. . .

. . .

~

"Call upon Me, I will respond to you." (Qur'an 40:60)

~

After the press conference — in which Zoya addresses her absence as implicitly and obscurely as she can, saying her mental health was at stake — articles, news, and reports on reports release about her. The media does a full blow by blow of the press conference and makes many speculations (seldom nicely) about her absence.

She tells trusted employees that under no circumstances may the media find out she's pregnant. They will go ballistic, and she will not be able to handle it.

She is already having trouble handling it. Where before she seldom gave a damn what anybody in the media said about her, now she worries that wrongful accusations or speculations may end up wounding the new reputation she is trying to build. And that the corrupt business world may pigeonhole and warp the life she is trying so hard to rebuild.

No wonder Haroun had always been so anxious in this environment.

The press doesn't take the business pivot lightly, either. Shock and anger follow her announcement as well as many meetings with investors and contractors. At one point Zoya has to bar herself away in her office to take deep, heaving breaths because she has not been accustomed to this for a while.

After a long and hectic week, Zoya tiredly makes her way to her car. She rubs her eyes and inhales sharply when a sudden pain shoots up her stomach. Leaning against the car door for support, she takes deep breaths.

And a sudden tingling sensation appears at the back of her neck. The unmistakable feeling of being watched.

Zoya whips around, darting her eyes this way and that in the stillness and silence of the night. There seems to be a figure at the far end of the parking lot. Too far for Zoya to clearly see but close enough for her to squint and make out the shape of a man.

She staggers backwards, hurriedly getting in her car and revving the engine. Zoya takes the opposite route from the figure, dashing onto the highway to race home. She taps her fingers against the steering wheel, feeling uneasy.

When she reaches home, Aman greets her with a small smile and gestures for her to enter. She smiles back, asks him how his day went, and hurriedly rushes inside when he's done speaking.

Mumtaz appears. "Salaam, Zoya. Go get freshened up and I'll set out dinner for you."

Zoya nods, reaches forward to peck her cheek, and heads upstairs to shower and change. Fifteen minutes later, she is walking down the stairs while rubbing a towel through her hair when she stops short.

Mumtaz and Aman are standing in the middle of the hall, warily glancing at her. When the three of them make eye contact, Mumtaz and Aman exchange hurried glances before the older woman steps forward.

"Um, Zoya beta . . . "

"What? What's wrong?" Zoya says, darting glances between the two of them, her towel suspended midair in her hands.

Mumtaz looks at Aman helplessly.

"Is there mascara under my eyes or something?" Zoya jokes, trying to lighten the incredibly tense mood.

They don't laugh.

Finally, Aman clears his throat. "Um, someone's here . . . " He gestures to the living room and Zoya follows him, confused as to why they are both acting so weird.

But then she steps into the living room. And all of her confusion dissipates, replaced by complete and utter shock. Shock that roots her to the ground and immobilizes her. Shock that causes her eyes to widen and her heart rate to speed up considerably.

Because standing in front of her is Haroun Suleiman.

. . .

And then Zoya faints.

And she doesn't gain consciousness.

So they rush her to the hospital.

. . .

Her eyes seem to be sewn shut, eyelids heavy and warm. Zoya tries to open them but to no avail. She tries to say something but everything in her seems to be shut and patched and sealed tight.

She falls back into unconsciousness, thinking of one word over and over again.

Al-Qawiyy. The Strong.

. . .

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Zoya wakes to the sound of her heart monitor. It beeps at a steady rhythm by her head, prodding her to open her eyes.

And finally, Zoya's eyes flutter open.

She squints against the sudden harsh hospital light. IV's are plugged into her arms, a hospital band around her wrist. Her eyes survey the room from left to right, and when she turns her head to the right, a gasp escapes her.

The monitor showcases the sudden shift in her heartbeat when she looks at Haroun. When she takes in his appearance. Rough stubble, dark eye bags, pale and fragile skin.

Haunted, grieved eyes.

He's sitting there watching her with cataclysmic emotions passing across his face, folded hands resting underneath his chin. From his disheveled appearance, it seems that he has been there for quite a while.

Seeing him, a strange feeling overtakes Zoya. The ghost of who she used to be around him flits past her. The aching, longing girl who loved him as if he was the breath of air for her drowning soul. As if he was the only solace in the world.

The husband and wife simply stare at one another after three long months, eyes attempting to speak all that their mouths are unable to word. Haroun's eyes rove over Zoya's form before a deep concern settles over his face. Zoya watches the myriad of expressions in his eyes, wising she could turn away to avoid being haunted by them.

She has learned the past couple of weeks that true intimacy does not lie in the act of touch alone. It lies also in the lock of eyes across a crowded room, the gazes and smiles shared over the dinner table, the finger twirling through a curl of hair, the whispered words of comfort in the darkness of the night.

But especially in the lock of eyes. A testimony that nothing but the two souls gazing intently at each other matter in that moment. As Zoya and Haroun are gazing at one another now, eyes holding the weight of the world.

Haroun has changed. There is a ubiquitous wariness about him, a constant gray cloud hovering over him. And yet, he continues to watch her.

And he is not the first to turn away.

Zoya raises her eyes to the ceiling, taking a deep breath before turning back to him. "Are you real?" she rasps. He watches her silently for a moment before nodding slowly. "Please," Zoya whispers. "Say something. Say something so I know I'm not imagining you again."

His eyes fill with grief at the word "again" before he murmurs, "I'm real."

Oh, God. That voice.

How I've missed it.

Haroun leans forward warily. "Are you real?"

Zoya cracks a smile at that, shifting her palms beneath her to push herself up into a sitting position. His hands reach out to hover around her before dropping back into his lap.

As a habit, Zoya's hand trails down to rub her stomach. Haroun's eyes track her movements, zeroing in on the place her hand rests. He stands from the chair and steps forward to sit next to her on the hospital bed, and again Zoya is stricken by the fact that Haroun Suleiman is actually here. Not a flitting memory, not a hallucination, but real. In front of her and in the flesh.

Haroun looks at her for a moment before reaching forward to place his hand over hers. Zoya tries not to display the shock roiling throughout her at the contact, especially when she remembers that the last time she touched him was to beg him to stay.

Haroun's hand shifts to rest directly over her stomach, softly circling back and forth. Zoya watches him warily.

Suddenly, his face crumbles. "I didn't know," he whispers shakily. "I didn't know."

And that is when the thick distance between them snaps and Zoya reaches forward to wrap her hand around the back of his head to pull him close. He cries messily, head buried in her neck and tears staining her collarbone. Zoya rubs her hands through his hair, murmuring "shh" and "it's okay" over and over again. He shakes his head back and forth, continuously whispering "I didn't know, I didn't know."

As Zoya rubs her hands soothingly over him, she thinks of how strange time is. Just three months ago she had been sobbing in front of him, begging him to listen. And three months later, he is crying against her, feeling the need to say one thing over and over again to display his utter regret.

They have each unloaded and carried much baggage these past couple of weeks. Unloaded many emotions and reloaded with many others. But there is such a large gap between them; so much has changed in their hearts since they have last seen each other. So much has altered; so much has exited and so much has entered to fit the space it was meant to occupy all along.

Zoya continues to rub Haroun's back softly and after a moment she kisses his forehead. "Shh. Quiet now, okay? We don't want little Haroun or little Zoya to hear their daddy crying, now do we?"

He cries harder at this, shaking his head back and forth against her chest in the way people do when they have no words to say.

Later, when she's wiped his tears and they've settled at a considerable distance from one another again, Haroun rubs his finger in a circular motion over the bed. "I wanted to come back," he starts. Zoya watches him carefully. "But . . . I couldn't bring myself to. Even while knowing that in some ways, it was only getting worse by being away.

"But . . . " He breathes a deep sigh. "I've had a lot of time to think." He stops suddenly, as if unsure of what to say.

"So have I," replies Zoya, resting her chin on her knees and watching him intently.

He continues to rub circles on the bed. "When I found out you were sick . . . instead of being upset or sympathetic or feeling like I should come back, I became . . . angry." His eyes flick to hers and Zoya has to contain the gasp threatening to escape her. It will take them so much time to be able to look at one another without witnessing the immense pain in each other's eyes. "I became angry and said I wouldn't let you emotionally manipulate me like that again. Wouldn't let you guilt trip me like that again. The more I heard you were sick . . . the more determined I became on not coming back." He shakes his head and reaches up to tug his hair. "I haven't been right in the head."

And it's my fault, Zoya thinks, looking at him with regret seeping through her bones. She has forced this good man to once again reevaluate his morality, his faith.

She doesn't know what makes her do it, but Zoya reaches forward and cups Haroun's cheek, rubbing her thumb along it. "I love you," she murmurs simply.

Haroun gazes at her expectantly with that heavy wariness back in his eyes — although Zoya can't testify that it ever left.

But then Zoya says, "But I love the rabb that gave you to me more. And He didn't give you to me just once, but twice." Her thumb circles over his face, passing over his eyelids and his cheeks and his lips. Just to give herself the constant reassurance that he's actually real and not some figment of her imagination.

Under her thumb, a corner of Haroun's lips turns up. It's a strange smile, as if his face has forgotten how to procure it. And Zoya senses it will be this way for a while for both of them.

But they each have the most powerful Sovereign on their sides to guide them, and being apart from one another to turn to Him has truly made them realize this in depth.

Zoya settles back again, fumbling with the hem of her dress, daring to voice the question that has been plaguing her. "So . . . where were you?"

Haroun turns to the window, eyes glazing over. They both sit directly in front of one another but seem to be in so many different places at once. So far, so far.

Finally, he says, " "A friend from college was visiting family overseas. He had a cabin upstate, and I stayed there for a while. Needed to be . . . alone."

A bitter smile makes its way onto Zoya's face. He had been so close geographically, so incredibly close, but the metaphorical distance seemed to have crossed both time and space. There had been so much distance between them, so much grief and pain and hurt. It had made everything seem so far away.

And here Allah is teaching her another lesson: despite being so close to one another in miles, Zoya and Haroun had been so far apart in heart. She thinks of how when Allah wants two people to meet, there is no force on earth that can stop them, even if they are poles apart from one another — as her and Farhan Hussain had been but still met at a coffee shop six years later.

But when Allah wants two people to remain apart from one another, then no amount of human effort — no matter how close they may be to one another — is able to bring the two people together.

How bittersweet, Zoya thinks, continuing to watch her husband with that smile on her face.

The smile that testifies her Creator has been there all along, and she has only just realized.

As Zoya observes Haroun, as her eyes rake over his features that she has come to love without an ache pulsing in her heart, she thinks of something.

Why has he come back? Why has Allah given Haroun back to her?

Because Zoya had learned to live without him, she realizes with a start. She had learned to love him without it being a physical ache in her heart. She had learned to love him with a part of her heart, not the entirety of it. And in this way, she had freed herself from the dangerous, unhealthy attachment she had towards him. She had freed herself from the pain and anguish she felt when he wasn't near her and that never quite went away when he was close by either.

She had freed herself from her dependency on him. From her dependency on anyone other than God.

And this is why Allah gave him back to her. Because He knew Zoya didn't need Haroun anymore — she only wanted him.

And this difference makes all the difference in the world.

. . .