Accepted With Flaws

-Shadows of hope -

Prophet Muhammad صلى الله عليه وسلم said: "When Allah (SWT) desires good for someone, He tries him with hardships." – (Sahih al-Bukhari)

Omaiza's POV

It felt like a haunting nightmare, the memory of that terrible day still weakening my body. Amidst the grief that had consumed me, I realized I hadn't thanked Allah for protecting me from that evil person. Calling him names may not be right, but he deserved every ounce of my anger. He violated me without consent, and I regret not fighting back. I felt ashamed and disgusted.

My mind couldn't help but wander to the countless other girls who might have suffered the same fate. Some endured even worse. I wished they had been rescued like I was. The image of Shakeel lingered, the scars and his cigar still etched in my mind. I fervently prayed to Allah, begging to forget, to find healing.

Quiet sobs escaped me as I hugged myself. But I shouldn't be crying; I needed to regain control. I took deep breaths, focusing on steadying my breathing.

After performing ablution (wudu), seeking forgiveness, and reading verses from the Quran, I changed my clothes and headed to the bathroom to freshen up. The water flowing down my back felt soothing, though my hair still hurt.

Now seemed like the right moment to write. Pen and paper had always been a source of comfort, a way to express my feelings. My writing had been a lifeline during times of loneliness and emptiness.

I titled the paper, "Will anyone accept me with all these flaws?" and began pouring my thoughts onto it, tuning out everything around me.

Lost in my thoughts, a tap on my shoulder startled me. I spun around, only to see Mahira. Her concerned expression faded as she saw my reaction. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you," she said. "No, it's alright. I apologize for making you worry," I responded. Her frown disappeared, and I didn't want her to feel guilty. She hadn't done anything wrong; there was no way we could have predicted what happened to me.

Mahira settled into the seat next to me. "How are you feeling?" she asked. "Better, alhamdulillah. Yasir bhaiyya texted me. They've landed at the airport and will be here in a few hours, in sha Allah." "In sha Allah," Mahira murmured softly. "There's something I need to tell you," she began, her fingers picking at her skin nervously. Her worried eyes stood out in the dimness of my room.

Cupping her face gently, I asked, "Mahi, what is it?" She pouted slightly before hugging me. I exhaled deeply and returned the embrace.

Her warmth was something I had missed. Mahira always gave the most comforting hugs. We parted after a few moments.

"Is everything alright?" I asked gently, sensing that something was amiss but not wanting to pry. "I'm okay, alhamdulillah. But there's something I need to share," she admitted, her voice shaky. "I don't even know where to begin." I offered her an understanding smile, saying, "Take your time."

For a moment, Mahira stood there, a small smile forming on her lips. "Someone has asked for my hand in marriage," she finally revealed. My heart skipped a beat at the news, and a surge of joy rushed through me. I couldn't help but let out a little squeal, quickly covering my mouth. Mahira laughed softly, amused by my reaction. Happy would be an understatement; I was ecstatic. My younger sister, Mahira, was getting married!

I pulled her into a tight hug, overwhelmed by the wonderful news. After everything I'd been through, I'd feared it might affect Mahira's life too. Such incidents spread like wildfire.

"I've seen you without a smile for days, Aiza. You look beautiful, ma sha Allah. Don't let that fade," Mahira encouraged me. I mustered a smile, although I didn't feel pretty with a bandage on my forehead and bruised lips.

"Do you know who he is?" I asked weakly. She shook her head, explaining, "He's the son of one of Abba's friends. My father knows his family too." "Abba?" I hadn't heard about him, but then again, I never asked Abba about his life. I usually only shared my college experiences with him, as he insisted. Most of my time was spent buried in novels. I hadn't been a good daughter. Not even a good sister or friend.

"What happened? Did I say something wrong?" Mahira wondered. Shaking my head, I assured her, "No, it's nothing. What were you saying about Uncle Abdurahman?" She informed me, "They studied together in university. The guy's name is Zaid, Lut's cousin." "Lut?" I questioned. "Yes, the person who helped you." Mahira fidgeted with her skin again.

An uneasy feeling churned in my stomach. Everything was still fresh in my mind—the way he'd carried me, covering me with his jacket. But now wasn't the time to think about that. We were discussing Mahira's life, not mine.

"I'm genuinely happy for you, Mahi," I smiled sincerely. "I'm grateful for the blessings in my life, alhamdulillah." I gave her a small smile before standing up and walking over to the large glass window. My uncle had installed it for me, knowing how much I loved the moon and stars. I often believed Ammi was a star, trying to communicate with me. I shared everything with her, no matter where I was. The door opened and closed; Mahira must have left. But I couldn't share the extent of my pain with anyone. I didn't want to burden her. Ya Allah, I know you're testing me, my heart aching at the thought.

My gaze fixed on the moon, its reflection mirroring my state of mind.

"Beautiful, people said
Full of scars.
He mortgaged someone else's light,
Though brought people delight"

My mind drifted again. I'd been standing here for who knows how long. Watching the moon make way for the sun always brought me solace. I traced my fingers along the window glass, following the changing colors of the midnight sky.

Glancing at my desk's clock to check the time, I immediately regretted it. My arm, resting on the window sill, was covered in scratches. The doctor said they would fade, in sha Allah. Until then, they were a reminder of what had happened. I couldn't engage with people as I used to, nor could I trust anyone. Coping with my broken heart was a struggle.

"Hey Omaiza!" Waves of emotion coursed through me as Yasir's voice reached my ears. I called him Yas, short for Yasir. He enveloped me in a hug, and I burst into tears, my face wet. He stroked my hair gently, his words soothing, "It's okay, princess. Allah never burdens a soul more than it can bear. You're a brave girl, fighting like a warrior through every stage, facing every obstacle without hurting others." I sensed a soft smile in his voice. I didn't need to look up; I could feel it. "Don't let anything consume you, princess."
I know he's right, but mustering the courage to act on it is a challenge.

I step back from Yasir's embrace as he gently pulls my arms towards him. A flinch escapes me, and he looks down, his gaze darkening as he spots the bruise. Anger and frustration flicker across his face as he mutters curses under his breath. I remain silent, avoiding his gaze.

"I heard someone named Luth saved you?" I step further away, hugging myself as Yasir's reaction unsettles me. My eyes shift to the door behind him, which opens to reveal Yasmin aunty entering, followed by Yusra and Abba. I'm in no state to engage with anyone.

Yasir approaches me, lifting my chin with his finger to make me meet his eyes. "Hey," he says gently, meeting my gaze. "Omaiza, dear, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have reacted that way. You're my princess. How could I let someone even look at you with such vile intentions?" My eyes well up with tears as I'm on the verge of breaking down. "Please don't apologize, bhaiya. I'm the one who let you down. I know I deserve what I got. I'm a—" Yasir's glare stops me mid-sentence. "Mind your words. You did not deserve what happened to you. No one deserves to go through that," he insists, wrapping his arms around me once more.

Abba places a comforting hand on my shoulder, playfully teasing, "Omaiza, all love for your brother? Nothing for me? I've had a long and hectic journey too." A soft giggle escapes my lips as I wipe away my tears, embracing Abba and feeling a slight tremble in my body, which he holds firmly. "I miss my ammi," I whimper, the ache in my heart overpowering. "I want ammi. I can't fill the void she left in my life. I want her, Abba." Abba's expression turns somber, his own pain evident. I had always wondered why he frowned whenever I mentioned Ammi, but he always brushed it off. "Baccha, I'm here with you. Remember, Allah never abandons his slaves. Everything happens for a reason, and we mustn't question Allah's wisdom. Be patient."

In Abba's comforting presence, I find solace, and exhaustion takes over. I curl up in his arms, drifting into sleep on his lap, enveloped in a sense of safety and comfort that I had longed for.