A Hijabi and a Heartbreaker
.
Bariyah
Nobody famous, nobody special — and comfortable with that.
Wears hijab like a promise, not a statement.
Speaks softly, but never bends her boundaries.
Believes love should feel safe, not loud.
Walks away easily from what risks her faith.
Evan Cross
World-famous romance–pop singer with a cruel mouth and a golden voice.
Worshipped by millions, trusted by none — including himself.
Mocks religion but fears silence.
Writes love songs without knowing restraint.
Meets her and realizes peace doesn’t clap back.
okay lets head back to story
evan cross(ml)
: I was on stage. That’s literally my job
manager
The after-party is waiting.
The dressing room smells like sweat, roses, and something metallic Evan can never name. Applause still leaks through the walls like a headache that refuses to fade. His name is being chanted outside. Again. Always.
He drops onto the couch, head tilted back, eyes closed.
Silence lasts exactly three seconds.
He reaches for his phone.
???
Your songs saved my marriage.
???
Cried when you sang “Stay.”
???
Marry me. I’ll convert to atheism for you.
evan cross(ml)
Idiots,” he mutters, thumbs scrolling faster. Love. Tears. Forever. Words he sells like perfume — expensive, addictive, evaporating by morning.
manager
Monster night. Stadium was insane.
manager
Media wants a quote. Something romantic.
evan cross(ml)
Make one up. That’s what they pay you for.
He tosses the phone onto the table and stands, pacing. The mirror catches him mid-step. Leather jacket. Chain glinting. Hair still perfect even after two hours of screaming fans.
He looks like a man who believes in everything.
He believes in nothing.
evan cross(ml)
I said cancel.
evan cross(ml)
Then they can fly back out.
She hesitates. Everyone hesitates around him. Evan notices it like a habit — the careful tone, the measured breaths. People don’t talk to him. They approach him.
He runs a hand through his hair, jaw tightening.
evan cross(ml)
Why do you all look at me like I might explode?” he snaps.
assistant
The assistant lowers her eyes and leaves.
evan cross(ml)
Draft Lyrics (Untitled):
I love you like a curse I chose.
Like a god I don’t believe in anymore
evan cross(ml)
He stares at the words.
Deletes them.
Interview Clip — Auto-play (Muted):
Evan Cross laughs when asked about religion.
He unmutes.
???
Some fans say your music feels spiritual. Do you believe in God?
evan cross(ml)
Belief is just fear dressed nicely.
The crowd in the clip laughs. He remembers that laugh. It felt sharp. Clean. Like winning an argument no one could touch.
Now it just feels loud.
evan cross(ml)
(typing… deletes)
He doesn’t call.
Instead, he scrolls through photos. Stadium lights. Open arms. Crying faces. Girls holding signs that say HEAL ME and SAVE ME and I’LL WAIT FOREVER.
He exhales slowly.
evan cross(ml)
Don’t,” he says to no one.
evan cross(ml)
Define okay.
???
You killed it tonight.
evan cross(ml)
That’s not an answer.
The bandmate laughs awkwardly. Everyone laughs awkwardly around him.
Evan sits again, elbows on knees, staring at the floor. He hates this part — the after. The drop. When the noise leaves and something heavier crawls in.
Silence presses against his ears.
He turns the TV back on. Any channel. Any voice.
A charity ad flashes briefly before he switches it.
A woman in a headscarf handing out food. Her face calm. No smile for the camera.
He pauses.
Rewinds.
Watches again.
She looks… unmoved. Like the camera doesn’t matter.
He scoffs and switches it off.
evan cross(ml)
Propaganda,” he mutters.
manager
PR meeting tomorrow. There’s backlash again.
evan cross(ml)
About what?
manager
The religion comment.
evan cross(ml)
: I didn’t lie.
He stands, suddenly restless, grabs his jacket
manager
Where are you going?
evan cross(ml)
Somewhere quiet.
Outside, the night air hits colder. Fans scream from behind barriers. Phones flash. Security forms a wall.
???
Say something about love!
evan cross(ml)
He smiles automatically. The practiced curve of his lips.
evan cross(ml)
Love yourself,” he says into the mic someone shoves forward.
In the car, the city blurs past. Neon signs. Churches. Bars. Mosques he doesn’t look at for too long.
He leans his head against the window.
.
The morning light slipped through the thin curtains of Bariyah’s small apartment, painting the walls in muted gold. She tied her hijab carefully, every fold deliberate, every pin secure. Two years ago, this simple piece of cloth had changed her life. Overnight, friends had drifted away, whispers followed her in classrooms, and some family members questioned her choice. But she had chosen this path anyway. Faith wasn’t about approval; it was about being true to herself.
Bariyah adjusted her backpack and headed to the living room. The laptop waited patiently on the table, dozens of tabs already open: job listings, application portals, emails she hadn’t dared to check yet. Two years of relentless studying had finally brought her a degree she had earned with sweat, tears, and countless nights of whispered prayers. Yet here she was, scrolling through rejection after rejection, feeling smaller with each passing click
bariyah(fl)
No response.
We regret to inform you…
We have chosen another candidate…
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. She wanted to scream, to throw the laptop across the room, to tell the world that she had worked harder than anyone could imagine. Instead, she took a deep breath, pressing her palms against her eyes.
bariyah(fl)
“Allah knows,” she whispered. “That’s enough.
The words didn’t soothe the ache entirely. Completing her degree had been her victory, but surviving in a world that barely noticed her was proving far harder. Two years ago, her friends had teased her gently at first. Then with sharper words. Her choice to wear hijab had been called backward, restrictive, even naive. At times, she wondered if she had made the wrong decision. Yet every morning she looked in the mirror and saw strength in her reflection, a quiet dignity that no rejection email could steal
bariyah(fl)
Bariyah rose and moved to her small kitchenette. She boiled water for tea, listening to the faint hum of the city outside. Cars honked, motorbikes roared, people shouted at invisible troubles. And here she was, in a tiny apartment, trying to carve a space for herself in a world that didn’t care. The bitter taste of her tea mirrored the frustration she swallowed daily.
???
She opened another email. Another polite rejection. Her shoulders slumped slightly, but her gaze didn’t falter. She folded her hands over her lap, whispering another prayer, asking for patience, asking for strength, asking for clarity. She reminded herself that faith was never about recognition, and success was never just measured by worldly applause. But still, a small, human part of her ached for acknowledgment
???
To distract herself, she opened her notebook. In neat handwriting, she began listing the places she had applied, tracking her tiny victories — the interviews she had passed, the questions she had answered confidently. She reminded herself that every “no” was not a reflection of her worth. Her worth was never determined by employers, by society, or by anyone outside of her own heart. She scribbled verses and short duas in the margins, letting the words wrap around her like a protective cloak.
???
Bariyah scrolled through the article briefly, eyes narrowed. So loud. So hungry for attention. She shook her head, closing the notification. Fame meant nothing. She had never been impressed by crowds or applause. Her life was quieter, slower, harder, but hers. She would rather struggle unseen than compromise her faith or her dignity for recognition.
bariyah(fl)
The world can be very loud, can't it? It often mistakes quiet strength for weakness.
.
Two years ago, she had made a choice that changed everything.
Her hijab. Her faith. Her silence.
Her family had turned away. Some siblings stopped calling. Friends disappeared quietly, unable to understand the woman she was becoming. She had cried alone for weeks. She had whispered to Allah, asking for patience and strength.
Now she had finished her degree — top marks. Every night of struggle, every tear, every sleepless hour, all for this. And yet, the world didn’t seem to notice.
Her phone buzzed.
WhatsApp – Islamic Sisters Group
???
Bariyah! There’s a volunteer program this weekend. Community center, food distribution. You in?
bariyah(fl)
Okay, I’ll join. Thank you.
???
You’ll love it. Sisters will guide you. Don’t worry, you won’t be alone.
Bariyah stared at the screen. The idea of stepping outside, doing something meaningful, gave her a small spark of life. She closed her laptop and packed a simple bag — water, snacks, her notebook. Her hijab, neatly pinned, felt heavier today than usual, like a crown of responsibility.
bariyah(fl)
Two years ago, I chose this path. My family left. My friends left. I cried. I prayed. And I survived
bariyah(fl)
Why am I even trying?
bariyah(fl)
Because you have to. You can’t wait for the world to notice.
bariyah(fl)
But nothing ever changes…
bariyah(fl)
Faith changes everything. Not people
She sighed and left her apartment. The city outside roared with noise. Cars honked. Motorbikes screamed. People shouted at invisible troubles. It all felt loud, unnecessary. She was quiet, invisible, focused.
At the community center, chaos ruled. Volunteers ran back and forth. Boxes of food and supplies waited to be sorted. Cameras flashed in the corner. A celebrity fundraiser was in progress.
She ignored it all.
???
Hi! You’re new here, right?
bariyah(fl)
Yes. Where should I start?
???
Boxes over there. We can use your help with sorting food.
No one noticed how calm she was. How steady her hands were as she lifted boxes. How silently she commanded respect without speaking.
She glanced at the cameras briefly… they didn’t matter
Hours passed. Bariyah moved quietly, efficiently. She didn’t need recognition. She didn’t need approval. Her reward was the work itself, the satisfaction of doing something meaningful, of being useful in a world that barely noticed her existence.
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