The fire burned low, licking timidly at the damp wood, casting a soft amber glow across Habeel's face. In that glow, he looked different—stripped of his usual sharp humour, his stubborn bravado, the easy sarcasm he wore like armour. What remained was something raw. Unshielded. Human.
He exhaled slowly, the breath fogging in the cold air.
"Look… I'm not saying what they do is right. I never said that," he murmured. "All I'm saying is—people twist their faith into whatever benefits them. Add or subtract verses… bend everything in their favour."
His voice wobbled at the edges, as if he was holding something back—anger or grief, she couldn't tell.
"And I've seen it myself, too. So… I know what you mean."
Ababeel blinked, startled. "What? You do?"
He nodded, nudging a log with a stick, sending sparks drifting upward like dying fireflies.
"I was sent to the madra again against my will. I tried doing everything they said. Everything."His jaw tightened. "But no matter what I did… it was never enough."
The confession hung between them, brittle and unexpected.
Ababeel pulled her knees toward her chest, her tone gentler. "You felt like a misfit."
"Yes." A short, humourless breath of laughter left him. "It made me question everything. 'Does it matter anymore?' 'Am I going to hell anyway?' 'Am I already done for?' They made me think that."
He tried smiling, but it crumbled halfway.
She found herself watching him—more closely than she wanted to. Not because she trusted him, but because something in his voice tugged at the parts of her she didn't want touched.
"So what happened then?" she asked quietly.
Habeel stared into the fire as if searching for courage in its glow.
"I heard something. On my phone," he said. "When I ran away from the madrassa after three months. I told my father I'd never go back. That I'd study other things. Work hard on something else."
Ababeel leaned in before she realised.
"What did you hear?"
"One scholar said… God is forgiving. He said God becomes to you what you imagine Him to be. If you imagine Him like an executioner… then that's how you'll find Him. But if you think of Him as a friend… then He'll be the best friend in your time of need."
The flames painted soft reflections in his eyes.
"He said that God says: If you think toward Me, I will walk toward you. If you walk, I will run. And if you run toward Me, I will fly toward you."
Ababeel's breath halted for a second—not because she believed the same things, but because there was something undeniably beautiful in the way he said it.
"And when the Sahabas first believed," he continued, voice quieting, "they were judged. They lost friends, family… everything. So one asked the Prophet what to do. And an ayah came… that whoever has no one, but has God, has a friend. It made them happy."
He smiled faintly. "It gave me enough hope to try reading the translation. For once."
His smile softened. "The first time? Didn't understand a thing. Second time—not much. Third time? Maybe a bit. I realised it's not A-to-Z orders. Some things are metaphoric. You have to read between the lines."
And that—ironically—was where she flinched.
"You sound like them," she said bitterly.
Habeel's smile vanished, hurt flickering across his features. "I'm not brainwashing—"
"You talk like you're enlightened," she snapped. "Like you're above me. Like you're wise because of a book written centuries ago."
His jaw clenched.
"You asked me what changed me," he said quietly. "I told you. That's all."
"But you talk like a preacher," she insisted. "Like you've memorised verses, and now everything you do is justified."
Habeel's voice broke—just slightly.
"Why do you hear preaching when I'm telling you pain?"
She stared at the fire, refusing the sting in her eyes.
"Because men like you used those words as chains," she whispered. "To silence girls. To control. To punish."Her voice trembled. "Where I grew up, religion wasn't comfort. It was a threat. A warning of who holds power… and who doesn't."
Something in him softened—but also hardened.
"I'm not them," he whispered. "I'm not the one who twisted everything. I'm not the one who hurt you."
"But you speak like them," she muttered, hating how her voice cracked. "And I react without meaning to."
His shoulders stiffened. His grip tightened around his own arms.
"Because I'm trying to explain something," he said, frustrated. "Because it's part of me. Because it kept me sane."
"Then keep it inside," she snapped. "Don't try to teach me."
Habeel stared at her—truly stared—as if she'd struck him. Something inside him snapped.
"NO." His voice cracked through the night, raw and unfiltered. "You know what? No. I won't just listen this time."
He leaned forward, hurt blazing through his eyes.
"You think that of me? After everything? Yes, I had a shabby start. But I never once hurt you. I didn't force you to come with me—I didn't force you to trust me."
His voice dropped, trembling with suppressed fury.
"How long has it been? Over a month? If I wanted, I could've done something far worse than what Abdullah tried to do to you. But I didn't."
Ababeel swallowed hard.
Habeel continued, breathing sharp and shallow.
"It's like you're telling me that the definition of a terrorist is someone who looks like me. Talks like me. Follows my faith."He pointed at his own chest. "But that's not true. Terrorist means anyone who uses violence or fear to hurt the innocent."
He shook his head, voice going hoarse.
"Then I have a question for you too."His voice dropped into something cold. Hurt. "Why don't people ask about those who burn our mosques? Or shoot dozens of us while we pray? Why don't they call them terrorists?"
Ababeel opened her mouth—words gathering, dissolving—helpless.
"I—Habeel, that's not what I meant—"
He didn't let her finish.
His eyes glistened with unshed tears.
"What did I do," he whispered, voice cracking, "except protect you? Except keep you safe? And yet… You let the prejudice fed to you by powerful colonials blind you."
He swallowed, chest rising and falling heavily.
"You don't realise what you're doing. There are far worse monsters out there than our hurt egos. Monsters who'd kill to turn us against each other."
The heat between them thickened. Heavy. Painful.
Habeel looked away, ruffling his hair in anger, frustration, and defeat.
And then, barely audible:
"I wasn't trying to teach you."His voice broke like thin glass."I was trying to let you in."
Ababeel flinched.
Guilt tore through her—sharp, immediate, unwelcome. But her walls stayed high, fortified by years of fear and trauma she still didn't know how to dismantle.
The fire hissed. Janneh hummed softly behind the crates, blissfully unaware.
And in that quiet clearing, under cold stars and a single flickering flame, two wounded souls sat close enough to feel each other's warmth…
…but still far enough to burn.