The Iftar Invitation | دعوة الإفطار
"She invites her new neighbor to iftar during Ramadan. He's not Muslim, but he's curious. By the end of the meal, they're both hungry for more."
The Iftar Invitation
دعوة الإفطار
My new neighbor moves in during Ramadan.
I see him struggling with boxes, clearly overwhelmed. The Muslim thing to do would be help.
The woman living alone thing says stay inside.
I compromise by making extra food.
I'm Safiya.
Thirty-six, convert, five years now. Divorced two years ago—he didn't like that I became "too Muslim."
I live alone. I fast alone. I've accepted this.
Then James moves next door.
He's maybe forty.
White, scruffy, the kind of tired that comes from starting over.
"Hi," I say, handing him a casserole dish. "Welcome to the building. This is—well, it's for after sunset, if you can wait."
"After sunset?"
"It's Ramadan. I'm Muslim. We don't eat until dark."
"Oh." He takes the dish. "Thank you. That's really kind."
Days pass.
He returns my dish, washed, with a note: This was incredible. I'd love to learn how you made it.
I shouldn't invite a strange man over.
I invite him anyway.
"What's iftar exactly?"
We're in my apartment, food spread on the table, waiting for Maghrib.
"Breaking the fast. You eat dates first, then pray, then the meal."
"You've been fasting all day? No food or water?"
"Since sunrise."
"That's intense."
"It's clarifying. Helps you remember what matters."
The adhan plays from my phone.
I break my fast with dates, offer him one.
"Bismillah," I say.
"Is there something I should say?"
"You could say 'thank you' for the free meal."
He laughs. "Thank you for the free meal."
We eat.
He asks questions—about Islam, about my conversion, about what drew me to this life.
"I was lost," I admit. "Drinking too much, working too much, never feeling full. Islam gave me structure. Purpose."
"And the fasting?"
"The fasting teaches you that hunger isn't the enemy. It's the teacher."
"What else did you leave behind?"
"A husband. Friends who didn't understand. My family's still adjusting." I shrug. "But what I gained was worth it."
"You don't seem bitter."
"I was. For a while. Now I'm just... at peace."
He stays late.
Helping clean up, asking more questions. When he finally leaves, he pauses at the door.
"Can I come again tomorrow?"
"For iftar?"
"For the company. The food is just a bonus."
He comes every night.
By the second week, we've covered religion, politics, past relationships. He's divorced too—his wife left for someone more "ambitious."
"I was too focused on being happy," he admits. "She wanted someone focused on being successful."
"Those should be the same thing."
"They really should."
Night fifteen.
We're sitting after the meal, tea cooling between us.
"Safiya, can I tell you something?"
"Of course."
"I've felt more peace in these two weeks than I have in two years. And I don't think it's just the food."
"James—"
"I know. It's complicated. You're Muslim. I'm... figuring things out. But I think about you all day. While you're fasting, I'm fasting too—from everything that isn't waiting to see you."
"That's very poetic."
"I've had time to think of it."
We don't kiss.
Not then. It's Ramadan, and I'm trying to be good. But the tension builds until it's almost unbearable.
Eid arrives.
I've bought new clothes, cooked special food. James knocks at sunset.
"Eid Mubarak," he says, handing me flowers. "I looked it up."
"Eid Mubarak."
"Is it okay if I kiss you now? Ramadan's over."
The kiss is sweet.
Like dates. Like patience rewarded.
"Safiya—"
"Come inside."
We don't make it to the bedroom.
The couch. The floor. Thirty days of hunger finally fed.
"Beautiful," he gasps.
"You don't have to—"
"I mean it. Every inch of you."
He takes his time.
Learning my body the way he learned my faith—with curiosity, with reverence. When I finally come, it's with tears I didn't expect.
"Are you okay?"
"I'm overwhelmed. In the best way."
He enters me slowly.
Carefully. Like I'm something precious.
"I think I love you," he says.
"It's been two weeks."
"I know what I feel."
Six months later
James took shahada last month.
Not for me—I made sure of that. For himself. For the peace he found in those Ramadan nights.
"Alhamdulillah," he says now, like he's been saying it forever.
"Alhamdulillah."
We're engaged.
The iftar invitations have expanded—his family, mine, the whole community. Our apartment is always full.
"Happy?" he asks.
"Fuller than I've ever been."
"That sounds like a Ramadan metaphor."
"Everything sounds like a Ramadan metaphor now."
He pulls me close.
The same couch where it all began.
"Jazakillahu khairan," he says. "For the invitation."
"For the iftar?"
"For everything."
Alhamdulillah.
For neighbors who move in at the right time.
For fasts that end in feasts.
For invitations that change everything.
The End.