The nikah had been quiet.
No crowd. No stage. Just witnesses, soft voices, and a calm certainty that settled in Hidayah's chest the moment Khairul answered the akad without hesitation. It wasn't dramatic. It wasn't rushed.
It was right.
Now, weeks later, the apartment was filled with a different kind of energy.
Hidayah sat on the living room floor, legs folded beneath her, surrounded by guest lists, favour boxes, and a printed seating plan that had already been rearranged three times. The tablet beside her showed a checklist titled Reception — Final. She stared at it, unconvinced.
"We're missing something," she murmured.
Khairul, leaning casually against the sofa with a cup of tea in hand, glanced down. "We've covered food, guests, doa selamat, emcee, timing, photographer—"
"Exactly. It feels suspicious."
He chuckled, eyes crinkling slightly. "That's because this is not a wedding. It's a kenduri. People come, eat well, make noise, and ask us when the babies are coming."
She snorted. "Please don't remind me."
They had agreed on this from the start. The nikah was for them—for faith, for intention. The reception was for everyone else—for families who wanted to gather, for relatives who wanted to see them together, and for friends who had walked with them through different seasons of life.
Simple. Sincere. No excess.
Her phone buzzed.
Jasmine: Table five confirmed. Aunties have opinions, but we survived.
Hidayah smiled, shaking her head. "Your sister-in-law is fighting social battles for us."
Khairul raised his cup in mock salute. "May Allah reward her patience."
She leaned back, exhaling slowly, her hand unconsciously resting at her side. The scar was still there—lighter now, less insistent—but it no longer defined the room she stood in. It was part of the past. Not the future.
Khairul noticed the small shift in her posture and moved closer, sitting beside her without a word. He didn't ask if she was tired. He didn't hover. He just stayed, the quiet warmth of his presence filling the space.
"This reception," she said quietly, "it feels like a closing."
"Mm," he agreed. "And an opening."
She turned to him, studying the familiar angles of his face in the soft evening light that slipped through the window. Two years ago, safety had been something she fought for. Now, it was something she lived inside.
They leaned into each other instinctively, as if the apartment itself had memorised their rhythms. His hand brushed hers, casual, deliberate, a touch that spoke of years of steady presence.
"I never imagined it could feel like this," she admitted. "Like… ordinary, but good. And enough."
Khairul smiled softly. "That's the thing about ordinary. You notice it most when it's finally safe."
Hidayah laughed quietly. Not loud—just the low, easy sound of relief. "Safe… and married," she said. "And still learning how to live without fear shadowing every step."
He nodded. "And we'll keep learning. Together."
The room smelt faintly of jasmine and freshly brewed tea, the same scent that had accompanied so many quiet evenings since her discharge from the hospital. She could feel the weight of years compressed into the gentle calm around them—the nights of vigilance, the small victories of recovery, the afternoons filled with nothing more urgent than books, tea, and conversation.
"I think…" she hesitated, "I think the wedding reception is more than just a celebration. It's… proof. That we made it here. That we're here."
Khairul's hand found hers again, entwining fingers with a softness that was both intimate and reassuring. "It's a milestone," he said. "Not the end, but a marker. A way for everyone to see that you're thriving, that we're thriving, that life goes on beyond the things that tried to break us."
She leaned back against him, shoulder to shoulder, chest rising and falling with the same rhythm. "Do you ever think about how far we've come?"
"Every day," he admitted. "Not just the big moments, the graduation, the nikah—but the quiet ones. The evenings we didn't speak about the past. The dinners we cooked together. The walks around the neighbourhood without a shadow of fear. Those are the victories I notice most."
Hidayah let the thought settle in, warm and gentle. For the first time in years, the past didn't press against the edges of her consciousness. It existed, but it didn't dominate. It was a story that had led to this room, to this moment, to this presence beside her.
She reached for his face, brushing a stray hair behind his ear, tracing the faint scar along his jawline with a tenderness she hadn't realised she could allow herself to feel. "I think… I think I'm ready for all of it now. The ordinary days, the celebrations, the quiet evenings. With you."
Khairul leaned into her touch, thumb brushing across her hand. "I'm here. And I'm not going anywhere. Not for the celebrations, not for the quiet, not for anything."
They sat in silence for a while, the gentle city hum drifting through the open window. Outside, the call to prayer rose faintly in the evening air, wrapping them in a quiet constancy. Inside, the apartment was warm with the soft clatter of dishes from the kitchen, the quiet shuffle of planning papers, and the subtle sound of breath shared between two people who had learnt to survive together and now, to thrive together.
"Do you want to check the seating one more time?" Khairul asked lightly, nudging her shoulder.
Hidayah shook her head, laughing softly. "No. It's fine. It's perfect. Messy, but perfect. Just like us."
He smiled, eyes crinkling at the corners, and squeezed her hand gently. "Then let's leave it. For now."
They sat together, leaning into each other, letting the moment stretch out. Simple, quiet, real. The apartment felt full—not with objects, but with the weight of shared years, of love quietly built, of scars both physical and emotional that had been transformed into resilience.
She rested her head on his shoulder, letting herself breathe fully, deeply, without fear, without past shadows. He wrapped an arm around her, pulling her close, a firm, grounding presence.
"It's just us now," she whispered.
"Just us," he echoed.
And in that calm, in that ordinary, perfect ordinary, Hidayah realised something profound. Happiness wasn't a crescendo. It wasn't a dramatic event. It wasn't something that had to be earned in a single day. It was made in these quiet, shared moments—hands held, tea sipped, laughter spilling gently across a room.
They were already married. This reception, this celebration, was only an acknowledgement of what had been quietly true all along.
And that was more than enough.