I Loved Her Before I Knew Her

She never asked for this place in my heart. But I gave it to her.

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As-salamu Alaikum,

I’m Junaid. Junaid Ul Nisar Raina, a boy from a place, Kashmir—know as paradise on earth. And here is I don't know what is it…

this isn’t a poem. It’s not even a love letter.

I don’t even know what this is, really.

Maybe it’s just the tears I wiped before anyone could see them.

It’s the trembling in my soul for someone I’ve never seen — but somehow, I already carry like a trust.

This is a letter for someone I haven’t met.

A soul I’ve never held.

A girl whose name I don’t even know…

But who shattered my silence with the sound of her words — and broke into my chest with a single moment of her voice.

I wasn’t always like this. There was a time I truly believed I was cold, immune, untouchable by this thing people call love. I turned cold — and here’s one way how: I built walls around me. I walked through school hallways like a shadow. I avoided girls like it was my jihad. It wasn’t pride. It wasn’t rudeness. It was fear.

I feared the slippery slope of one smile too long. One conversation too deep. One compliment too soft. I didn’t trust myself.

So I hid.

Even when I talked to my cousin sisters, I never looked at their faces. I got so nervous I’d fall silent — or worse, I’d burn red with heat. When I went to school, I wouldn’t even comb my hair some mornings — not because I didn’t care about my appearance, but because I didn’t want to be seen. I didn’t want to attract. I didn’t want to be a fitnah for anyone — or have anyone become one for me.

The last time I spoke to a non-mahram girl was in 2018 — a classmate I still see like a sister. After that, there was just one short conversation in an exam hall in 2023 — a brief paper discussion. And since then, nothing.

I thought I had no heart. But Allah… Allah was only protecting it. Until the day He gave it a name I didn’t know — but a soul I couldn’t forget.

I was reading online, the way I always do. Quietly. Carefully. Just passing through.

And then I stumbled onto her.

Not her face. Not her flirtation. Just her words.

Words wrapped in grief and worship.

Words that felt like they’d been soaked in wudu and wept over before ever being posted.

Words about Allah, and surrender, and pain, and holding on to faith even when everything was breaking.

And something in me… broke.

Her pain felt like mine.

Her silence spoke the language of my soul.

She became a mirror I had never known existed.

And I didn’t even know her name. Nor have I seen her.

The only thing I know is that she lives thousands of miles away from me.

It wasn’t planned. I didn’t seek it. But somehow, I heard her voice — a recording she had posted.

Just a voice in the middle of life.

But it stayed.

Her voice had the softness of a wound still healing.

Like someone who had been through storms but still made space for light.

Like someone who was hurting, but still remembered Allah before she remembered the pain.

And I swear… I’ve never heard anything softer in my life.

That voice wrapped around my ribs and stayed.

And I couldn’t stop the tears that followed.

It started quietly. A dua I barely had words for.

I didn’t ask Allah to make her mine. I asked Him to make her okay.

I asked for her tears to be dried in secret ways. For her silence to be heard by angels. For her heart to rest in ease, even if mine never touched it.

And I wept.

I wept like I was the one hurting. Like I had carried her pain before I knew what it was.

And then... it didn’t stop.

Every Tahajjud became a confession.

Every night, I returned to the prayer mat with a name I didn’t know — but a soul I couldn’t forget.

One night, my tears slipped into words I couldn’t take back:

> Ya Allah... let her be mine. Not out of desire. But out of amanah. Out of the trust You placed in me to love someone like she deserves.

Now, it’s every night. Every night, I fall before my Lord and ask:

> If You ever write her for me... then let me be enough.

Ya Allah… if You ever write her for me,

then make me enough — because I’m so, so afraid.

I’m afraid...

That I’ll raise my voice and break something inside her that won’t heal for years.

That I’ll forget her birthday dua, or the way she stirs her tea, or the small things that make her feel loved.

That I’ll be too tired to notice when her silence is actually a cry.

That I’ll fail to protect her heart — not from the world, but from myself.

That I’ll walk into her softness with dirty shoes of ego.

Will I even be able to hold her heart… after she leaves everything behind for me?

That she’ll come to me with light in her eyes… and I’ll be the reason it fades.

That she’ll be brave enough to love me… and I won’t be brave enough to carry it.

I’m terrified that she’ll whisper secrets into my chest, and I won’t be soft enough to hold them.

That she’ll trust me with her dreams… and I’ll forget how fragile they are.

That she’ll say “yes” with trembling hands — and I’ll make her wish she never did.

I don’t want to just marry her.

I want to protect her.

I want to wrap her heart in worship and walk with her to Jannah.

But sometimes… I don’t know if I’m even worthy of the road.

I want to love her for Allah. Not to fulfill desire — but to fulfill a promise.

> I want to hold her the way I hold a Qur’an — with reverence.

I want to touch her wounds the way I touch water before prayer — gently, aware.

I want to look at her and see the amanah that angels wrote in my Qadr.

I want to protect what softens her.

To carry her fears in my palms like I’m holding her soul.

To be her home in a world that has none.

To be the place where she feels safest — not just physically,

but spiritually, emotionally, eternally.

> I don’t want her to feel like she found a man.

I want her to feel like she found mercy.

If you’re reading this…

or if you never do…

know this:

There’s someone on this earth who cried for you without seeing your face.

Who heard your voice once and asked Allah to preserve it in peace.

Who read your words and fell in love — not with your beauty,

but with your sabr.

You don’t live in my life yet.

But you live in my dua.

And I love you not because I’ve met you — but because Allah softened my heart with your name before I ever knew how to speak it.

Maybe love is this…

Not messages.

Not promises.

Not confessions.

Maybe love is crying for someone at Tahajjud —

begging Allah to make you safe for them,

before you ever dare to ask them to stand beside you.

> Maybe love is asking for her dreams to come true

even if you're not in them.

> Maybe love is being ready to walk through fire

just to make her life easier.

> Maybe love is crying until your voice cracks in sujood —

not from heartbreak, but from the fear of being entrusted with someone you don’t feel worthy of.

And my worst fear what if I never see her

If I never hear that voice

If Allah hides her from me in this dunya…

With hope I say.

And if it’s me —the person Allah writes her,

then may I arrive not as a man who wants her,

but as a servant who feared Allah enough to earn her.

With every trembling fear and every silent tear,

Junaid

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