Lashirah_Hash

> “You stay in your faith. I’ll stay in mine. But tell me—what do we do with this love?”

Laila is engaged. A quiet Muslim girl who’s only ever tried to obey—her God, her parents, her future. Tracy is a pastor’s daughter, loud with faith and full of dreams—especially the dream of becoming a nun.

They were never supposed to meet. And definitely never supposed to fall in love.

But in a small town where Christianity and Islam don’t mix—and where being queer is a death sentence—their love story is a secret, a sin, and a slow undoing of everything they’ve ever believed.

When Laila walks away for good, Tracy starts writing her letters. Letters she never sends. Letters filled with the kind of love you have to bury.

Letters to Laila is a slow-burning, soul-breaking story of two girls caught between faith and feeling, rules and rebellion—and the question of whether loving someone can ever be truly wrong.




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> “This love wasn’t meant to bloom. But neither were we.”

LETTERS TO LAILA

The house was quiet when I returned. My mother's soft voice drifted from the kitchen, reciting recipes to my younger sister like sacred verses. Baba's radio hummed low in the sitting room — some late evening broadcast in a language older than my memories. Everything was as it should be.

I entered my room, unwrapped my hijab carefully, and sat by the window. The folded poem Tracy gave me rested inside my notebook, untouched since I placed it there — but not untouched in my mind. Her handwriting was slanted, nervous. But her words had weight. A girl who wants to disappear… but someone sees her anyway.

I reached for my prayer mat, unrolled it slowly, and stood facing the qibla. The call to Maghrib had passed, but I still bowed. Still pressed my forehead to the earth.

My heart didn't feel as obedient as my limbs.

Between sujood and tasleem, Tracy's voice kept returning to me: "Do you like sunsets?"

Who asks that in a place like this? In a town where silence is safer than softness?

Later, after prayer, I sat in bed with my knees pulled close, the poem unfolded in my lap. I read it again. And again. The lines weren't romantic. They weren't obvious. But they felt… personal.

I thought of the way she looked at me — not with pity, not with challenge — just… recognition.

It scared me more than anything. Because I wasn't used to being seen like that.

I heard a soft knock on the door. My mother.

"Laila, remember your fiancé is visiting next week. Your father wants you to prepare a list of what you'll wear."

"Okay, Mama," I replied, voice even.

I stared at the poem again. Its final line burned into my chest:

> "She almost disappeared. Until someone dared to look."

Maybe I was still disappearing. Quietly. Properly. The way girls like me are taught to.

> "Faith taught me to bow, to obey, to accept.

It asks me to stand. To question. To feel."

Between Prayer And Poetry