The Girl I Didn’t Touch (II)

She came too close, and I didn’t flinch. Her laughter spilled like honey, careless and soft, the kind that warms a room before you realise it’s melting something inside you. She brushed my sleeve once, not deliberate, I think, and I felt it like a verse recited wrong, trembling at the edges of my skin.

It’s strange how temptation isn’t loud. It’s quiet, and observant. It sits beside you, folds its legs, and asks, “Would it really be so wrong?”

I smiled at her, all composure and control. My hijab framed the decision before I even made it. I remembered who I am, a woman who promised her Lord she’d honour the veil, not just wear it. But still, the moment stayed, like sunlight through lace, fleeting, forbidden, and beautiful.

Later, when I prayed, I didn’t ask for forgiveness. I hadn’t sinned. I only asked to forget the way her perfume clung to the air when she left.

Because I didn’t touch her.
But that night, I dreamt of hands I never raised, and warmth I never claimed.

And in the quiet after dawn, I realised, sometimes faith isn’t about turning away. It’s about standing still, trembling, and still choosing not to move.