Veil of Truth

Chapter 9

Zayd's POV

Zayd sat back in his chair, arms crossed, as his mother prattled on about her again. "She's so pious, Zayd," his mother had said just this morning, as if it were the highest compliment one could receive. "So humble, so obedient. She wears the niqab so beautifully, and her recitations are so pure. She will be a good match for you."

His teeth clenched at the thought. Every day, his mother spoke of her—her piety, her devotion, her angelic qualities—and Zayd was getting sick of it. The more his mother praised her, the more he saw through the act. He knew what was going on. He wasn't as naïve as his mother. He could see right through it.

Manipulation. That's what it was. Zayd could almost see the strings she was pulling, how she'd expertly woven herself into his mother's life, playing on her vulnerability. The niqab, the prayers, the sweet, innocence—it was all a performance. She wasn't as pure as his mother thought. He could tell. She was using all of it to her advantage.

He had seen how she had looked at him when they met at the dinner—her gaze so cool, almost distant, like she knew something he didn't. Maybe she thought he'd be just like his mother, easy to manipulate, but he wasn't. He wasn't some naive fool to fall for it.

"I'll never be her puppet," Zayd muttered to himself under his breath. "I'll never let her use my mother to get what she wants."

The thought of being trapped in a life with her made his stomach turn. This wasn't a match for love—it was a match for convenience. It was as if his entire life was being arranged for him, and she was the perfect piece to fit into it. His mother wasn't seeing it, but Zayd saw through it all. He could feel the strings being pulled, feel the tightness of the net around him, and he hated it.

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Zayd had once believed in Allah—once. But that was before the night his father's heart failed him, before the world went dark, and all the prayers he had whispered into the quiet air felt like nothing more than empty echoes.

His faith had died with his father.

Now, Zayd lived in a world where uncertainty reigned, where questions crowded his mind, and answers never came. He had no room for faith, not after the loss, not after the betrayal, not after the silence that followed his father's passing. And yet, despite his conviction, despite his rejection of the divine, his mother was relentless.

She had already chosen his future.

"Amina is perfect for you," she said, her voice filled with hope and desperation. "She's a good, practicing girl. Just like your father would've wanted. She'll help you find your way back."

But Zayd knew better. He couldn't help but feel a cold anger gnawing at his chest. His mother, in her blindness, had been manipulated—innocently, perhaps—but manipulated nonetheless. Amina, with her act of being pious and niqab, had wormed her way into his mother's heart. Zayd saw it, but he couldn't prove it. Was she truly the answer to his pain, or was she just another pawn in his mother's desperate attempt to bring him back into the fold of faith?

He'd met Amina only two times—always polite, always sweet, but there was something too perfect about her. Something almost... predatory, beneath the surface. He couldn't trust her, couldn't trust anyone who wore faith like a mask. She, too, studied medicine with her sister—a world of healing that seemed so far removed from his broken soul. He didn't want a healer. He wanted answers. He wanted to be left alone.

But the marriage was happening, whether he liked it or not. The pressure was suffocating. There was no escape.

Zayd stood by the window, staring into the night, the weight of his mother's expectations pulling him deeper into the quicksand of his own disbelief. He had once believed, once trusted. But now... he wasn't sure what to believe in anymore.

The silence in the room thickened, pressing down on him, suffocating. Zayd felt the walls closing in, the weight of his own thoughts becoming unbearable. His heart raced, the steady beat pounding in his ears like a countdown. There was no escape.

Not from his mother. Not from Amina. And certainly not from the past that haunted him.

It had been so long since he'd felt peace, so long since he'd trusted anyone or anything. The loss of his father had taken everything from him. His faith. His trust. His direction. He'd drifted in an ocean of questions and doubt, alone and adrift. He had spent months pretending he didn't care about the world's expectations, that the whispers of society, the calls from family, all of it didn't matter to him.

But the reality was different. He couldn't live like this forever, running from everything. His mother had tried to shield him from the harshness of life, from the crushing weight of grief. She saw Amina as the answer—a woman who could somehow pull Zayd back from the abyss, restore his faith, fix what had been broken. But Zayd wasn't broken. He was just... lost.

The thought of Amina, of the marriage, still felt foreign, like someone else's life he had been forced to inhabit. Did he want this? Did he want a future that looked like this, a life where he was bound to someone he barely knew, trapped in a cycle of duty and obligation?

No. He didn't want it.

But what choice did he have?

The weight of his mother's hope—the light in her eyes whenever she spoke about Amina—gnawed at him. He could see her desperation, her belief that this marriage was the answer to everything. She still thought he could be saved, fixed, healed. And maybe, just maybe, Zayd had let himself believe it too. He wanted to, didn't he? Even if he had to swallow his pride, bury his doubt, and ignore the endless questions that had plagued him for years.

Zayd's hands tightened into fists as he stared at the empty space before him.

He didn't believe in fate. He didn't believe in destiny.

But he had no choice now. He had to play his part in this story, even if it felt like a chapter he didn't want to write.

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Zayd's head throbbed as he processed the enormity of it all. His mother had already spoken to Amina's mother, arranged the wedding, picked the date, organized the venue—and all of it had been done in secret. It felt like his life was being written out for him, and he had no say in the matter.

Amina's graduation, in two weeks. The wedding was already planned, the decisions already made. Everything was set. Zayd wanted to scream. He wanted to slam his fist against the wall and shout at the injustice of it all. How could his mother do this? How could she take such a huge step without even consulting him?

The worst part was that his mother didn't seem to see the problem. She was only focused on her hopes for him. She believed this marriage, this perfect match, would somehow bring him back to the person he used to be—the person she still believed in. But Zayd didn't know how to be that person anymore.

"I didn't even have a say in this," Zayd muttered, more to himself than to his mother. His voice was thick with the weight of his anger and helplessness. "You've already decided everything for me. It's like you don't even care what I want."

His mother reached out to him, her hand trembling, but Zayd recoiled instinctively. Her touch, once comforting, now felt like a chain.

Zayd looked at his mother, her eyes full of expectations, and something inside him snapped. He couldn't yell at her. He couldn't tell her how angry he was, how suffocated he felt. He had always tried to protect her from his pain, but now he felt like a stranger in his own life.

"Fine," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'll do it."

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Dear Reader,

I finally wrote Zayd's POV, and I have to admit, it was a bit more challenging than Amina's. His emotions are more complicated, and it took me some time to really get into his head. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it, even if it was a little tough!

As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts—please share your feedback in the comments below. Your opinions help me grow as a writer.

Until next time,
Your Author😊