💕Prologue💕
[ Just a quick note: This story explores family dynamics, cultural expectations, and personal choices — it does NOT promote or endorse child marriage, forced marriage, or any form of coercion. These are fictional characters navigating a complex world. Everything is written with awareness and respect. If you have questions, feel free to ask. ]
The classroom had emptied hours ago.
The last of the afternoon light slanted through the dusty windows, catching the particles floating in the air like tiny, suspended stars.
She stood in front of him, her hijab clutched tightly in her trembling hands.
Her eyes were red and swollen, but she was no longer crying.
She had passed that stage.
“I understand,” she said, her voice strangely steady, “that I am nothing like you.”
He opened his mouth.
“Don’t.”
She raised a hand.
“Don’t pretend. I’ve heard everything.”
Her voice cracked, but she forced herself to continue.
“Your mother is better than me. In every way. She’s educated. She’s refined. She’s...” She swallowed. “She’s everything I’m not.”
He took a step toward her.
“I never wanted to marry you either,” she continued. “We’re still in school. Who gets married in school?”
A tear slipped down her cheek.
“I never should have listened to Achal. I never should have trusted what she told me.” Her fingers tightened around her hijab. “I should have known. How could someone like you ever like someone like me?”
“That’s not—”
“You shouldn’t be worried.”
She stepped back before he could come any closer.
“You really shouldn’t.”
She drew in a shaky breath.
“We’re young now. We can’t do anything about it.”
Her eyes met his.
“But when we grow up, we can.”
There was something frighteningly certain in her voice now.
“I promise you, when we grow up, I will leave you. I’ll tell everyone that I don’t want this marriage—the marriage that was forced upon us when we were children.”
He stared at her.
“I’ll free you from this marriage you consider a burden.”
Her voice trembled.
“Because I will never stay with someone who doesn’t love me. Who doesn’t respect me.”
She looked away for a moment.
“I would rather be alone than be...”
The word caught in her throat.
“...tolerated.”
Silence.
Then she reached into her schoolbag.
Her hand emerged holding a small, hand-decorated card.
Pressed flowers.
Careful calligraphy.
Hours of work.
The kind of card a girl makes when she is foolish enough to believe her feelings might someday be returned.
She looked down at it.
One last time.
Then she let it fall.
The card landed at his feet, face up.
He saw the words she had written across the front.
To my dear husband.
She turned toward the door.
She walked away without looking back.
Her hand touched the doorframe.
She paused.
Just for a moment.
Then she wiped her tears with the back of her hand.
“Allah is enough for me,” she whispered.
And she left.
He remained where he was.
His eyes lowered to the card.
To my dear husband.
A few minutes ago, she had been standing in front of him, trembling and crying, trying desperately to make him understand.
Now there was no one left to explain anything.
Only the card.
Only the empty doorway.
And a strange ache he didn’t yet know how to name.
He bent down and picked it up.
His fingers brushed over the pressed flowers.
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💕𝓢𝓱𝓮 𝓱𝓪𝓭 𝓯𝓪𝓵𝓵𝓮𝓷 𝓯𝓲𝓻𝓼𝓽.
𝓗𝓮 𝓱𝓪𝓭 𝓷𝓸 𝓲𝓭𝓮𝓪 𝓽𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝓸𝓷𝓮 𝓭𝓪𝔂...
𝓱𝓮 𝔀𝓸𝓾𝓵𝓭 𝓯𝓪𝓵𝓵 𝓱𝓪𝓻𝓭𝓮𝓻.💕
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