I'll call them "Muz" for the purpose of the plot of this piece.Muz texts in a social media platform of strangers sharing a common occupation,asks 2 be assisted and after a while of seemingly no 1 helping i decide 2 help 'her',but i rarely chat in groups so i inbox her.Muz,faces some challenges and at every step i help her,she thanks me,asks about me completing my side of the task and we strike a sort of friendship with her.Now comes the time 2 meet these strangers,i ask Muz about her traveling plans and explain mine, we'll meet there,safe travels.I text Muz, asking her if she's arrived safely and Muz tells me yes she did, except she didn't see me with the brothers at the mosque praying together.The BROTHERS! yep! turns out sheMuz isn't really a she,and all this time I've been getting comfortable with the idea of a hijab around her, reading her responses to my chats in a feminine character,i try 2 brush my way off the conversation.He keeps texting asking about my welfare none the wiser about my little discovery nugget, that is until some guy walks up to me, stops at my seat and says "Heyyy Asalam aleikum, I've been looking 4 u in the wrong crowd,i thought "Ridhwa-Nnur" is a guy..."
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As dark skinned as Bilaal(r.a) was,with his wide nose,coarse hair and African features,as light/brown as Abu Lahab was,with his noble lineage,soft hair, and Arabic features,yet one was promised jannah and the other jahannam, verily therein is a lesson for those who understand,but most of us are ignorant.Blind and deaf,may Allah forgive and guide us.The best among us in the eyes of Allah is the most pious.
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They tell you rizq is what's Written for you;the food on your table,the roof over your head,the wealth in your hands, but no one tells you that the rarest rizq of all is love, because you can have a home but never feel at home, you can sleep beside someone but still feel alone, you can be chosen but never cherished.You can share a life but never a heart,you can be given a person but not the feeling that makes them yours.Not everyone who's married has love.Not everyone who's loved gets to keep it.Love is not something you can force or beg for,buy or build with your bare hands.It exists or it doesn't.It is given or not.Even if you carve it's name into your bones,even if you make space for it.Some things will never be yours,not because you weren't enough to keep them,but because they were never shaped to fit your fate, because even love is a provision from the Divine,it reaches only those for whom it was written.
(Quote from TikTok don't know the writer )-
...She looks up and sees him frowning and wishes she could smooth the lines from his face,his gaze goes to the lady barrier like he wants to ask her if this sounds as nonsensical to her as it does him,and she's afraid of whatever may come next,so she goes on to stand, abruptly, she says,voice trembling; "i'm content with this image, it's too precious for me to break" and as she runs away from him again she valiantly tries to convince herself that the cloud that passed over his eyes at her final words couldn't possibly be one of grief.
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They bump into each other at the reunion party, she's evasive so he calls a third person;a lady friend of her's so she'd be comfortable;"the barrier" he said "so the third wouldn't be temptation",she sits between them, and he spaces himself a bit far from them,he doesn't crowd them,a quality she'd always admired,he wants to talk so he asks why she's hesitant when he's decided and she's sad when she tells him,"you and i don't really know each other, we've played hide and seek for way too long, painting pictures better than reality,i put u up on a pedestal and it's funny because i hate when someone does that to me,but i do it to you.I see u as this person u're probably not,and u think me an angel,but I'm not, I'm human,flawed as they come.Perhaps it's better to live with this fiction, the reality would break everything apart, we'd go into this with expectations which won't be met,and that would ruin it; both the could've been and the what if,..."
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Pronunciation IPA: /ˌklɛptəˈmeɪniæk/
Noun; kleptomaniac (plural kleptomaniacs)
One who steals compulsively.
The first time a blue bracelet went missing,a little trinket loved so much because of it's ability to reflect the light whenever worn on the wrist, it's been years but she can still picture it,it wasn't even her's in the first place, she'd borrowed it from her sister and she took the loss personally,more than her sibling...
the second time in the same room years later,left alone in the house breaking a trust given so freely they take something else, discovered missing weeks later,a favorite water bottle,a gift it was and the hurt comes back all over again.Isn't it easier to ask for something rather than take without permission? They wondered then how many tiny things kept going missing without them knowing... It's not even about the items but the trust we give and the betrayals given back-
Naivety,a misunderstanding,a mistake,a prejudice against,"look at how innocent they look"... "So sweet,they couldn't possibly have done that!"..."it must've been the other's fault"... Scapegoat..."poor thing,i believe you",a few tears here and there,a crestfallen look, puppy eyes, shifting from one place to the other, looking anywhere but straight in your face.
No one is ever ready to blame a pretty face, we're elated at the thought of unaesthetically pleasing people doing ugly deeds but never when it's "beautiful ones" and woe unto whoever tries to point it out,"the jealous ones" be named,so better be safe and move with the crowd "Innocent until proven 'ugly'. "-
It's not easy being the easy daughter;the easy daughter doesn't seem to question,doesn't put to task,she looks on and accepts,learns to absorb the hurts without ever raising alarm and her skin never shows,the rage camouflaged.The easy daughter loves easily it seems even after the betrayals,oh but she never trusts not like the other with the harder crust who keeps rushing back everytime the broken pot puts back another piece, not even broken from an inner blow but still can't hold it's waters can it? It's not easy being the easy daughter,for she seemingly never judges, she says "yes,okay, that's fine",even manage a smile or two,bunker down back after every attempt at leaving fails,left behind in the middle of the aftermath awaiting another invasion into the broken pot,she lays low, trying not to overflow the cracks, it's not easy being the easy daughter, she never runs,
gauging if the water'll eventually hold,eager for what once was, it's not easy being the easy daughter so you choose to live in between bus stops "the refugee" always leaving, it's not easy being the easy daughter for believe me i try even as i pack in my mind halfway through the road that seems to be the new home-