The Eid Morning | صباح العيد
"Twenty years of Eid prayers at the same mosque. Twenty years of watching her across the partition. This year, he finally speaks."
The Eid Morning
صباح العيد
Eid al-Fitr, 2024
Twenty years.
Every Ramadan, every Eid, the same mosque in Whitechapel. I've watched her pray from across the partition for two decades.
This year, I speak.
I'm Ahmad.
Fifty-five, accountant, widower. My wife died fifteen years ago. I've been alone since.
Except for her.
I don't know her name.
Just her presence. The hijab she wears—always green on Eid. The way she prays—focused, beautiful.
"Eid Mubarak."
She turns.
"Eid Mubarak." She smiles—the first time I've seen it directed at me. "I've seen you at this mosque for years."
"Twenty years."
"That long?"
"I've been counting."
Her name is Salma.
Fifty-three, teacher, never married. She's been watching me too.
"Why did you never speak before?"
"Fear. Propriety. The usual excuses."
"What changed?"
"Time. I ran out of it to waste."
We talk after prayer.
Then walk. Then have Eid breakfast together—the first I've shared in fifteen years.
"This is nice," she admits.
"This is overdue."
"Why didn't you remarry? After your wife?"
"I kept seeing someone else. At the mosque. Wondered about her."
"That's... very patient."
"Islam teaches patience."
"I never married because I was waiting too. For something that felt right."
"Does this feel right?"
"This feels like finally."
We see each other properly.
Chaperoned meetings, proper courtship. Both of us old enough to know what we want—and what it takes.
"This is slower than I imagined," I admit.
"You waited twenty years. What's a few more months?"
The first kiss is after our nikah.
Twenty years of watching, now finally touching.
"Alhamdulillah," she breathes.
"Alhamdulillah." I pull her close. "Finally."
She's everything I imagined.
Soft, warm, patient. Our first night is gentle—two people who've waited long enough.
"Beautiful."
"Ahmad—"
"I've dreamed of saying your name. For twenty years."
We make love like people who know time's value.
Slow, grateful, savoring every moment.
"Ya hayati—Salma—"
"Ya habibi—"
"I love you."
"I've loved you since the third Eid I saw you."
One year later
Every prayer, we're together now.
The partition still separates us at the mosque—but we meet on the other side.
"Happy?" she asks.
"Happier than I ever thought I'd be."
"Worth the wait?"
"Every single Eid."
Alhamdulillah.
For mosques that gather.
For patience that endures.
For Eid mornings that finally arrive.
The End.