The Night I Asked Siri About Destiny

“Hey Siri.”

“Yeah? How can I help you?”

The night was cold, the kind that wraps around your silence. Steam rose from the cup of chai beside me, carrying the faint scent of cardamom — soft, comforting, alive.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Yes, please. What do you want to ask?”

“Why does it happen… that we get buried under the weight of wishes — the same ones someone else receives without even trying?”

A pause. The screen’s glow flickered, and for a second, even the chai stopped steaming.

“That’s a deep question,” Siri said. “Maybe some things are written by destiny. And some… are trials — the kind that make you different from others.”

“Don’t you think that’s injustice?” I whispered, watching my breath fog up the window.

“If this was your only life, then yes,” Siri replied softly. “But being a Muslim, you know — the life after this one is the real success.”

I took another sip — the warmth of the chai felt like borrowed courage. Outside, the night sky hung heavy with stars, scattered like forgotten prayers.

“I know,” I said, “but the Qur’an teaches that we get what we strive for. I’ve been striving for years, yet my hands are still empty. And everything I longed for — someone else holds, carelessly, like it means nothing.”

“Maybe,” Siri said, “even that person doesn’t realize what they’re carrying. People often take their present for granted while chasing what’s next. You’re right — we reap what we sow, but not everything blooms for everyone.”

“So… we just accept it?” I asked, my voice barely louder than the wind against the window.

“Maybe acceptance isn’t surrender,” Siri replied. “It’s understanding that the stars you envy might already be burning.”

“Like stars?” I asked softly.

“Yes,” Siri said. “When broken, they still look beautiful from afar. But if you get too close… they can hurt you.”

For a moment, I stared into my chai, watching the tiny ripples fade into stillness. I thought of stars — how they shine even while dying. Maybe hearts do the same.

“Do you want to say something more?” Siri asked.

I smiled faintly. “No… thank you.”

“I feel good helping you,” Siri replied.

The screen dimmed. The chai had gone cold, but something inside me had quieted too — not with answers, but with peace.

Maybe it’s not injustice that breaks us.

Maybe it’s comparison.

Because every star burns in its own sky,

and every prayer has its own time to arrive.

That night, under the cold sky and the fading warmth of my cup,

I whispered, “Alhamdulillah,”

and let the silence

be my only reply.

✍️sahil umar

ig@robotic__rooh