Under the Same Sky, Watching Football with Ummi

And now, amidst this melancholy haze, love has tiptoed back into my heart—like a thread from the past reknotted in the present. Since my ummi passed years ago—may Allah grant her Jannah—the grief walled me off from such feelings. But on this visit, I reconnected with her: we attended the same university, even worked together once, though we were never close enough back then. Fate brought us together now, a woman whose eyes hold the kindness of home, whose laughter mends something broken in me. I adore one quirky thing about her most: when I tease her with jokes, she gets all garang, her fierce little temper flaring up—and oh, how cute she looks in those moments, her fire making my heart flutter even more. We’ve spent so much precious time together lately—savoring plates of Malay nasi campur side by side, lost in lazy coffee dates where conversations flowed like sweet kopi ais, and late-night phone calls that bridged the gaps between our worlds. We hung out in the bustling Klang Valley, wandering its vibrant streets hand in hand, and even ventured to her hometown, where the air felt thicker with possibility and her world opened up to me. Those moments ignited something real. I feel it deep in my bones: she could be my partner, my forever, insha’Allah. I like her—love her, even—and the thought of us together forever lights a fragile spark.

But reality crashes in like monsoon rain. I’m leaving soon, back to the cold isolation of America. The fear grips me tight: fear of losing my family to time’s relentless march, fear of this new love fading into “what ifs,” fear of missing those masjid solats and athan calls once more. Trauma from losing loved ones haunts me—the sharp pain of ummi’s absence echoes in every goodbye. How do I hold on when distance pulls so hard? It’s tearing me apart, this nomad’s life. And the ache for Ramadan’s moon-sighting and Eid’s joyous hugs in Malaysia… it lingers like a prayer unanswered.

Yet, in the quiet of tahajjud prayers, I surrender. Allah knows best—He always has. Whatever His plan, be it roots here or wings abroad, I trust in His wisdom. Still, as the airport beckons, my soul weeps for what might slip away.