Lovebirds

forty-nine

The stars were gleaming at her that night as if they were reminding her the beauty of life. They glimmered in her eyes, a sparkle against inky skies. They shined through the fog, through the pain, through the hardships. Not once did those stars lose their hope, a perfection amidst a tarnishing world.

She couldn't help but feel bitter, hating the way she felt while at the same time chastising herself for not being grateful. 

That was the funny part. 

She knew she was lucky, that she was full of blessings, that her life was perfect in its own way. Naira didn't live paycheck to paycheck. Money was not an issue for her Alhamdulillah (thanks to God). 

So many Muslims in the world were struggling to eat, to breathe, to live. Calloused hands dug up cold bodies buried under the remnants of war. Blood soaked endless Muslim countries that fell victim to western colonization. They were pawns to another region's wealth, yet their lives had no meaning to those with power. Scream were silenced, and rights were violated.

Who am I to be complaining? 

To some, she was living the dream. To some, she was the epitome of success, but what did success mean if her heart suffered? 

What is success? 

The words of others burdened her time and time again. Her quiet life was thrusted into public scrutiny once more. They tore her apart in the media for simply existing. Naira was sent death threats, told she failed her deen, sentenced to a social media execution.

Her eyes began to burn, stinging with the harshness of reality, and tears began to stream down her cheeks as her chest clutched. She took off her glasses, roughly wiping at her eyes. 

Don't be a baby, Naira. You signed up for this.

Even she could tell that she was being uncharacteristically mean to herself. The truth was she didn't know what she was signing up for. She was just a girl with a dream, a woman who fell in love in the process. 

A dulling ache formed as she recounted the words her father had once told her. 

"Life wasn't made to be easy."

Truth was, Naira was exhausted. She was tired of chasing this corporate dream. Every day felt like she was dragging on, weights pulling at her arms as she continued to run through a sandstorm. Issues piled one after another until her eyes pricked with indifference. 

Somewhere along the line, she lost direction, and she wondered if she was buried too deep in the desert to find her way out. 

Her chest heaved with another sob. Ya Allah, what am I doing? What is my role in this world, Allah?

It was around Isha (night prayer) time, and Naira thought she might as well pray now instead of crying beside her window like a damsel in distress. She had to pray, not because she thought all her problems would go away.

It was because prayer was the only thing to stall her racing mind. The doubts whirled around her, and she needed a minute to breathe again. 

Pulling on a hijab and grabbing her favorite prayer mat, Naira stood up to pray when a knock came at their bedroom door and her husband entered, speaking before seeing her. 

"Sorry for coming back so late," he said, shrugging off his jacket. When their eyes met, Rayan paused, taking in his surroundings. "Did I disturb you?"

She shook her head. "I was going to pray. It's been a long day."

"Tell me about it," he laughed dryly. 

Rayan's eyes were a dull green, the hues of a glistening ocean nowhere in sight, as if the day had beaten him to the ground as well. She knew the hate comments were impacting the band, and when Naira checked out for the day, her husband stayed behind to navigate murky waters.