This is a story about a M’sian who found herself torn between the man she loved and the faith that shaped her, and how choosing one meant quietly letting go of the other.
Meeting Him, Unexpectedly
I didn’t meet him expecting anything serious. It started casually, just a friendship that somehow felt familiar, even though we came from two very different worlds. He was gentle, curious, and funny in a quiet way. The kind of person who listened with genuine interest, who made the world feel a little lighter just by being there.
He told me early on that he was an atheist. A non-believer. I remember nodding, thinking it wasn’t something that would matter much – not yet, at least. I didn’t expect things to grow serious between us, and for a while, it was easy to just enjoy his company without overthinking what the future might hold.
Travelling Together, Discovering Differences
Before I knew it, we were travelling together, crossing borders, collecting memories in places I never imagined I’d even see. I’d find myself standing in cities I used to only scroll past on social media, hand in hand with him, wondering how something that felt so right could also feel so fragile.
When we travelled, we often visited local landmarks like temples, mosques, cathedrals, and churches. In Italy, for instance, we went to a few of the famous ones like the kind that tourists and believers alike flock to.
For me, it was sightseeing; an appreciation of art and culture. But I noticed something shift in him over time.
At first, he’d simply observe, snapping photos like any other traveller. Later, I noticed how quietly he’d linger, how he’d lower his voice and watch the people pray. By the third or fourth visit, I realised that for him, it wasn’t just sightseeing anymore.
Somewhere along the way, he started believing as in maybe not in everything, but in something. I could see it in his eyes. He had found a connection there, a quiet reverence I didn’t quite recognise. It wasn’t my place to question it, but I felt it, the growing difference between us.
Respecting Faith, But Feeling the Distance
At first, it didn’t matter that we believed in different things. He respected my faith, even if he didn’t share it. He would wait for me to finish praying, ask gentle questions about what I believed, and sometimes even join me for iftar during Ramadan. It felt like enough until it wasn’t.
When our conversations began to shift toward the future, the cracks quietly appeared.
He told me he was willing to convert, but maybe not in Malaysia. Maybe somewhere else, in another country. I didn’t understand why it mattered where. To me, faith isn’t geography. It’s sincerity. But his tone, calm yet uncertain, told me that he wasn’t ready to take that step at all.
He would suggest a civil marriage instead… in Canada, where he’s from. “It’s just paperwork,” he’d say. “We can still live our lives the way we want.”
The Thought of Leaving It All Behind
There were nights when I’d stare at the ceiling, thinking about what it would mean to give everything up. To stop fighting what felt like fate.
Part of me wanted to just run away with him. To go somewhere far, where no one would care what religion we were, what papers we signed, or who approved of our union. Somewhere we could start over. Somewhere I could do the nikah quietly, just the two of us and a witness, far from the noise and judgment of everyone who thought they knew what faith should look like.
Sometimes, I really thought about it. I thought about packing my bags, buying a one-way ticket, and never coming back. About building a small life in another corner of the world. A life where I could still worship in peace, where I could still be me, but without the weight of expectations.
Because in the end, who are we really trying to please? Society? The government? Or the One who sees everything, even the intentions buried deep in our hearts?
There was a dangerous kind of peace in that thought. That maybe I didn’t have to choose between him and God. That maybe I could just escape and do it my way. But every time that fantasy crossed my mind, something inside me would pull me back. A quiet voice reminding me that running away from pressure isn’t the same as running toward faith.
Choosing Faith Over Love
I wish it were that simple.
Because even though I don’t wear my faith on my sleeve, even though I’m far from perfect – Islam is something I hold close to my heart. It’s my compass, my comfort, my way of grounding myself when the world feels unstable. And the thought of compromising that, even for love, felt like losing a part of myself.
I tried to reason with him. I told him he didn’t even need to change who he was, maybe just convert on paper, so we could build a life together without guilt or sin. I almost begged, hoping love would make him understand. But faith isn’t something you can negotiate into existence. It has to come from conviction, not persuasion.
And so, slowly, painfully, I realised that love was asking us to let go.
The Quiet Ending
It wasn’t a dramatic ending. There were no fights, no shouting, no tears in public places. Just quiet acceptance. We both knew that as much as we cared for each other, we were standing on opposite sides of a line that neither of us could cross without losing ourselves.
Sometimes, love isn’t about fighting harder. It’s about knowing when to stop before it breaks you completely.
I used to think that love could conquer anything, say distance, culture, even religion. But the truth is, love has its limits. It cannot rewrite faith. It cannot erase conviction. And that’s okay. Because faith, too, is a kind of love – one that asks you to trust in something bigger than yourself.
I didn’t choose faith because I stopped loving him. I chose faith because it’s what keeps me whole, even when love leaves me in pieces.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that sometimes love is not meant to end with “happily ever after.” Sometimes, it ends quietly with gratitude, with prayers and with the hope that even if our paths never cross again, he’ll remember me kindly, as I will always remember him.
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