The Girl Inside Me: A Reflection in Soft Tones

There lives a girl in me, secretly and softly.

May 17, 2025

Disclaimer:

This isn’t to mock, exaggerate, or offend. This is simply me, a boy, trying to understand the soft, sacred, and secret girl that lives somewhere inside me. She’s not asking to be seen—just understood. And maybe written about.

There is a girl inside me.

She doesn’t like crowded weddings. She doesn’t like answering phone calls unless it’s from her mother. And even then, she picks up with a whisper that sounds like she’s guarding a library.

She prefers staying home, loves rainy days, and finds deep joy in folding clothes—yes, folding them, not just dumping them into drawers. She irons her hijab in her imagination and lines the invisible seams of her life with care.

She speaks gently, even in her head. When I want to yell at the world, she just places a hand on my heart and says, “No need, we’ll pray for them.”

She’s shy. Not the cute, flirty kind of shy. The real kind—the kind where you think twice before walking into a room because what if someone looks at you too long? Or worse, what if no one looks at all?

She is modest in ways that go beyond clothing.

She’s modest in how she accepts compliments, how she carries pain quietly, how she lowers her eyes not just in crowds but in thoughts.

She doesn’t rush into conversations, doesn’t interrupt, and if she ever laughs loudly, she regrets it for the next three hours.

She only really opens up with mum. And not even all the time. Just at night, when the world is asleep, and hearts feel safest. She talks about life, about food, about some dream of opening a small home bakery maybe, or learning how to make the perfect round roti. She listens to her mum as if her voice carries revelation.

Now, as a boy, I’m supposed to be the rough one. The loud one. The one who slaps his friends on the back and talks cricket, football.

But here I am…

Wearing loose clothes because tight ones make me feel like I can’t breathe—emotionally.

Keeping my hands obsessively clean like I’m prepping for spiritual surgery.

And my nails? They are shaped like crescents. I file them with a precision that could qualify as an Olympic skill. One chip, and I lose focus for the day.

Let's talk about her hobbie now.

Cooking, obviously. But not just any cooking. She wants to cook with love. She wants to wake up early and prepare breakfast for her family even when they don’t ask.

Sewing and mending clothes ,even if YouTube has to be consulted for every stitch.

Embroidery, Not that she’s mastered it yet, but there’s a fantasy of stitching little flowers on pillowcases.

Calligraphy —her current obsession. The way the pen flows, like it’s praying on paper. Sometimes I stare at Arabic calligraphy for so long I forget where I am.

And don't say about poetry.

She also… cares.

She cares too much. If someone’s sad in the room, she feels it in her ribs. If someone’s quiet, she assumes it’s her fault. She says “You eat first” even when she’s starving.

She listens more than she speaks and thinks more than she sleeps.

And parties? May Allah save her from them. She finds one corner, one cousin she can tolerate, and one plate of food that she pretends to nibble on while counting the minutes till she can go home.

She dreams of decorating her home someday with soft lighting, scented attar, a corner for reading, and maybe one hidden cupboard where she keeps every letter and memory safely stored.

And look, if you think I’m making this up—

Let me say this:

If hijab( the ones which covers entire body) was allowed for men, wallahi,you’d never see me again. I’d wrap myself like a mystery and walk through life like a poem no one is allowed to read. The thought of modesty is not a burden—it feels like protection.

If the day comes when hijab becomes permissible for men, I will be the happiest man in the world.

The kind who will wear it like armor and perfume it like prayer.

Now, people sometimes tease me. They say, “Are you sure you’re not a girl?”

Well, here’s why I’m sure I’m not:

I hate henna

The smell? Ugh.

The sticky feeling? Instant regret.

The allergic reaction? Let’s just say I looked like a strawberry with eczema.

If loving henna is the final test, I failed with flying (itchy) colors.

But here’s the truth

I’m not a girl.

But the girl inside me—