Written in Du’a

Amina had always believed in the quiet power of du’a.

She had never been the type to dream of grand romantic gestures or cinematic love stories. For her, love looked like gentle understanding, a shared prayer mat, and someone who would remind her of Allah when the world became loud.

So when her mother mentioned that a family had inquired about her, Amina was calm. Not excited, not anxious, just grounded. “Let me pray Istikhara,” she had said, as always.

The boy’s name was Zayd. A civil engineer, slightly older, who had returned to Sri Lanka after finishing his studies abroad. His mother had seen Amina at a community workshop where she was tutoring underprivileged children in English and had been quietly observing her ever since.

“A girl with adab, not just ambition,” she had told her son.

The first meeting was arranged at Amina’s home, in the presence of both families.

There was no awkward silence just respectful conversation, tea, and the rustle of intentions being tested.

Later, both parents agreed the two could speak privately in the garden, within earshot but alone enough to express their thoughts. Amina wore a soft blue abaya and held a notebook in her hand. Zayd noticed that how she came prepared, not to impress but to understand.

“Can I be honest?” Zayd asked.

“I’d prefer it,” Amina smiled.

“I didn’t grow up imagining this moment. But I’ve grown to believe that love, when done the halal way, is the most powerful form of companionship. And I’m not looking for just a wife I’m looking for a partner in faith.”

Amina nodded, her fingers playing with the edge of her notebook.

“I believe love isn’t something that ‘happens’ to us. It’s something we build with respect, with effort, with Allah in the center. My fear has always been... ending up with someone who practices Islam only on the surface.”

“I understand,” Zayd replied. “I want to build a home where the adhan isn’t background noise. Where we remind each other to fast not just in Ramadan. Where kindness isn’t just for the public eye.”

She smiled. “And someone who doesn’t mind that I write poetry late at night.”

He chuckled. “As long as you don’t expect me to rhyme my engineering reports.”

Weeks passed.

They continued speaking but only during family meetings, or when her brother was present. Their conversations were filled with little discoveries: Zayd preferred tea without sugar. Amina hated morning meetings. He loved hiking. She feared heights. But deeper than all of that was the spiritual bond forming slowly, carefully.

They read Qur’an together over Zoom. They shared books on emotional intelligence in marriage. Zayd once sent her a hadith with a note: “I think of this whenever I think of love.”

“The best of you is the best to his wife.” — Prophet Muhammad ﷺ

That line stayed with Amina.

One day, Zayd asked for five minutes alone with her father.

The next day, a simple proposal arrived, along with a modest ring and a heartfelt letter for Amina. Not promising the moon or stars but promising prayer, patience, and presence.

Nikkah Day.

There were no grand halls. Just close family, soft lights, and two hearts brought together by prayer. Amina wore ivory. Zayd waited patiently, eyes lowered, heart steady.

The imam’s words echoed:

“Do you, Amina, accept Zayd as your husband, in accordance with the Book of Allah and the Sunnah of His Messenger?”

She smiled, tears brimming.

“Yes. I accept.”

Later, after the guests had left and the night had quieted, they sat together—side by side for the first time.

Zayd whispered, “You know… they say marriage is half of our deen.”

Amina looked at him, softly.

“So let’s spend the rest of our lives completing the other half—together.”

And they did.

Through laughter, storms, early morning fajr, and late-night tea.

They built a home on du’a, patience, and the quiet, unwavering belief that love, when written by Allah, doesn’t rush, it arrives with barakah.