The Muslimah App | تطبيق المسلمة
"She swiped right on a halal dating app. He turned out to be nothing like his profile—older, shyer, more broken. And exactly what she needed."
The Muslimah App
تطبيق المسلمة
Muzmatch. Minder. Single Muslim.
I've tried them all. Thirty-two, hijabi, plus-size—the halal dating pool is shallow for women like me.
Then I matched with Idris.
His profile said 38.
His photos were tasteful—no shirtless gym shots, just a man in a suit at what looked like a family wedding.
"Assalamu alaikum," he wrote. "Your profile mentioned you love Arabic poetry. Who's your favorite?"
I fell a little bit in love right there.
We messaged for weeks.
About poetry. About our families. About what we wanted from marriage—companionship, yes, but also passion. Something real.
"I should tell you something," he finally wrote. "I'm not 38."
My heart sank.
"How old are you?"
"47."
I should have unmatched.
The age gap. The lie. Every red flag was waving.
But his messages were still there. The conversations. The way he made me laugh, made me think.
"Why did you lie?"
"Because women my age aren't on these apps. And women your age won't match with men my age."
"You don't know that."
"I know it from experience."
We kept talking.
He apologized. Explained his divorce—a wife who wanted children, a body that couldn't give them. The shame that followed.
"I understand if you don't want to meet," he wrote.
But I did want to meet.
That was the problem.
We meet at a halal restaurant in Whitechapel.
He's already there when I arrive. The photos were accurate—just fifteen years old. His hair is fully grey now. Lines around his eyes.
But those eyes.
Kind. Warm. Nervous.
"Assalamu alaikum, Noor."
"Wa alaikum assalam, Idris."
The conversation flows.
He's funnier in person. More awkward. He knocks over his water twice and apologizes profusely.
"I'm terrible at this," he admits.
"At what?"
"Dating. Meeting people. I married my first wife at twenty-three. Never learned how to do... this."
"You're doing fine."
Three hours pass before we notice.
He walks me to the tube station. We stand in the cold, neither wanting to leave.
"Can I see you again?" he asks.
"Yes."
"Even though I lied?"
"Everyone lies on those apps." I smile. "At least you had the decency to confess."
We see each other every week.
Properly. Chaperoned sometimes—his sister joins us for tea, my brother tags along to dinner. But we find moments alone.
"I want to kiss you," he says one night.
"Then do it."
"It's not halal."
"Nothing about this is halal yet." I move closer. "But it will be. Inshallah."
The first kiss is sweet.
Tentative. Like he's forgotten how, like he's relearning.
"I'm sorry," he mumbles. "I'm out of practice."
"Practice makes perfect."
We practice.
A lot.
In his car after dinner. In my flat when my roommate is out. Never going too far, but testing every limit.
"Marry me," he finally says.
"Is that a question or a statement?"
"Both. Either. I just—I want this to be halal, Noor. I want to wake up with you. I want to stop feeling guilty."
"Your family won't approve."
"My family wants me happy. They'll adjust."
"I'm fifteen years younger than you."
"And I'll spend the rest of my life making sure you don't regret that gap."
"Idris—"
"Say yes. Please."
I say yes.
We have nikah three months later.
Small ceremony. His family, mine. Some awkward moments when his mother realizes I'm not the age she expected.
"She's young," his mother whispers.
"She's perfect," he replies.
Our first night as husband and wife.
We've waited so long. Done everything but. Now, finally, we don't have to stop.
"Are you nervous?" I ask.
"Terrified." He laughs. "I haven't done this since... well."
"We'll figure it out together."
We figure it out.
Slowly at first. Learning what the other likes. He's gentle—too gentle—and I have to tell him I won't break.
"Harder," I gasp.
"I don't want to hurt—"
"You won't. I need more."
He gives me more.
And more. And more. By the end of the night, we've made up for months of waiting.
"Worth it?" I ask, lying in his arms.
"Worth every awkward chaperoned dinner."
"Worth every frustrated goodbye?"
"Worth everything." He kisses my forehead. "You're worth everything."
Two years later
We've just moved to a bigger flat.
Not because we need the space—his condition means children are unlikely—but because we want room for our life together.
"Happy?" he asks, surveying the empty rooms.
"Deliriously."
"No regrets? About the age gap, the apps, any of it?"
"Only one regret."
His face falls. "What?"
"That I almost swiped left." I wrap my arms around him. "Some algorithm matched us. Against all odds. If I'd swiped differently..."
"But you didn't."
"But I didn't."
He makes love to me in our empty flat.
On the floor of what will be our bedroom. Urgent, passionate, grateful.
"I love you," he says.
"I love you too."
Alhamdulillah.
For apps that lie about age.
For confessions that come in time.
For swiping right when everything said to swipe left.
The End.