Her Fate

✧ Ziya's POV ✧

Assalamu Alaikum. My name is Khadija Iqra, but everyone calls me Ziya, everyone except Appa. I'm the daughter of the golden heart of Istanbul, the green soul of Bangladesh, and the quiet, sea-kissed rhythm of Busan, Korea. My Appa, Muhammad Zayed, carries painful stories. Stories of war, loss, and survival. He also carries a love story, a quiet one, born in a land far from where he was born.

My Eomma, Ayesha Iqra, carries warmth, laughter, tea-scented memories, and soft Turkish lullabies that she still hums when she thinks I’m asleep. And me? I carry a longing. A silent kind of ache. I want to walk the roads my Appa once ran barefoot as a little boy. I want to speak the language, Bangla. That still feels strange on my tongue and makes Appa chuckle every time I try.

Appa was born in East Pakistan, before it became Bangladesh. During the 1971 Liberation War, he lost his entire family. He was just a tiny baby, only 2 years old when tragedy changed his life. He survived, somehow, alone, in a country burning with violence and grief. But even after everything… Appa grew up strong. Not just strong, brilliant. He was a top student, always full of dreams. In his twenties, he came to South Korea on a scholarship.

He wanted to study, to start fresh. But what he didn’t expect… was to fall in love. With a girl who made him believe in peace again. That girl was my mother. Her love brought calm to his storm. She gave him back the sense of safety, warmth, and hope he had lost.

My Eomma is half-Korean and half-Turkish. Their love story is something from the movies: gentle, a little rebellious, and completely real. In their time, love marriages were rare. But they followed their hearts. Eomma’s family lived in Istanbul, and I still remember our last trip there. I was only eleven years old, but it feels like yesterday, the warm smell of roasted chestnuts, the cry of seagulls flying above the Bosphorus, and the way my grandmother’s soft hands held mine.

I remember it all. That was the last time I saw her. But I’ve never been to Bangladesh. I’ve never seen the land where my Appa grew up. I’ve never touched its soil, never breathed its air. But Appa’s eyes change when he talks about it. There’s something in his silence that tells me his heart still belongs there. Visiting Bangladesh with Appa is my dream.

I was born in Busan, Korea. So I guess I’m a little bit of everything. 50% Korean, 25% Bangladeshi, and 25% Turkish = 100% me. I speak Korean fluently, of course. I know some Turkish, thanks to Eomma. But Bangla? Oh, it’s a disaster. I mix up the words, get the grammar all wrong. Appa just laughs and says, "You sound like a tourist in your own story." My mother has only one younger sister, Aunt Nida and today is her wedding day.

The weather is perfect. Soft sunshine wraps around us like a gentle hug, and a cool breeze makes the flower garlands dance in the air. It smells like celebration, like beauty, like love. The guests have arrived. Laughter fills the air, mixing with cheerful chatter. The Nikah ceremony is about to begin. I was upstairs with my elder sister Hiba and her friends. We were giggling like kids, peeking down at the crowd below like we were spying on a secret movie set. Our eyes searched for the groom, Uncle Ayan and there he was, standing in the middle of a group of young men, laughing and chatting. My gaze shifted to the boy standing next to Uncle. He was wearing a navy blue suit that looked like it was made just for him.

It wasn’t too flashy, just quietly elegant. His smile was gentle, and his two front teeth peeked out in a way that was so cute like a rabbit, it almost made me chuckle. His eyes were round, doe-like, so innocent. And his jawline? Sharp, like it was drawn by an artist. Everything about him felt unreal. "Wow… he looks like an anime character," I whispered under my breath. And then… he looked straight at me.

My heart jumped. I froze. Then I panicked. When our eyes met, I quickly turned around and pretended to fix my hijab, like I wasn’t staring at him. But when I glanced sideways…My stomach dropped. Everyone else had already left. When? I don’t know. I was standing there completely alone, like a tree. "Oh no… he must be thinking I’m a total weirdo…" I mumbled, my face burning like fire. I took a deep breath and turned back for one quick peek just to make sure he wasn’t looking. But he was still looking right at me. Not blinking. Not laughing.

Just looking. "Ya Allah… not again!" I whispered in horror, clutching my gown as I ran inside, my heart thumping like a drum, cheeks flushed.

✧ Author's POV ✧

Junaid was talking to Ayan when something caught his eye, a flicker of movement, a quiet shimmer, and his attention drifted. There, on the staircase above, stood a girl in a navy blue gown. The fabric sparkled as if thousands of tiny stars had been sewn into it, twinkling with every breath she took. A matching hijab framed her face, soft and elegant. Their eyes met. Startled, she quickly looked to her right, then to her left, as if hoping no one had noticed.

Then, hesitantly, her eyes came back to him. Her lips moved, she whispered something under her breath but the sound disappeared into the soft hum of the gathering. Still, she held his gaze, and something in that moment made Junaid forget everything else.

Ayan’s voice became nothing more than background noise. Junaid wasn’t listening anymore, he just nodded, eyes locked on the girl. She held the side of her gown with her fingers and turned, walking away with a sudden lightness in her step, almost like she was escaping. That made him chuckle. A smile crept onto his lips, uninvited and impossible to stop. He lowered his gaze and whispered to himself, "Ya Allah, protect my eyes."

The hall fell silent with reverence as Kazi began the Nikah ceremony. "Nida Iqra, daughter of the late Furkan Hassan and the late Malak Iqra," the Kazi announced clearly, "do you accept Ayan Khan, son of the late Shihab Khan and the late Nazia Khan, as your husband? If you accept, please say, "Yes, I do." Nida’s voice was clear and graceful. "Yes, I do." Kazi turned to Ayan and repeated the words. "Ayan Khan, son of the late Shihab Khan and the late Nazia Khan, do you accept Nida Iqra, daughter of the late Furkan Hassan and the late Malak Iqra, as your wife? If you accept, please say, "Yes, I do." Ayan answered softly, yet with confidence, "Yes, I do."

A gentle murmur of joy spread through the room. Kazi smiled and said, "Congratulations. By the grace of Allah, I now declare Ayan Khan and Nida Iqra husband and wife." The Nikah was complete.

The room filled with quiet prayers as everyone made munajat, asking Allah for blessings.

Now came the moment everyone had been waiting for, the curtain would be drawn aside, and Ayan would see his newlywed bride in her wedding attire. Ziya sat beside Nida on the women's side. Her seven-year-old younger brother, Shoheb, sat quietly on her other side, his little hands folded in his lap. Behind them, Hiba and Ayesha, whispered excitedly, their eyes sparkling. Slowly, the white curtain that separated the bride and groom began to move aside. Ziya’s eyes stayed on Nida, watching her aunt’s expression as she saw her husband. But after a moment, curiosity got the better of her, and she turned her head toward the groom’s side.

And that’s when she saw him, the boy in the blue suit. He was sitting right next to Ayan. Their eyes met. For a heartbeat, time froze. Junaid didn’t look away. He couldn’t. He felt his heart skip a beat. Her eyes deep, beautiful, and expressive, shone in the soft light like raindrops resting on flower petals.

Ziya frowned slightly, rolled her eyes, and turned away. But it was already too late for him. He was lost in her bambi doe eyes, framed by thick, fluttering lashes. Those hazel-brown orbs had held him captive in a single glance, pulling him into a silence he didn’t want to escape from. They weren’t just eyes, they were whole universes, soft and stormy, carrying warmth, wonder, and a trace of mystery. She was effortlessly beautiful, not the kind of beauty that demanded attention, but the kind that lingered in memory long after she had passed.

Ziya never showed off. She never needed to. She was beauty wrapped in modesty, sweet, cheerful, innocent with a dash of clumsiness that only made her more endearing. She had the heart of a child and the soul of an angel. Kind, humble, always thinking of others. To others, she was unforgettable. To her father, Zayed, she was everything. He always called her his "Moon" not because she shone the brightest, but because she glowed like the moon soft, quiet, and impossible to forget.

Zayed asked Hiba, Ziya, and Shoheb to make sure everyone had eaten dates before touching the desserts. It wasn’t just a tradition for him, it was a deeply meaningful gesture. He believed that joy should begin with something pure and blessed. Dates, to him, were more than fruit. They were a symbol of gratitude, faith, and the teachings of the

Prophet Muhammad sallallahu alayhi wa sallam. The dessert tables were full of delicious treats, golden gulab jamuns soaking in syrup, crispy pistachio baklava, soft firni in glass bowls sprinkled with saffron and silver, mochi, bright fruit tarts, and melt-in-your-mouth Turkish delights. But Zayed only cared that everyone had eaten dates first.

Ziya carefully carried a silver tray filled with glossy dates, while Shoheb moved around, smiling and offering them to the guests. Once most of the guests had received their dates, Ziya was about to leave when she noticed someone sitting quietly in the garden on a swing. The swing was beautifully decorated with flowers, surrounded by rose bushes, and carried a gentle scent of jasmine.

The boy in a blue suit was sitting there. Ziya walked over to him. "Assalamu Alaikum. Would you like to have some wedding dates?" she asked, holding out the tray. Junaid looked up, surprised, but smiled. "Wa’alaikumus Salaam" he replied softly, taking two dates without meeting her eyes. Ziya gave a polite nod and turned to leave, but her gown got caught under her heels. She stumbled, and the tray fell to the ground. The dates scattered across the grass. Junaid quickly stood up. "Are you alright, miss?" he asked with concern.

Ziya’s cheeks turned red with embarrassment as she stood up and brushed herself off. "I’m fine," she said, trying to stay calm. He crouched down and helped her gather the dates. "Thank you," she whispered, taking the tray once they finished. He nodded silently, and Ziya walked back into the hall. Her heartbeat slightly out of rhythm. Inside, she spotted Hiba and rushed over. "Eonni, who’s that boy in the garden, the one in the blue suit?" Hiba looked and smiled. "Oh, that’s JK...Junaid Khan. Uncle Ayan’s nephew." Ziya frowned. "I’ve never seen him before."

"He was out of the country," Hiba explained. "Just got back recently. Why are you asking?" Ziya blinked. "I was just curious." Before Hiba could say more, Zayed called out, "Khadija! Come here!"

"I’m coming, Appa!" Ziya replied and hurried over. Zayed and Anas were introducing Nida and Ayan to the guests. Anas stood with his graceful wife, Hina, beside him.

Everyone exchanged smiles and warm greetings. Then Hina said with a proud smile, "Zayed oppa, you’ve introduced Nida to everyone, except my son!" She turned and called, "Junaid, come here."

He approached respectfully and greeted the elders. "This is my one and only son, Junaid Khan," Hina said lovingly. "He was out of Korea, so he couldn’t meet you earlier."

"Assalamu Alaikum, Aunty. Congratulations on your wedding and welcome to our family." Nida smiled back. "Wa’alaikumus Salaam. Thank you." Zayed looked at Anas with a smile. "Masha’Allah, your son is handsome and well-mannered. He seems like a true gentleman. Insha’Allah, he’ll be a great man, just like you." Anas smiled. "I just hope he turns out as loyal and accomplished as you, Zayed." The two men shared a warm look, a quiet understanding between them.

Now, the hall grew quiet as the time for Nida’s rukhsati came. A gentle, aching sadness filled the air soft like a prayer, heavy like goodbye. Nida’s sister Ayesha held her tightly, tears in her eyes. "You’re not alone, and you never will be," Ayesha whispered, kissing her sister’s forehead. "My prayers are always wrapping you like a hug." Nida nodded, her eyes shimmering. After tearful goodbyes, she stepped into her new life.

At Zayed Mansion

"Appa, did you talk to Aunt?" Ziya asked. Adjusting his glasses, Zayed replied, "Neh.. Have you offered the Isha prayer?"

"Neh, Appa," she replied, then headed to the kitchen to heat some water. A few minutes later, she returned and sat beside him, resting her head on his shoulder. Zayed continued reading the newspaper while he asked. "Do you have class tomorrow?" She nodded. "Appa, I have a question."

"Neh, ask," Zayed said, folding the newspaper and setting it aside. "Why do Muslims give mahr?" Zayed replied with a smile.

"In Islamic law, mahr is a gift or contribution made by the husband to the wife. It’s for her exclusive use as a mark of respect and acknowledgment of her independence. It isn’t just a gift in the traditional sense, it’s obligatory, and she receives it as her right. The husband must pay the mahr unless the wife, of her own free will and without pressure, chooses to forgive it or return it. It belongs solely to her, not to her parents or guardians. Mahr can also serve as a source of support in case of divorce, death, or other hardship."

Ziya smiled. "Wallahi, Islam gives so many privileges to women." She stood up, brought back a bowl of warm water, and set it down at Zayed's feet. "Your feet must be aching. Put them in and you'll feel better."

"Thank you, my beloved Khadija. Now go to bed, you have class tomorrow," he said, kissing her side forehead. She nodded, wished him good night, and went to her room. Lying in bed, her thoughts drifted to the boy in the blue suit, how he caught her staring, how she stumbled and he saw it. "Ya Allah, what an embarrassing moment," she whispered, hiding her face under the blanket.

✧ Junaid’s POV ✧

A few days passed in quiet normalcy after Uncle Ayan’s wedding and the grand reception that followed. Life gradually settled back into its usual rhythm and I buried myself in my studies.

One morning, when the sunlight was still hiding behind the curtains, I slowly woke up from sleep. My mind was wrapped in the haze of a dream. In it, a girl was running through a vast sunflower garden, where the flowers swayed gently in the breeze. She looked at me with a soft, radiant smile but her face was unclear, as if it were a painting covered in mist. Her brown hair, streaked with golden strands, fluttered in the wind as

She ran after butterflies. In her hand was a single sunflower, its petals glowing in the golden light of the dream. I stared at the ceiling for a while, the dream still clinging to the edges of my mind. Then, shaking it off, I got out of bed and did my usual morning routine. After breakfast, I headed out for a group study session and returned home around noon, the kitchen was full of life. Eomma and the maids moved briskly, prepping ingredients, stirring sauces, chopping vegetables. The sounds of knives hitting the cutting board and pots clinking filled the room. I wandered in, curious.

"Eomma, why are you cooking so early?" I asked, watching her taste something from a wooden spoon. Without looking up from the pot, Eomma replied, "I want to finish my work before they arrive so I can actually sit with them when they come." I nodded slowly. "I didn’t think of that." A pile of colorful vegetables sat on the kitchen island,

carrots, potatoes, green beans, onions. I grabbed a fresh, clean carrot and wandered into the living room, munching absentmindedly. I slumped onto the sofa and started flipping through TV channels, though I wasn’t really watching anything.

A few minutes later, one of the maids entered politely. "Sir, your guests have arrived. Would you like to greet them, or shall I?"

"I’ll welcome them," I said quickly, brushing crumbs off my shirt. I popped another bite of carrot into my mouth and hurried to the front door. When I opened it, Uncle Zayed and his family stood there, smiling warmly. The driver held a tray wrapped in clear paper, filled with fruits and sweets. Ziya and Hiba noona stood beside holding gift bags. "Assalamu Alaikum," I greeted, stepping aside to let them in. "Wa’alaikumus Salaam," Uncle Zayed replied, giving me a friendly pat on the back. I told the maids to take the gifts and trays of fruit, Uncle had brought lavish, as always, a reflection of his generous nature. Inside the living room,

Shoheb dashed straight to the couch in front of the TV. "Yahh, Ziya Noona, look! Doraemon!" he shouted excitedly. Ziya smiled and joined him, instantly drawn into the colorful cartoon world. She wore a crisp white blouse with puffed sleeves, layered beneath, a sleeveless cream-colored sweater vest adorned with a pastel argyle pattern in shades of pink, lavender, and light blue. Her A-line skirt flowed gracefully to just above her ankles, a light pink hijab framed her face delicately, completing the look. Altogether, she looked effortlessly charming, modest yet stylish, with a quiet grace that made her presence feel warm and endearing. Not long after, Uncle Ayan and Aunt Nida arrived. The house was filled with cheerful conversation and laughter. From across the room, Eomma called out, "Ziya, Shoheb! Come have some snacks. Why aren’t you eating?"

Ziya jumped up and ran to the table, grabbing a few chocolates and a cupcake in one go. With a mischievous grin, she stuck her tongue out at Shoheb. I watched her quietly, a small smile tugging at my lips before I even realized it. "How childish... but she’s cute," I thought to myself. After a while Appa called me and said, "Junaid, go show Ziya and Shoheb around the house." I nodded and looked over at Ziya. She glanced at Uncle Zayed, silently asking for permission.

He gave a small nod. "Go on, children," he said warmly. Ziya stood up. "Come on, Shoheb, let's go."

I showed them around the house, eventually leading them to my study. "This is my study room," I said. Ziya stepped in, her eyes widening at the sight of the books neatly arranged on the shelves.

On the other side of the room, canvases, paints, and brushes filled a small creative corner. A few completed paintings hung on the walls, vivid scenes of forests, sunsets, and abstract heels. "Ziya, look. There are storybooks and novels here.

You can read them if you want," I offered. But before I could say more, she asked excitedly, "JK, do you paint?"

"Neh. I enjoy painting, sketching and reading novels. It's my hobby."

"Jin-jja?? I love painting too! If paint were edible, I'd eat it with every meal!" she said with a playful laugh, lightly smacking Shoheb’s shoulder. "Noona, it hurts!" Shoheb complained, rubbing his arm. Ziya leaned down and whispered, "Shut up," with a mischievous grin. Then she looked back at me. "Do you mind if I call you JK?" she asked innocently. "Aniyo, I don't mind. My friends call me JK too," I replied. "Oh, I see! Then I'll call you JK," she said brightly. "As you wish," I smiled. She walked around the room, admiring the paintings, and picked up one of the canvases. "This is so beautiful! You're really very talented! MashaAllah."

"Noona, I also want to do painting!" Shoheb suddenly chimed in. "You want to paint?" I asked. "Yes!! Yes!! I want to!" he jumped up excitedly. "Let's do painting then. Ziya, will you join us?" Ziya beamed. "I'm always ready to paint. Let’s go!" I smiled. "Great, but before that, let me show you the garden." She nodded, and I led them outside. "Your garden is really beautiful," she said as her eyes wandered over the lush greenery. "I’ve placed a swing in the corner of my garden too. It’s kind of my personal space. I like spending time there." I raised an eyebrow. "You mean the place where you gave me dates?" Ziya nodded with a little smile. "Nehh."

"Then let’s paint here. Shoheb, boss, what do you say?"

"Let’s do painting, yaaaa!!" Shoheb shouted excitedly, throwing his arms in the air.

✧ Author's POV ✧

The afternoon was filled with laughter and the soft sound of brushes on canvas. Ziya watched Junaid as he helped Shoheb.

She couldn't help but think to herself, he’s so tall, handsome, and talented. MashaAllah. "JK! What are you studying? You graduated from Oxford University, right?" she asked. Junaid nodded. "Yeah, I completed my MBA. Now I’m pursuing my MA diploma in Jewelry Design and Arts in Korea while helping Appa with work." He glanced at her, curiosity flickering in his eyes. "And you? Are you still in high school, or…?"

Ziya frowned. "Do I look like a high school student?" Junaid nodded playfully. "Neh." Ziya huffed, clearly annoyed. "Just because of my height, I have to hear this all the time," she mumbled under her breath, took a deep breath and said, "I’m 5'2. I’m not short, others are just a bit taller than me." Junaid couldn’t help but chuckle, finding her reaction cute. "But I didn’t say anything about your height."

"I’m a university student, not a high school student," she added firmly. "Freshman?" Junaid asked. She nodded.

He quietly thought to himself, "People will get confused because of her childish behavior, not her height."

"How old are you, Ziya?" he asked. With pride, she replied, "I’m 19 years old. I'm a very mature person, you know. What about you?" Junaid chuckled softly. "Mature? Seriously?" He cleared his throat and answered, "I’m 24, but I don’t think I’m as mature as you," he said with a playful grin. She offered an innocent smile and turned her attention back to the painting.

Evening came. They both finished their paintings. After Maghrib prayer, they returned to the backyard garden. "JK, show me your painting," Ziya said, curious. Junaid held it up. He had drawn a flower vase with pink roses. "Daebak! It’s so beautiful!" Ziya's eyes widened with amazement. "Now show me yours," he said. Ziya held up her painting and he smiled brightly, "Wow. Beautiful! You’re a great painter. It's our garden view, right?" Ziya nodded.

"Nehh. Let’s show them to everyone! But where is Shoheb?" Junaid looked back "He went inside a long time ago." Then they went inside, each holding their artwork.

Ziya grinned, "Appa! Look at this! How is it?" Zayed looked and said warmly, "MashaAllah, Moon. It’s beautiful as always." She took Junaid’s painting and held it up. "Look, JK painted this. Isn’t it beautiful?"

"MashaAllah… MashaAllah. Our children are so talented. Alhamdulillah. Very nice, Junaid," Zayed praised. Anas chimed in, "Zayed, let’s do an art exhibition with their paintings. What do you think?" Ziya smiled shyly, "Uncle, isn’t that too much?" Everyone burst out laughing at her honest reaction. From behind, Shoheb proudly said, "See, I also painted!"

"Great work, Shoheb! It's beautiful." Hina said warmly and others praised him. After a while they all gathered at the dining table, enjoying the food and the warmth of family. During the meal, Zayed looked at Shoheb and asked gently, "Did you say Bismillah before eating?" Shoheb nodded innocently "Neh, Appa." While Hiba, Nida, Ayesha, and Hina were busy talking about recipes. Sharing tips and arguing over whether olive oil or ghee tastes better in biriyani, the others quietly ate their food. The room was filled with the smell of delicious dishes, and the soft sounds of chopsticks and plates made everything feel warm and cozy. Junaid looked at Ziya and asked, "Ziya if you don't mind... Can we exchange our paintings? You take mine, and I’ll take yours?"

"Okay," she agreed with a smile. After dinner and some quiet chatting, it was time to go home. They said their goodbyes and returned to their house. While Ziya was busy helping Ayesha with something, "Khadija, have you prayed the Isha prayer?" Zayed asked.

"No, Appa not yet."

"What about Hiba?" he asked in a quiet, firm tone. "Eonni already prayed. I was helping Eomma, so I thought I’d pray

later," she replied. "That’s good you helped, but remember to pray on time," he reminded kindly. "The first duty of a Muslim is to pray on time. Do you understand, Khadija?"

"Neh, Appa." She nodded and went to her room. After finishing her Isha prayer, Ziya sat down to do Dhikr.

33 times — Subhan-Allah (Glory be to Allah)

33 times — Alhamdulillah (Praise be to Allah)

33 times — Allahu Akbar (Allah is the Greatest)

And once: La ilaha ill-Allahu, wahdahu la sharika lahu, lahul-mulku wa lahul-hamdu, wa Huwa 'ala kulli shai’in Qadir.

The Prophet Muhammad sallallahu alayhi wa sallam said that whoever says this after prayer will have all their sins forgiven, even if they are as much as the foam of the sea.

Ziya then recited the last three verses of Surah Al-Baqarah, Surah At-Takathur and Surah Al-Mulk. After finishing her Qur’an recitation, she went to bed and suddenly remembered, she had forgotten to bring Junaid’s painting! She laid down on her right side and whispered.

"Allahumma bismika amutu wa ahya."

O Allah, with Your Name I die and I live.

Then began her nightly Dhikr.

33 times Subhan-Allah.

33 times Alhamdulillah.

34 times Allahu Akbar.

Her eyes slowly closed as her lips moved in quiet remembrance. The peaceful rhythm of Dhikr lulled her to sleep. She drifted into sleep, her heart light, her soul at peace. The Prophet Muhammad sallallahu alayhi wa sallam once told his beloved daughter Fatima (RA) that uttering these words before sleep is better than a servant at her side.

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To be continued....

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