Fragment Of You. (ONGOING)

~~~CHAPTER ONE~~~

There she was, lying on her back, staring at the ceiling. The room was quiet, dim, and empty.so empty, in fact, that even the silence felt loud. Hibba lay there, still and hollow, cold tears slipping silently from the corners of her eyes, tracing the line of her face and soaking her pillow.

Her mind was spinning, thoughts clashing with the throbbing in her head. Her chest felt tight, like grief had made a home there. Her heart ached in a way that didn’t feel human. She felt cursed.
Why me?
Why do I always have to deal with so much pain?
Why aren’t the antidepressants working?

The darkness in her mind was louder than the room. She was tired. Of trying. Of existing. Her thoughts are unorganized. She had no idea what to do anymore. Nothing was working.

She took a deep, trembling breath and sat up slowly, the motion heavy with exhaustion. Her legs slid down from the bed, toes brushing the cold floor as she dragged herself out. She walked to the bathroom and performed ablution quietly. It was already past 2:00 a.m.

She didn’t know if she’d sleep tonight or ever. But she could at least pray. Maybe God was still listening.

She stood in the quiet of her room, wrapped in her Jilbab, and prayed Qiyamul Layl with tears falling again,softer this time. She begged God for healing, for mercy, for peace. When she finished, she left her jilbab folded on the prayer mat and changed into her pajamas. Her stomach growled faintly, but she ignored it. her appetite had long since disappeared.

She took her medications, whispered her nightly du’a, and slipped under the soft, luxurious duvet.

~~~~~~~~~~

Hibba woke up late the next morning around noon. She bathed, dressed, and ate something light, though it doubled as breakfast and lunch. After praying Zuhr, she lay back on her bed and mindlessly scrolled through her phone, numb and distant.

That was when she saw it.

A clinic. A therapy center. Different from the usual.
It wasn’t just another talking session or group therapy.
It was something called Memory Link Stimulation (MLS).

She paused, blinking at the screen. She’d never heard of it before. Curious, she clicked. And as she read more, her chest tightened.

What if this one works?
What if this one finally… heals me?

~~~~~~~~~~~

That afternoon, Hibba got dressed. She chose her burgundy Yasmine abaya and paired it with a white DC bag. Her feet slid into Hermes slippers that matched perfectly. She stood in front of the mirror, studying her reflection.

She looked pale. Her almond-shaped eyes were puffy from the night before, rimmed in quiet sorrow. Still, she looked elegant. The color of the abaya complimented her fair skin. She didn’t look like someone falling apart. She looked… composed.
(Steeze and composure 💯🤭)

She grabbed her car keys and stepped out.

Driving carefully, she followed the directions from Google Maps, Qur’an playing gently through her speakers. Suratul Yusuf, recited by Sheikh Aliyu Jabir. His voice comforted her in a way nothing else could. She had no idea that by the time she returned, her entire life would be changed.

~~~~~~~~

When she reached the clinic, she parked neatly in the driveway and walked inside. The place was calm, white and silver interiors humming with stillness.

She approached the front desk, her voice soft but steady.
“I’m here to speak with a therapist,” she said. “I’m interested in your service… but I’d like to understand how the process works before I register.”

The receptionist smiled, nodded, and told her to wait.

And so Hibba sat. Waiting.
Unaware that she wasn’t just signing up for therapy.
She was walking into a memory that wasn’t hers.
One that would shape her heart, break it, and change it forever.