It was during one of her regular ward rounds that Mira met Hamza — a second-year law student admitted for severe panic attacks and anxiety. He was lying in bed near the window, looking out like he wasn't really there.
Something about him echoed in her — broken recognizes broken, and they didn't need words to prove it.
Mira approached his bed subtly, waiting for the nurses to finish checking his vitals. Then she walked forward with her usual calm, clipboard in hand. "Salaam," she greeted softly. "What's your name?"
"Hamza," he answered, his voice barely audible.
She documented his details, then paused. She stood beside his bed and looked at him, really looked. "Hamza," she said gently, "What happened to such a pure soul like yours? Why does your history say panic attacks and anxiety?"
Something shattered in him at those words.
He didn't look away fast enough. His eyes welled with tears, and he turned his face to the side — but not before Mira saw it.
It was the first time she'd ever seen a man honest with his emotions. It melted her heart in ways she wasn't ready for.
After a long silence, Hamza finally spoke. "I come from a broken family. A lot happened that I never talk about. My past... it haunts me. That's why I'm like this."
Mira listened, quietly, professionally at first. She gave a few clinical suggestions, gentle reassurance. But something inside her broke, too.
She wiped her eyes before he could see. Then she said softly, "Don't worry. Allah will solve everything for you. I've been there too. Maybe it's fate that we met today."
Hamza looked at her — really looked. And something passed between them.
Not love. Not yet.
But recognition.
Two survivors. Two believers. Two souls stitched together by sorrow — now standing at the edge of healing.
And from here, their story quietly began.