Chapter 1: The First Sight of Moonlight
The streets of Lahore were alive, buzzing with the familiar, comforting hum that only arrived once a year. It wasn't the usual chaos of vendors and traffic. This was different — it was the eve of Ramadan, and the city seemed to hold its breath, waiting for the moon to show itself. The air was heavy with the scent of fried samosas, sweet dates, and rosewater, blending together into something that felt like home.
Aaliyah moved through the crowd, her steps light but purposeful. She clutched her leather journal tightly to her chest — her most precious possession. It wasn't new or pretty anymore, its corners were frayed, and the cover had faded over the years, but that didn't matter. Each page held a piece of her heart, a quiet prayer, a poem, or a thought too fragile to share with anyone else.
Her mother had asked her to pick up a few last-minute things for Suhoor, but Aaliyah wasn't in a rush to head back home. The apartment would be warm and crowded, filled with the scent of her mother's cooking and her brother's endless chatter. Normally, that comforted her — but this year felt different. Heavy.
Ramadan was supposed to bring peace, wasn't it? Her father always said it was a month for cleansing the soul, for reflection and renewal. But Aaliyah didn't feel renewed. She felt restless, like a part of her was waiting for something she couldn't name.
The market's noise faded as she slipped into a quieter street. Here, the buildings were older, leaning into each other like old friends sharing secrets. The dim streetlights flickered, barely holding back the night.
She stopped, tilting her head upward, searching the sky. The moon wasn't there yet, but she waited anyway. The first sighting always felt like a promise — a quiet reassurance that no matter how tangled her heart felt, there was light waiting for her.
"You waiting for the moon too?"
The voice startled her. It wasn't loud or demanding, but it cut through the quiet, making her heart jump. She turned quickly.
A boy leaned against the wall a few feet away. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes weren't. They held a quiet sort of sharpness, like he was always paying attention. His dark hair fell over his forehead, a little too long to be neat, and his clothes were plain but clean.
Aaliyah didn't answer right away. She wasn't used to strangers talking to her — especially not boys.
"I... yeah," she said finally, her voice smaller than she meant it to be.
He smiled, tilting his head to the sky. "It'll show. It always does."
She studied him for a moment. He didn't seem like he belonged here, not in this quiet alley on the edge of the market. He looked like he belonged somewhere busier, louder — but here he was, watching the sky like he had nowhere else to be.
"Do you live around here?" she asked, the question surprising even herself.
He shrugged. "Sort of. My uncle owns the bakery on the corner."
Aaliyah blinked in recognition. "The one with the pistachio rolls in the window?"
He laughed softly. "Yeah. The ones that look better than they taste."
She smiled despite herself. "My brother swears they're amazing."
"They're okay," he admitted. "Just avoid the almond cookies. They taste like cardboard."
Aaliyah laughed — really laughed — for the first time in what felt like weeks. It felt strange and good, like she was shaking off some of the weight in her chest.
The boy studied her for a moment longer before he spoke again, his voice quieter this time. "You ever feel like... Ramadan is supposed to fix everything? Like the moment the moon shows up, things are supposed to feel better?"
Her throat tightened. How could he know? How could a stranger ask the very thing she had been afraid to say out loud?
"I do," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "But this year... it doesn't feel like enough. I feel like I'm waiting for something. Or maybe I'm tired of waiting."
He nodded, like he understood. "Yeah. Me too."
Aaliyah wanted to ask him what he was waiting for, but the words felt too big. Too personal. Instead, she looked back up at the sky, searching for the moon again.
"I write letters," she said suddenly. The words slipped out before she could stop them. "During Ramadan. To Allah. To myself. To people I miss."
He looked at her curiously. "Do you ever send them?"
She shook her head. "No. They're just... for me. It's easier to put things on paper. It's like... putting a part of me somewhere safe."
For a moment, she worried he might laugh. But he didn't. He just nodded, his expression thoughtful.
"That's actually kind of brilliant," he said.
They stood in comfortable silence for a moment. The alley wasn't cold, but the air felt crisp, like the night was holding its breath.
"I'm Aaliyah," she said quietly.
The boy hesitated, then smiled. "Zayd."
The moon peeked through the clouds then, a sliver of silver against the deep blue sky. Aaliyah felt her heart lighten, just a little.
"Ramadan Mubarak, Aaliyah," Zayd said softly.
"Ramadan Mubarak," she echoed.
For the first time in a long while, the weight in her chest didn't feel so heavy.
Aaliyah walked home with lighter steps, though her mind was still full.
Zayd. His name stuck with her. She didn't know why. Maybe it wasn't his name — maybe it was the way he spoke, or how his eyes seemed to understand her.
She didn't know why she told him about the letters. No one knew about them, not even her mother. But something about him felt safe. Like he wouldn't laugh at her.
By the time she reached her family's small apartment, the streets were quiet. The smell of food was fading, and the vendors were packing up. Aaliyah stopped at the door.
She wasn't ready to go inside.
Instead, she climbed the stairs to the rooftop. It wasn't much — just an old chair, a clothesline swaying in the wind, and a crack in the cement floor. Her dad used to sit in that chair before he left.
Aaliyah hated that chair. But tonight, the rooftop felt peaceful.
She sat down on the floor, placing her journal on her lap. Her pen hovered over the page. The wind pulled at her scarf, but she didn't care.
Dear Allah,112Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡUN5x2AlQYF
Ramadan Mubarak.
She stared at the words. She used to write easily, like the words flowed from her heart. But now, they felt stuck.
She bit her lip. Her mother always said Ramadan was about cleaning the heart — letting go of anger, sadness, and pain. Aaliyah didn't know how to do that.
She missed her dad. Even after everything, she missed him. She hated that she missed him.
Please help me stop missing him.
Her chest ached. She wanted to cross it out, but she didn't. Instead, she turned to a new page.
Dear Baba,112Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡXcyfvo2fFe
It's Ramadan again.112Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡit3eX4y0iE
You didn't come home last year. Or the year before. I don't think you're coming back.112Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡfYXUcAjvJO
I wish I could stop waiting for you. But I can't.
Her pen shook. She blinked back tears.
The rooftop door creaked open. Aaliyah quickly shut her journal.
"Aaliyah?"
It was her brother, Ali.
She forced a smile. "Hey. What are you doing up here?"
He walked over, quieter than usual. He was only a year younger, but he seemed smaller tonight.
"Mom's looking for you. She's worried you haven't eaten." He paused. "Are you okay?"
Aaliyah nodded. "Yeah. Just needed air."
Ali didn't look convinced. He sat next to her. They stared at the city lights. The moon hung low, glowing softly.
"Do you think Baba misses us?" Ali asked quietly.
Aaliyah's throat tightened. She didn't know how to answer.
"I don't know," she said softly. "I hope so."
Ali nodded slowly. He looked down at his hands.
"Do you think... we're supposed to forgive him?"
The question hit her hard.
"I think... Ramadan is about trying. Even when it's hard." She swallowed. "Maybe especially then."
Ali stayed quiet. After a moment, he stood up.
"Mom's making kebabs. Come down before she gets mad."
Aaliyah laughed a little. "Okay. I'll be there soon."
He nodded and left.
She waited until his footsteps faded. Then she opened her journal again.
Dear Allah,112Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡuDhXlkuq0p
Please help me forgive him. Even if I don't know how.
She stared at the words, feeling their weight.
Then, without thinking, she flipped to a new page.
Dear Zayd,112Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡSjQKQZ9y6N
I hope you find what you're waiting for too.
She didn't know why she wrote it. She didn't know if she'd ever see him again.
But something inside her said this wasn't the last time.
To Be Continued-
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