The air tonight is thick, heavy with the heat of Ramadan, wrapping around me like a shroud. It’s Night 7, and this sacred month, meant to elevate me toward peace, instead presses me down. The fast leaves my throat dry, the heat drains my strength, and I feel so much less than I’d hoped—smaller, quieter, a shadow of the self I imagined. Seven nights have slipped by, and time feels relentless, a tide I can’t hold back. Just over a week ago, the night before the crescent moon heralded this month, I sat with someone close, tracing out dreams for these 30 days—goals of deeper prayer, sharper focus, a better me. Now, beneath a sky studded with stars, those plans feel distant, untouched, like whispers from a voice I barely know.

Time doesn’t pause; it races. In 30 days, a moment of reckoning looms—a trial not just of what I’ve learned, but of who I am. It’s a test of spirit and resolve, a mirror to my discipline, my doubts, my fraying edges. I’m a student of life’s systems, piecing together how things work, yet the machinery of this world—its rhythms, its demands—grows louder in my head, a clamor of introspection I can’t quiet. My mind is a space of chaotic order, a tangle of thoughts pulling every which way, yet somehow holding together, a fragile whole stitched from contradictions.

In this heat, this heaviness, I turn to duaas. They tumble out, raw and unguarded, carrying my deepest hopes:

• O Allah, may this be the final Ramadan I walk alone, unmarried, without a partner to share this faith and love.
• May this be the last Ramadan I greet with uneasiness and dread. I know my body will fail me, my mind will buckle—I feel ever so powerless already, here on Night 7—but the beating my spirit has taken is what I pray to see restored, to rise stronger from each trial.
• Grant me ease in these struggles, O Allah, and clarity through this chaos. Make my path one of patience, my heart one of courage.
• Bless those I love with joy, and let me be a light for them, not just a seeker of it.

The last ten nights approach—the Nights of Power—and I feel them looming, vast and unseen. My body aches, my mind reels, and my spirit, though reaching, feels threadbare. On Night 7, I’m a speck beneath their weight, approaching that sacred threshold with a heart both heavy and hopeful. I whisper my pleas into the stillness, trusting they’re heard, believing they matter.

And then, amidst these nights of introspection and murmured prayers, a spark of light broke through. A close friend and mentor shared news of a long-awaited union—a joy born from years of hope, his and mine and ours. My smile stretched wide enough to ache. It’s not just an event; it’s a testament, a promise fulfilled through faith and time. His story weaves into ours, threaded with quiet moments—a door held open with a kind word, a smile that warmed a heart teetering on collapse, prayers whispered by those around us, by pioneers whose blood runs in our veins. They dreamed of a world where their children could thrive, raised in love and guided by prophetic light. This union feels like their answered plea, a thread of fate drawing two hearts into warmth, a reminder that what we ask for ripples beyond us.