Restlessness consumed Salima once again as she contemplated the day ahead—the beginning of her journey at the prestigious Airforce Institute of Technology in Kaduna. Unlike other days, she awoke early, her mind already racing with thoughts of what lay ahead. With a weary sigh, she turned to her one true confidant, Herself, and whispered about the storm brewing in her head. "It will be okay, Salima," she reassured herself. Collecting her phone from the side table, she opened WhatsApp, the clock displaying 5:00 AM—30 minutes before the Subh prayer. Messages flooded in from her secondary school group, buzzing with excitement over a former classmate's upcoming wedding. The ladies discussed the intricacies of acquiring the "anko" while the guys chimed in occasionally.
Amidst the flurry of notifications, a message from Imran appeared. Initially, Salima reveled in her silent victory over their Cold War, vowing never to speak to him again after he toyed with her feelings. It had been a difficult decision for her, given her forgiving and tender-hearted nature, but she had prevailed. A smug smirk formed as she stared at Imran's simple greeting, "hey." Yet, as she snapped out of her reverie, a question tugged at her consciousness. "It's been two months now. What does he want from me?" she wondered aloud. To her surprise, she found satisfaction in Herself's response. "Maybe he misses you and has come to realize how much of a blessing you were in his life," her inner voice suggested. Salima agreed, feeling a fleeting sense of being noticed and valued once again.
Contemplating whether or not to respond, another message interrupted her thoughts. "Please talk to me," it read. "Wait, is this guy spying on me?" Salima pondered aloud, her mind racing to make sense of it all. "How is that even possible?" Then it clicked—an old memory resurfaced. During their time together, she had discovered that Imran used GB WhatsApp, claiming it helped him identify the 'backstabbers' in his life. Surrounded by fake friends, he sought to fit in where he didn't belong. She hoped he had managed to weed them all out. "Wait, why do I care?" she questioned herself, caught between curiosity and caution.
As she debated her response, absentmindedly fumbling with her phone, Salima accidentally opened Imran's message. "Ya Allah, what is wrong with me?" she exclaimed. It seemed the universe had decided that she would engage in conversation with her ex, and she sighed heavily, feeling the weight of the situation. Reluctantly, she typed a brief, "Hi, how are you?" and sent it. Seconds later, Imran viewed the message and replied. Someone did want to have a conversation, she thought, an unfamiliar mix of anticipation and apprehension flooding her senses. They engaged in casual chit-chat, a bridge she couldn't wait to cross, longing for the encounter to be over.
Suddenly, a loud banging at her door shattered the uneasy atmosphere. It must be Mus'ab, her mischievous younger brother, coming to wake her for prayer. "I heard your arrival, you naughty brat! Quit banging on my door!" Salima yelled in frustration, unable to bear the disruption any longer. Rising from her bed, she headed to the bathroom to perform ablution, seeking solace in the ritual. Placing her prayer mat on the floor, she began to pray—the only time when a true sense of peace enveloped her.
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