Classmate Crush
classmate
Fahad
The Vibe: A fellow 22-year-old student in the same department. He’s known for his calm energy and the way he can de-escalate any debate in a seminar. He’s often spotted at the local prayer hall or the campus cafe with a stack of thick political theory books.
Esma
The Vibe: She’s 22, focused, and wears her faith with a modern, artistic flair—think structured hijabs and long, elegant coats. She’s the top of her class in International Relations, driven by a desire to see Estonia’s bridge to the East strengthened.
The Personality: Principled and observant. She’s the person people go to when they need a problem solved, but she rarely lets anyone help her.
The Baltic wind whipped through the streets of Tallinn, carrying the scent of pine and the promise of a long, unforgiving winter. For Fahad, the cold was more than just weather; it was a reminder of the thinness of his coat.
Fahad’s family lived in a cramped, two-bedroom apartment on the fringes of the city, far from the polished glass towers of the tech moguls. His father worked double shifts at the shipping docks, and his mother spent her days sewing alterations for wealthy boutiques. In a country like Estonia, where the digital revolution had turned many into overnight millionaires, Fahad’s world was built on the grit of manual labor and the hushed whispers of counting cents for the bus fare.
But inside the university’s grand assembly hall, class distinctions were supposed to vanish under the high, vaulted ceilings.
The hall was packed with students. It was the start of the final year—the "Senior Year Surge." Fahad stood near the back, his hands shoved deep into his pockets to hide the slight fraying at his cuffs. He was tall, with a quiet, observant face that usually blended into the shadows.
Then, the crowd shifted.
Across the sea of heads, near the front row where the "high-achievers" congregated, stood Esma. She was adjusting a silk hijab of deep emerald green that caught the light of the chandeliers. She wasn't just beautiful; she carried an aura of effortless grace that made the air around her seem warmer.
....
As the Rector spoke about "innovation" and "the future of Estonia," Esma turned her head slightly to whisper something to a friend. Her gaze traveled back, scanning the room, until it locked onto his.
Fahad froze. He felt like a deer caught in high-beam headlights. For three seconds, the world went silent. Her eyes were dark, intelligent, and curious. She didn’t look away immediately; instead, she gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod before turning back to the stage. Fahad’s heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. He was a scholarship kid from the outskirts; she was the girl the professors raved about. The distance between them felt longer than the Baltic coastline.
Thirty minutes later, the humid heat of the Seminar Room was a sharp contrast to the chilly hall. Fahad sat in his usual spot—second to last row, near the window. His best friend, Artur, a guy whose energy level was perpetually set to "distracting," was busy trying to balance a pencil on his nose
The professor, Madame Helga, was a woman who looked like she hadn’t smiled since the fall of the Berlin Wall. She slammed her ledger onto the podium.
....
Silence! We are seniors now. Act like it," she barked. She began the roll call with the surgical precision of a drill sergeant
....
Ere, Madame! And looking forward to your inspiring lectures!" Lars, the class clown, winked. "Ten points from your first assignment for sycophancy, Mr. Bakker," she snapped without looking up. Lars’s face fell, and the class erupted into muffled snickers.
....
Present!" a boy shouted from the very back, accidentally knocking his thermos off the desk. It clattered loudly, spilling coffee everywhere.
....
Mr. Pärn, if you treat your studies like you treat your beverage, you’ll be a janitor by June," Helga sighed, rubbing her temples.
The tension in the room was a mix of boredom and anxiety. Fahad, however, wasn't paying attention to Lars or the coffee spill. He was watching the back of Esma’s head. She was sitting three rows ahead of him, her posture perfect, her notebook already open to a fresh page.
....
Esma..." the professor called out.
esma(fl)
Yes, Madame. Present," Esma replied. Her voice was steady, melodic, and held a slight hum of confidence.
Fahad felt a strange impulse. He opened his own notebook—a cheap, spiral-bound thing—and on the very top margin, he wrote her name in Arabic calligraphy. Esma. He traced the curves of the letters, lost in the ink. It was a private acknowledgement, a way to anchor the moment.
....
The room went quiet.
"Fahad!" Madame Helga’s voice rose an octave.
Fahad was still staring at the name in his book, wondering if she preferred the emerald hijab or the navy one he’d seen her wear last Tuesday. He was miles away, imagining a world where he could actually walk up to her and say hello without feeling the weight of his empty pockets.
....
Artur’s elbow slammed into Fahad’s ribs. "Hey! Earth to Romeo!" Artur hissed under his breath.
fahad(ml)
Fahad jolted, his pen skidding across the page and leaving a jagged black line through his beautiful calligraphy. "Huh? What?"
....
MR. FAHAD!" Madame Helga was now standing directly in front of his row, her shadow looming over his desk like a dark cloud. "Are we interrupting your daydream? Perhaps the maritime history of Estonia is too boring for your brilliant mind?"
The entire class turned. Fahad felt the heat crawl up his neck, staining his cheeks a deep red. He looked up at the professor, his tongue feeling like lead.
fahad(ml)
I... I’m sorry, Ma'am. I didn't hear you," he stammered, his voice cracking slightly.
....
Clearly," she hissed. "In this classroom, we respect the roll call. If you cannot manage to say 'present,' how do you intend to manage a degree? Stay focused, or stay home."
Fahad lowered his head, staring intensely at his desk, wanting the floorboards to open up and swallow him whole. He remained silent, his jaw tight with embarrassment. Artur patted his shoulder sympathetically, though he was clearly struggling not to laugh at the "scolding" Fahad just received
Then, a movement caught his eye.
Esma had turned around in her seat. She wasn't looking at him with pity, which he would have hated. Instead, she had a hand over her mouth, unsuccessfully hiding a smirk. Her eyes were dancing with amusement. It wasn't a mean laugh; it was the look of someone who found his sudden clumsiness... endearing.
Seeing her smile—a genuine, lopsided little grin that showed a hint of a dimple—made the professor’s shouting fade into white noise. The embarrassment was still there, but it was being rapidly replaced by something else.
Fahad didn't look away this time. He watched as she finally turned back to the front, her shoulders still shaking slightly with a silent giggle. He looked down at his ruined notebook, at the name Esma crossed out by a panicked ink stroke, and realized that for the first time in four years, he was no longer invisible to her.
He didn't care about being the "poor kid" in the back row anymore. If getting yelled at by Madame Helga was what it took to see that smile, he’d do it every single day.
.
The days following the roll-call incident felt heavier, yet strangely brighter. Fahad found himself lingering in the hallways of the university, his eyes subconsciously scanning for a flash of emerald green or the graceful way Esma walked through the crowded corridors of Tallinn University.
The library was a sanctuary of hushed whispers and the scent of aging paper. Fahad sat in a secluded corner, surrounded by engineering blueprints he couldn't afford to print and borrowed textbooks with broken spines. He was deep into his notes when the heavy oak door creaked.
Esma walked in. She wasn’t wearing the green hijab today; she wore one the color of the Estonian dusk—a soft, muted blue. She moved toward a shelf just a few feet from his table. Fahad’s breath hitched. He looked up, and at that exact moment, she pulled a book from the shelf and peered through the gap.
Their eyes locked.
There was no professor shouting, no Artur cracking jokes. It was just the rhythmic ticking of the library clock. Esma didn’t pull away. Her expression was unreadable—a mix of curiosity and something softer. Fahad felt the familiar sting of his own reality; he looked at his frayed sleeves and then back at her polished elegance. He wanted to say "Salaam," or "Hello," or "I’m sorry about the other day," but the words died in his throat.
After a long, breathless minute, she tucked the book under her arm, gave him a small, knowing blink, and walked away. The silence she left behind felt louder than any conversation.
The next morning, the atmosphere in the lecture hall was frosty. Madame Helga was in a particularly foul mood. She snapped open her chalk case and began scribbling a complex calculus problem on the board—one involving differential equations that looked more like a maze than math.
....
Mr. Fahad," she barked, not even turning around. "Since you find your notebook so fascinating, perhaps you can show the class you’ve actually learned something. Solve for x."
Fahad stood up, his heart sinking. He walked to the front, the eyes of sixty students on his back. He picked up the chalk, his hand slightly trembling. He wrote the question out perfectly—his calligraphy skills making the numbers look like art.
His calligraphy skills making the numbers look like art.
f(x)=∫
x
2
x
2
−a
2
dx
His calligraphy skills making the numbers look like art.$$f(x) = \int \frac{dx}{x^2 \sqrt{x^2 - a^2}}$$
He stood there, staring at the integral. His mind was a blank slate. The stress of his night shift at the warehouse was catching up to him; the numbers blurred.
....
Well?" Madame Helga tapped her ruler against her palm. "We are waiting."
fahad(ml)
"I... I need a moment, Madame," Fahad whispered.
....
"A moment? You’ve had three years of moments, Mr. Fahad. Sit down before you embarrass the faculty further. Your handwriting is beautiful, but it seems there is nothing behind it but air."
The class tittered. Fahad dropped the chalk, his face burning, and retreated to his seat.
....
Miss Esma," Helga’s voice softened—a rare occurrence. "Show him how it is done."
Esma stood up with a quiet dignity. She walked to the board, took the chalk from the tray, and without a second of hesitation, began to work through the substitution.
esma(fl)
X=asecθ,dx=asecθtanθdθ
esma(fl)
$$x = a \sec \theta, \quad dx = a \sec \theta \tan \theta \, d\theta$$
Within two minutes, the board was filled with a perfect solution. She set the chalk down and turned to return to her seat. As she passed Fahad’s desk, she paused. He looked up, expecting to see triumph or pity. Instead, her eyes were soft, almost apologetic. She lingered for a heartbeat, her gaze anchoring him, before she moved on. It was a silent conversation: It’s okay. I know you know this.
A week later, the university organized the annual "Baltic Cultures Festival." It was a night of lights, music, and food. Despite his financial struggles, Fahad had one gift he didn’t have to pay for: his voice. To the surprise of Artur and the rest of his class, Fahad had signed up for the talent showcase.
The stage was set in the main courtyard, under a canopy of fairy lights that looked like fallen stars against the Estonian snow. When Fahad stepped onto the stage, he looked different. He wore a clean, charcoal-grey sweater his mother had spent three nights repairing.
He sat at the piano, his fingers hovering over the keys. The crowd hummed with chatter until he struck the first chord. He began to sing a soulful, acoustic melody—a song about longing and the bridges we build between worlds.
In the middle of the second verse, he saw her.
Esma was standing near the back, surrounded by her wealthy friends, but she looked like she was in a world of her own. The lights caught the tears shimmering in her eyes. As Fahad sang the high note of the chorus, his eyes found hers across the distance. This time, he didn't look away. He poured every bit of his struggle, his poverty, and his silent admiration into the lyrics.
Esma’s breath caught. She realized then that the "quiet boy" wasn't empty; he was overflowing. Overwhelmed by the intensity of the moment and the heat rising in her cheeks, she lowered her head, adjusted her scarf, and hurriedly pushed through the crowd to leave. She couldn't handle the way his voice made her heart beat against her ribs.
Fahad returned home late that night, the cold air still stinging his lungs. The small apartment was warm, smelling of coriander and lentil soup. His mother was sitting on a prayer mat, folding her laundry
ml mom
You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Fahad," she said gently, noticing his dazed expression.
fahad(ml)
"I sang tonight, Ummi," he said, sitting at her feet.
ml mom
"I know you did. You have your father's voice." She paused, looking at his troubled face. "But your mind is not on the music.
fahad(ml)
Fahad leaned his head against her knee. "Ummi... don't worry, I won't let my studies slip. I’ll work the extra shift tomorrow. But... can I ask you something? Can someone like me... I mean, is it okay to love someone who is so far above us? Someone who lives in a different world?"
His mother stopped folding. She looked at her son—the boy who worked until his bones ached just to buy a textbook.
ml mom
Fahad, love is not a transaction," she said softly. "But you are young, and your heart is soft. If you are asking if it is 'allowed' to feel, the answer is that Allah made us with hearts for a reason. But if you are asking if it will be easy... it won't be
ml mom
She took his hand in hers. "Don't seek your answer from me, or from the girl, or from your pride. Seek it from the One who turned the hearts of kings."
ml mom
She whispered a few lines of a classic Islamic sentiment, her voice like a balm:
"Whatever is meant for you will reach you, even if it is beneath two mountains. And whatever is not meant for you will not reach you, even if it is between your two lips."
ml mom
Pray Istikhara, my son," she continued. "Ask Allah to guide your heart. If this love will bring you closer to Him and make you a better man, let it grow. If it will only bring you pain and distance from your faith, ask Him to wash it away like the spring snow. True love doesn't start with a girl; it starts with the permission of the Creator."
Fahad sat in the quiet of the night, listening to the Estonian wind howl outside. He realized then that his journey toward Esma wasn't just a walk across a classroom—it was a test of his soul.
mission
The heavy, dreamless sleep of exhaustion was broken by the sharp sensation of a pillow hitting Fahad’s face. He groaned, pulling the thin blanket over his head as the pale Estonian morning light bled through the small window of his room.
artur
Wake up, O Prince of Melancholy! The sun has been up for hours, and your heart is still stuck in last night’s concert!" Artur shouted, jumping onto the edge of the creaky bed.
fahad(ml)
Fahad sat up, his hair a messy bird's nest, dark circles under his eyes. "Artur, it’s Saturday. Let me sleep.
artur
Artur leaned in, his eyes glinting with mischief. "I saw you on that stage, man. And I saw her. You weren't just singing to a crowd; you were singing to a green hijab in the third row. Be honest with me—do you actually like Esma?"
fahad(ml)
Fahad went still. The mention of her name acted like a lightning strike to his nervous system. He looked at his hands, rough from his part-time warehouse work. "Like her? Artur, I think about her when I’m waking up and when I’m lifting crates at the docks. But it’s not what you think."
artur
Oh? Is it just a fan-club thing?" Artur teased.
fahad(ml)
No," Fahad said, his voice suddenly deep and firm. "I’m a Muslim, Artur. I don’t want a 'relationship.' I don’t want to play games or hide in the shadows of the university park. If I’m going to do this, I’m going to do it the right way. I want to marry her. One day, when I am someone worthy of her."
artur
Artur’s laughter died down. He looked at his friend with newfound respect, but then he sighed. "My friend, you have the heart of a poet, but you have the discipline of a hobo. Look at you! Your hair is out of control, your sweaters have holes, and you barely study because you're too busy daydreaming. You want to marry a girl like Esma? She’s the daughter of an ambassador or a businessman. You need more than a voice; you need to be a man of steel."
fahad(ml)
What do I do?" Fahad asked, sitting up straighter.
artur
Artur began ticking off fingers. "First, cut that hair. You look like a castaway. Second, clean your clothes—iron them, even if they’re old. Third, study until the library lights go out. You have to be the best in that class so she doesn't have to solve your math problems anymore. If you want her father to say 'yes' one day, you have to be a man no one can say 'no' to."
The next fourteen days were a blur of discipline. Fahad went to the local barber and asked for a clean, decent cut—short on the sides, structured on top, neat and professional. He spent his meager savings on a high-quality detergent and spent his evenings ironing his few shirts until the creases were sharp enough to cut paper
He became a ghost in the library. He sat in the quietest corner, his phone turned off, his mind locked onto the complex political theories and economic models of his courses. He stopped looking for her in the halls. He decided that he wouldn't look at her again until he was someone she had to notice.
When he walked into his kitchen on a Friday morning, his mother was standing by the stove. She turned to offer him tea and froze. The ladle almost slipped from her hand.
Fahad stood tall, his hair neatly styled, his face clean-shaven, wearing a crisp white shirt tucked into dark trousers. He looked five years older and infinitely more capable.
ml mom
Fahad?" she whispered, her voice trembling. "My son?"
fahad(ml)
It’s me, Ummi," he said with a small, shy smile.
ml mom
His mother walked over, her eyes filling with tears. She reached up, touching his neat hair. "You look... you look like your father on our wedding day. There is a light in your eyes, Fahad. A purpose." She began to cry, but they were tears of pride. "May Allah make your path easy, whatever it is you are chasing."
It was a rare sunny day in Tallinn. The university courtyard was buzzing with students. Esma was sitting on a stone bench, a book in her lap, but she wasn't reading. Her mind kept drifting back to the boy on the stage—to his voice that had felt like a secret whispered directly into her soul.
Suddenly, she heard a laugh. A rich, deep, resonant laugh that she recognized instantly.
She looked up. A group of guys was walking toward the library. In the center was someone she didn't recognize at first. He was tall, dressed in a well-fitted navy coat over a crisp shirt. His hair was groomed, showing off a strong jawline and a face that was strikingly handsome now that it wasn't hidden behind a mess of curls.
It was Fahad. He was laughing at something Artur said, his eyes bright and focused. He looked confident. He looked... powerful.
esma(fl)
My heart actually stopped. For a second, I thought it was a new transfer student, someone from an elite family in the city. But then he turned his head, and I saw those same soulful eyes. It was him. Fahad. But where had the shy, messy boy gone? He was walking with his head held high, looking like he owned the very air he breathed. When he laughed, the sound didn't feel like a distraction—it felt like a melody. I found myself gripping my book so hard my knuckles turned white. I couldn't look away. I
esma(fl)
I didn't want to. For the first time, I wasn't just curious about him. I was mesmerized.
fahad(ml)
I knew she was there. Even without looking, I could feel her presence like a magnetic pull. My heart was thumping against my ribs, but I remembered Artur’s words: 'Discipline.' I didn't turn my head immediately. I wanted to show her—and myself—that I was changing. But as we passed the stone bench, I caught a glimpse of her in my peripheral vision. She was staring. Her mouth was slightly open, her eyes wide. She looked stunned. A surge of energy rushed through me. I didn't stop, and I didn't stumble.
fahad(ml)
I just laughed again, feeling the weight of my mother’s prayers and my own hard work. I wasn't the 'back-row boy' anymore. I was a man on a mission.
As Fahad disappeared into the library building, Esma remained on the bench, her book forgotten. The "Back-Row Boy" had vanished, and in his place was someone she couldn't ignore if she tried.
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