxi gown, paired elegantly with a black hijab and heels.

"Mahira!" The sudden exclamation from downstairs startled us both. "Ji, Ammi (Yes, Mother), we're coming down," Mahira called out in response. An enthusiastic shove pushed her toward the door, and we hurried downstairs, careful not to trip over our own excitement.

The warm embrace of Asma Aunty, Mahira's mother, greeted me as I descended the stairs, followed by a peck on the cheek. "Assalamu alaikum (peace be upon you), Aunty," I greeted her. She returned the gesture, a welcoming smile on her face. "Wa alaikum salam (peace be upon you too), sweetheart." Asma Aunty was a remarkable woman, excelling in every role she played—mother, wife, friend. Alhamdulillah, may Allah bless her abundantly.

Mahira's theatrical clearing of her throat interrupted our moment, and I playfully nudged her toward her mother. "If you're done, can I hug my ammi (mother)?" she teased. I stepped back with a mischievous grin. "Ooo, is someone jealous?" I teased Mahira, wiggling my eyebrows.

She rolled her eyes, feigning annoyance, and headed toward her mother. I couldn't hold back my laughter. "Aiza, don't tease my daughter," Asma Aunty chimed in, her tone playful. I chuckled and apologized, "I'm sorry, Aunty."

The delicious aroma emanating from the kitchen beckoned us, and Mahira couldn't hide her excitement. "Ammi, I'm hungry," she declared with enthusiasm. Asma Aunty sighed, her eyes filled with amusement, before heading to the kitchen. "Wait here. I'll get your food," she told Mahira.

As we settled at the dining table, curiosity nagged at me. "You never told me where we were going," I reminded Mahira.

She wore a mischievous smile, her gaze momentarily drawn away as the food was placed before her. "You'll find out soon."

Her attention shifted to the waffles with chocolate syrup and strawberries before her. "Waffles for Mahira, and pancakes with vanilla syrup and coffee for Omaiza," Asma Aunty announced with the precision of a seasoned chef. "JazakAllahu khair (may God reward you with good)," Mahira and I chimed in simultaneously.