Over time, Hamza became a man people looked up to — not because he was perfect, but because he carried his flaws like battle scars he no longer hid.
He joined a support group for students with trauma, not just as a participant, but as a volunteer. His quiet presence and profound empathy made him a lighthouse for the drifting. He began memorizing the Qur'an one verse at a time, anchoring his soul in its rhythm. His journals became reflections of healing and growth, like Salar Sikander — the broken genius who found his path to Allah.
He developed a sharp intellect, paired with humility. No longer silent in pain, Hamza began to write — blog posts, reflections, even khutbah notes he would share anonymously. One post titled "The Man Who Cried in Public and Found His Lord" went viral in student circles.
Mira read it with tears.
Hamza had become the man she once dreamed of — not grand, not wealthy, but deeply, quietly magnificent. A man whose wounds didn't make him bitter — they made him better.
He never stopped respecting her space, her time, her journey. And when he was finally ready, he went to her wali.
His nikah proposal was simple.
"I want to build a Jannah-bound friendship with your daughter. I won't promise her a palace — only the peace of a home where Allah is the center."
Mira's mother cried. Mira did too.
Because this wasn't a love story of escape — this was a love story of return.
Return to Allah.
Return to self.
And return to each other.