I stand by the balcony today. The view is a splash of beautiful colours. A hue of violet and a hint of golden to let the world know that the sun is about to rise. I let out a heavy sigh. It has been a week into Ramadhan and what have I achieved? The sun rising reminds me of how no matter what happens, each and every day the sun will give its best and shine brilliantly to the ruthless world. No matter what. It will never surrender to the darkness that keeps coming each and every night. For after darkness, there is always light. For after rainfall, there is always a rainbow. But after seven days into Ramadhan, I see no rainbow. I see no light despite the sun rising right in front my eyes.

I look away from the sun, ashamed of its sincerity and determination in shining. Astaghfirullah, I whisper and wince as a painful memory kicks in.

“Risya!” My mother called from down the stairs.

I stuffed the pillow to my face and pressed at each side to my ears to drown her voice. I barely took a nap. Gosh. All of a sudden, the door of my room bangs open.

“SubhanAllah Risya. Do you realise what time it is now?” Prepare to be shot to death, I told myself. Shot by her series of questions I mean. I stayed, not moving an inch.

“Are you even fasting? Have you been sleeping? Did you actually prayed ‘asr?”

Wait. What? I sprang up from my bed and rubbed my eyes. “What time is it?” I asked groggily.

She merely shook her head and went downstairs. I looked out the window and see the golden orb has just set. Maghrib. A pang of regret in my chest. I was only supposed to sleep for a short while.. Well, it was already ‘asr when I slept but I thought 30 minutes or an hour wouldn’t kill. But actually it did. It did kill my heart. The spiritual one. I rushed downstairs to break my fast and quickly went back up to pray. In my sujood, I stayed and begged for His forgiveness. I hope this will never happen again. Fasting but not praying? It just feels so wrong. Especially when prayer is the pillar of Islam that comes before fasting. There was a deep hole in my chest. This is not the first time. What if I get used to this? I shook my head and made istighfar.

I open my eyes and wipe it with the back of my hand. It comes away damp. The same thing happened again this Ramadhan and it has been a week already. I feel like giving up. Perhaps there is no hope for me to change. There will be no rainbows. There will be no light. None.

I leave the balcony and head to my room. I scan to look for my source of light. There. A book, a guide and light that I wish to always keep close to my heart. The Qur’an. When it feels like there is no hope, I go to the One who can give me that hope. For fear of failing has to always be balance with hope.

I begin reciting and the words gradually soothes my soul. As I recite, I come across an ayah and my voice catches at my throat. I am unable to proceed. I start from the beginning of the ayah and recite once more. Again, there is a lump in my throat preventing me to proceed. I begin to sob because the ayah is this,


az zumar, 53

When I have lost all hope, Allah gives me hope that He will forgive me so long as I truly repent.

O Allah, I am truly sorry. I will be like the sun this time around. Ramadhan, you will witness me shine. InsyaAllah. 

hope fear




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