10. Please Love ME

The moonlight filtered through the window, casting a soft glow over the room. The only sound was the gentle rustling of the curtains as a cool breeze flowed in. Hamza watched Hasna, her hair plastered to her forehead, her body drenched in sweat. Worry gnawed at him.

He handed her a glass of water, noticing how her hands trembled, spilling some of the water. He quickly took the glass from her, holding it to her lips as she sipped, her eyes distant, lost in a world he couldn't reach.

Hasna's gaze was fixed on an imaginary point, her mind far away. When Hamza placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, she jumped, her eyes wide with fear. "You're safe," he whispered, trying to reassure her, but the fear in her eyes remained.

Hamza led Hasna back to their bedroom, his hand gently guiding her. As they settled in, he could feel her restlessness, her anxiety almost palpable in the darkness.

He leaned closer, his voice soft, "Would you like some Maggi?" Despite her reluctance, he coaxed her to join him in the kitchen. As he heated a pan on the stove, he began to reminisce. "Back in my college days, I used to stay up late studying."

He stirred the pot, his eyes focused on the boiling water. "This was my rescue," he added with a smile, holding up the packet of Maggi. Hasna watched as he added the noodles and spices, his movements deliberate and familiar.

"Sorry, I'm making Maggi because it's the only thing I can cook after boiling water," he joked, trying to lighten the mood. A faint smile tugged at Hasna's lips, her unease slowly giving way to appreciation for his efforts.

She watched him cook, the rhythmic motions calming her. But then, Hamza suddenly winced in pain. "One day while cooking Maggi, my hand... ahh..." he trailed off, cradling a burnt finger.

Concern flashed in Hasna's eyes as she saw the red blister forming on his hand. Without hesitation, she took his hand under the cold water, instructing him to sit down. She fetched a tube of ointment from the medicine cabinet and gently applied it to the burn. Hamza watched her in silence, touched by her care and tenderness.

As Hasna tended to his injury, Hamza could see the genuine concern in her eyes. Her touch was delicate, each movement filled with a quiet grace. "Does it hurt?" she asked softly, her eyes searching his.

Hamza's heart swelled with gratitude. She reminded him so much of his mother.

As she continued, Hamza began to speak, his voice carrying the weight of old memories. "One day, while cooking Maggi in my hostel room, I burned my hand. My mother came to visit me, and when she saw the injury, she took me home and never let me near the kitchen again."

He paused, his gaze distant, lost in the past. "My father passed away when I was only two. I never knew his love. My mother did everything to make up for that. She fulfilled every wish, no matter how small. But I..." His voice faltered, choked with emotion.

The room grew heavy with the silence, thick with the unspoken grief that hung between them. Hasna could feel the intensity of his pain, his deep-seated guilt.

Without thinking, she reached out and took his hand, squeezing it gently. Her eyes met his, steady and reassuring.

"I couldn't give her anything, Hasna," Hamza confessed, his voice trembling. "I was never a good son. During her last days, I didn't even talk to her properly. She was upset with me, and I couldn't ask for her forgiveness. And then, one day, she was gone." Tears welled up in his eyes, and he turned away, unable to hold back his emotions any longer.

Hasna's heart ached as she watched him struggle. She wrapped her arms around him, holding him tightly, offering the comfort he so desperately needed.

"She left me all alone, Hasna. Allah placed my heaven beneath her feet, but I failed to cherish and honor her as she deserved." His voice cracked, and then the floodgates opened. His tears flowed freely as he clung to Hasna, sobbing uncontrollably.

"Will Allah forgive me, Hasna?" he asked, his voice small and broken, like that of a child yearning for his mother. "Can I also reach heaven and meet her there?"

Hasna gently broke the embrace, cupping his face in her hands. Her eyes, filled with compassion, locked onto his. "Allah says in the Quran, 'O My servants who have transgressed against themselves, do not despair of the mercy of Allah. Indeed, Allah forgives all sins. Indeed, it is He who is the Forgiving, the Merciful.'" [Surah Zumar, verse 53] Her voice was firm yet tender. "Allah is the Most Merciful, Hamza. Our Lord forgave a woman who gave water to a thirsty dog. He forgave a man who took a hundred lives because he sincerely repented. Allah doesn't punish us immediately when we sin; He gives us chance after chance. Why would you despair of His mercy?"

Hamza gazed at her, his heart absorbing her words like a balm to his wounds. He felt a new warmth and a deep gratitude to the Almighty. "I've never been without love, Hasna," he said, his voice trembling with emotion. "My mother never let me feel a lack of it. So, please... love me."

His words took her by surprise, sending a shock through her system.

"Love?" she thought, her mind racing. A part of her wanted to run, to flee from the vulnerability that his request demanded. But she couldn't leave him—not now.

"I will try..." she said, the words escaping her before she could stop them. She regretted them instantly, unsure if she was even capable of loving. But as she looked into Hamza's eyes, filled with pain and longing, she knew she couldn't turn away. She took a deep breath, steeling herself.

"I will love you, Hamza. With all my heart," she whispered, her voice soft yet resolute.

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