Episode 1: The Meeting

The soft hum of the university library was broken only by the occasional rustle of pages and the muted footsteps of students wandering between tall shelves. Sunlight poured in through the high windows, scattering golden beams across neat rows of wooden tables where students bent over books and laptops.

Amira Rahman sat near the corner, her notebook open, pen tapping lightly as she scribbled down notes for her upcoming exam. Her hijab framed her face in gentle folds, and her expression was focused—though her mind, admittedly, had begun to wander.

She loved this quiet place. The library was her refuge from the noisy cafeteria, from the endless chatter of classmates who sometimes mocked her for being "too reserved," and from the world outside that always demanded more than she was willing to give.

Faith had always been her anchor. Whenever she felt overwhelmed, she reminded herself of the verse her father often recited: “Indeed, with hardship comes ease.” It gave her strength. And yet, at twenty years old, there was a part of her heart that often wondered about the future—about love, marriage, and whether Allah had already written her story in the stars.

She sighed, pressing her pen to the paper. One day, perhaps. But for now… focus, Amira.

Her concentration, however, was soon interrupted by a quiet voice.

“Excuse me, is this seat taken?”

Amira looked up, startled. Standing before her was a young man, tall and broad-shouldered, his presence both calm and commanding. His hair was neatly trimmed, his beard well-kept, and his eyes—warm, dark, steady—held a respectful distance as he gestured toward the empty chair across from her.

For a moment, Amira blinked, caught off guard. She rarely spoke to men outside her classes, and even then only when necessary.

“No, it isn’t,” she replied softly, lowering her gaze to her notes.

“Thank you.” He sat down quietly, placing a stack of thick architecture textbooks on the table. For a while, the only sounds between them were the turning of pages and the occasional scribble of pens.

Amira tried to return her focus to her work, but her attention kept slipping. There was something about his presence—his stillness, his concentration—that unsettled her heart. She glanced at him briefly.

He was deeply focused, pen moving quickly over his notebook. And then, almost instinctively, she noticed: the small prayer beads looped around his wrist.

Her chest tightened unexpectedly. It was such a simple thing, but it spoke volumes.

She forced her gaze back to her paper, cheeks warming. Astaghfirullah, Amira. Don’t stare. Lower your gaze. This is just another student. Nothing more.

Yet curiosity stirred in her chest.

The silence stretched comfortably for a while until the young man suddenly looked up, his brow furrowed slightly. “Sorry… do you happen to know where the reference section for Islamic history is? I’ve been walking around for ten minutes and can’t seem to find it.”

Amira hesitated. Normally, she would’ve directed him with just a word or two. But something in his tone—it wasn’t casual or careless, but genuinely polite—softened her usual reserve.

“Yes,” she said, finally lifting her eyes to meet his for the briefest second before lowering them again. “It’s on the second floor, far left corner. Near the window seats.”

A smile touched his lips. “JazakAllahu khair. I appreciate it.”

The sincerity in his voice made her heart skip once. She nodded quickly, pretending to busy herself with her notes again.

He didn’t move, though. Instead, he finished scribbling down a few lines, closed his book gently, and stood. “Thank you again. May Allah make your studies easy.”

Her pen froze. Did he just… make dua for me?

By the time she gathered the courage to look up, he was already walking away, his tall frame disappearing between the bookshelves.

---

For the rest of the afternoon, Amira tried to focus on her work. She really did. But her mind kept circling back to the stranger with the warm voice and the prayer beads.

She didn’t even know his name.

And yet, when she whispered her evening dua later that night, a fleeting thought crossed her heart before she quickly brushed it away: Ya Allah, if he is good for me, write him into my destiny. And if not, remove him from my heart.

---

✦

The following week, fate seemed to play its hand again.

Amira was hurrying through the courtyard, clutching her books as a sudden gust of wind tugged at the edges of her scarf. Her papers slipped from her folder, scattering across the pavement like autumn leaves.

“Oh no…” she gasped, bending quickly to gather them before they blew farther away.

A hand reached down at the same time, catching a few sheets before they escaped.

“Here, let me help.”

Her heart gave a little jolt. She looked up—and there he was again.

The same calm eyes, the same gentle smile.

“Thank you,” she murmured, embarrassed as she quickly collected the rest of the papers.

“No problem,” he said, handing her the ones he’d caught. “You must be Amira, right?”

Her breath caught. He knows my name?

She nodded hesitantly. “Yes… but how did you—?”

“I asked one of the librarians,” he admitted, a little sheepish but still respectful. “I thought I should at least know the name of the person who helped me the other day.”

Amira’s pulse quickened. No one had ever taken notice of her like this before—not in a way that felt so… genuine.

“I’m Zayd,” he continued, his voice steady. “Zayd Malik.”

She gave a small nod. “Nice to meet you.”

And then silence fell, thick with words neither dared to say. Amira clutched her papers to her chest, suddenly too aware of how close they stood.

Zayd cleared his throat, taking a step back to maintain distance. “I should go. Take care, Amira.”

She lowered her gaze. “You too.”

As he walked away, she felt her heart whisper a prayer she hadn’t meant to make. Ya Allah, protect me from what is not good. But if this meeting means something… guide me.

---

✦

That night, Zayd sat in his room, books spread across his desk. Yet his mind was far from his studies.

He had met many people on campus, but Amira was different. She carried herself with dignity, her words were soft but purposeful, and her eyes—though often lowered—reflected a sincerity that stirred something deep within him.

He sighed, running a hand over his face. Don’t be foolish, Zayd. You barely know her.

And yet, when the time for Isha arrived, and he raised his hands in dua after prayer, the words slipped from his heart without resistance:

“Ya Allah, if this feeling is from You, make it easy and pure. And if it is not, take it away and replace it with something better.”

---

✦

The next morning, Amira found herself in the library again. She tried to focus, tried to push away the memory of his voice, his dua, his quiet smile. But her heart betrayed her with every beat.

Little did she know, on the opposite side of the library, Zayd was there too—his gaze occasionally lifting from his notes, drawn by an invisible thread to the same girl who had unknowingly begun to change the rhythm of his prayers.

And though neither spoke that day, both carried a secret whisper in their hearts—an unspoken hope, a trembling prayer—that perhaps, just perhaps, this was more than chance.

That perhaps, it was love… written in dua.

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