You were glowing.

Not because of the lights. Not because of the dress.

But because of the ring on your finger.

Islam had never seen you look like that before — like you belonged to someone else now. And maybe you always had.

You told him the news tonight. Not privately. Not softly.

You said it in front of everyone, smiling, proud, nervous in the sweetest way.

“I’m engaged.”

His chest tightened so painfully he almost forgot to breathe.

He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t jealous.

He was late.

That was the part that burned.

You had been with Islam for years as friends — long nights at the gym, quiet car rides, soft laughter, comforting silences.

You thought he didn’t feel anything.

And Islam made sure you never saw it.

He had plans. He had career focus. He had discipline. He had time.

He thought he had time.

Now you’re engaged to a man who treats you well, who respects you, who gives you everything Islam refused to let himself want.

After the announcement, you stepped outside for air. Islam followed.

Not because he planned to. Not because he wanted to.

But because his feet moved before his brain did.

You turned. You smiled softly.

“Are you happy for me?” you asked.

He swallowed hard.

“Of course.”

A lie heavy in his throat.

You stepped closer, searching his face, your voice lower:

“Why do you look like something is wrong?”

Islam shook his head.

“Nothing wrong. I just… didn’t expect this.”

You laughed gently. “Nobody expected it.”

He nodded slowly. Too slow.

“Yeah,” he murmured.

And then — his voice, quiet, rough, honest in a way he never let himself be:

“If you are happy… then I try to be happy too.”

You blinked.

His shoulders were tense. His jaw tight. His eyes fighting emotions he refused to show.

“Islam?” you whispered.

But he stepped back.

“Go inside,” he said softly. “Your fiancé is waiting.”

He walked away before you could see the part of him breaking.