Our Worlds

Nikah

Yusuf

The day had finally arrived.

The wedding.

I woke up early—like Fajr-plus-anxiety early.

For the first time in my life, my alarm didn't have to scream. My soul was already awake, nervously pacing. I brushed my teeth like I was going to a dentist photoshoot and triple-checked my tux to make sure the buttons hadn't betrayed me overnight.

"Yusuf!" my mom called from downstairs. "Did you eat something?"

"Yes!"

Yeah, that was a white lie. I technically, just did have my toothpaste right now. 

I was way too jittery to eat. My stomach was on a rollercoaster and my brain was screaming, "YOU'RE GETTING MARRIED TODAY."

Meanwhile, Benyamin was texting me every 15 minutes:

Benyamin [8:15 AM]: Bro should I wear the gold watch or the silver one?

Benyamin [8:27 AM]: Do you think Sarah will cry? What if she doesn't cry??

Benyamin [8:30 AM]: Do I cry?? Will people think I'm weak?

I finally replied sarcastically, rolling my eyes:

Me: Cry, but like... masculine crying. Tear falls but you nod stoically.

Benyamin [8:46 AM]: WHAT IF I FAINT?

Okay, he was just trolling me. He had way too much time in his hands. 

At that point, I muted the chat. I loved the guy, but if I had to walk him through how to breathe one more time, I was going to Nikah him myself just to stop the messages.

After showering, moisturizing (because suddenly I cared about my elbows?), I finally stepped into my tux.

Black, clean, sharp — the one thing today that felt completely under control.

As I adjusted my cufflinks, my mom peeked into my room, teary-eyed.

"Yusuf... you look so handsome, mashaAllah," she whispered.

I smiled. "Don't cry yet, Mom. We still have Aunt Fatima, two crazy dads, and one blabbing Imam to survive."

She laughed, wiping her eyes with the corner of her hijab. "May Allah bless you with a peaceful home and a patient wife."

"And an iron stomach," I added, muttering. "Because I still haven't eaten."

___________

We didn't end up in a glittering banquet hall or some five-star hotel.

Nope. The nikah was in our neighborhood masjid—small, carpeted, a little echoey, and smelling strongly of ittar and nervous sweat. The fans on the ceiling spun slowly, like they were doing dhikr at half speed.

I stood near the front, tucked behind a small partition they'd set up to separate the men's section from the women's. Someone had laid out tissue boxes and two random chairs with embroidered covers that definitely came from someone's living room.

The mic squeaked to life, causing three uncles to jump and one toddler to burst into tears.

And in walked Benyamin, smooth as ever.

He wore a blue tux—just clean, simple elegance. He looked like the guy who only fasts on Mondays and Thursdays and still has abs.

The random uncles in the front row gave him approving nods. The little kids gave him high fives. I gave him a look.