Our Worlds

Unspoken desires

                            Yusuf

Hajara was stunning, in her own quiet, enigmatic way. Not the type of girl who sought attention like the flirty ones in school, but there was something about her that made my heart race. She didn't need to flaunt anything to be noticed. Her beauty was understated yet undeniable. I often found myself lost in her warm, deep blue eyes, like swimming in an ocean that had a life of its own. It was captivating, almost hypnotic.

 Yes, Hajara... that was her name. Even though she dressed modestly, always covering herself up, there was an elegance about her that left me speechless. I couldn't help but wonder what kind of person she was beneath that reserved exterior.

I had always seen her. She was in most of my classes, ever since freshman year. I had gotten used to seeing her sitting quietly in the back, her eyes always focused, her posture so poised, as if she had her own world to occupy. She was the kind of person who didn't need to draw attention to herself; she just... existed, and somehow, it made her impossible to ignore. Trust me, I did try to ignore, but it was so hard. 

 I doubted she ever noticed me—and she didn't need to. I was still haram for her. In the sea of faces and the rush of school days, I was just another background character. I couldn't blame her for that. Who was I to stand out? I wasn't the loudest in class, or the most outgoing. Just another guy trying to make it through high school, trying to stay grounded in my values, trying not to let the noise of the world pull me off course.

If you're wondering, 'Wait, you're a Muslim—how could girls even flirt with you?' Well, that's because I'm a man. No hijab. No obvious, outward sign of faith—aside from a few prayer breaks between classes. And with that came assumptions. People mistook me for someone else. A "white dude," maybe. Or just someone who wasn't concerned with boundaries or modesty. I was friendly, yes—but I wasn't that guy. I wasn't in it for flings, for flirting, for the games.

That kind of attention was for others—those chasing moments that would fade. Not me. I'm a Hafidh of the Qur'an. I've memorized the words of God. My goals are higher, rooted in something eternal. I want more than just a spark—I want a lifelong fire. I'll marry one day, yes, but only when I find the queen of my life. The one I'll give my heart, my soul, and my future—not just empty promises.

I didn't have time for distractions. But feelings don't wait for permission. And no matter how much I tried to bury it, there was something about Hajara I couldn't ignore. I kept my distance. Focused on my studies, on my deen, on the bigger picture. But her presence was like gravity—always pulling, always there. I knew I shouldn't feel this way. And yet... I did.

That didn't mean I acted on it. I wasn't impulsive. I stepped on those feelings like they were embers threatening to spark a wildfire—put a cushion over them, buried them deep, and kept moving through my day like nothing was burning inside. Right now, my biggest concern wasn't romance or heartbreak—it was making it into one of the top universities. That was the dream. That was the plan. And no emotion, no matter how strong, was going to derail that.

"Yo, bro!" Benyamin flopped onto the couch beside me, his energy practically vibrating through the cushions. "What's cookin' in that oversized head of yours?"

"Nothing much," I muttered, barely glancing his way. Boredom practically dripped from my voice.

It was late afternoon, and the sun outside was already casting long shadows through the living room windows. The synthetic hum of our home's cooling system filled the silence between our words. School had been a drag—as usual—and both of us were running on fumes. The kind of tired that doesn't just sit in your body, but weighs on your brain too.