Letters to God

The Second Letter

As the weeks passed, the atmosphere in the youth group at the mosque grew vibrant with excitement. Yet, beneath this surface, I sensed an undercurrent of tension growing between Fahad and me. While we shared moments of laughter and camaraderie, something felt different—an unspoken change that I couldn't quite put my finger on.

My university courses were invigorating, and I was thriving academically. I made new friends and even joined a student organization focused on social justice, which aligned perfectly with my values. It ignited a newfound sense of purpose in my life. However, I noticed subtle shifts in Fahad's behavior as I became more involved with my studies and extracurricular activities.

One afternoon, while studying in the campus library, I received a text from Layla inviting me to a discussion group on community activism. Excited about the opportunity, I quickly replied, feeling a surge of anticipation at the thought of engaging with like-minded individuals. As I settled back into my study session, I noticed Fahad had texted me, asking how my day was going. I smiled at his thoughtfulness but felt a slight hesitation when I mentioned the discussion group.

"Are you sure you want to go?" he replied, his tone tinged with concern. "I heard some of those people can be a bit extreme in their views."

Surprise washed over me. "They're just students trying to make a difference, Fahad. I think it's great to hear different perspectives."

"Yeah, but you know how people can be. You don't want to get caught up in something that could affect your studies or reputation," he texted back, and I could sense a hint of tension in his words.

I felt a mix of confusion and frustration. "I can handle it. I'm just going to listen and learn," I replied, trying to reassure him.

When we met later that evening for a youth group planning session, I noticed Fahad's mood had shifted. His smile was strained, and he seemed preoccupied, as if his thoughts were elsewhere.

During the meeting, as we discussed the upcoming charity event, Fahad's responses grew increasingly curt. When someone suggested collaborating with another student organization, he frowned and crossed his arms. "Why do we need them? We can handle this on our own," he said sharply, causing a noticeable shift in the atmosphere.

Glancing around the room, I noted the surprised expressions of our friends. "Fahad, collaborating could bring in more resources and ideas. It's important to work together," I countered gently, feeling a flutter of unease in my stomach.

"I just think we should focus on what we're capable of. We don't need anyone else to validate our efforts," he replied, his voice tight.

After the meeting, I pulled Fahad aside, concern etched across my face. "What's going on with you? You seemed really off tonight."

"I'm just trying to make sure we stay true to our mission," he replied, but there was a hardness in his voice that made me uneasy.

"Fahad, it's okay to collaborate. You're not alone in this," I said softly, trying to connect with him. "We're all here for the same purpose."

His expression softened for a moment, but then he recoiled. "I know that. I just don't want anyone coming in and taking over what we're doing. It's important."

"Why does it feel like you're shutting everyone out?" I pressed, sensing a deeper issue at play.

"I'm not shutting anyone out," he shot back, his eyes flashing with frustration. "I just don't want you to get hurt."

The conversation left me unsettled. It was becoming clear that Fahad's desire for control was growing, and I began to question whether his passion for our cause masked deeper insecurities.