Writers 
Nurr had always loved the Qur’an.
When she was younger, she would sit beside her mother after Maghrib, her little Qur’an resting carefully in her hands. Sometimes she struggled with a verse and had to repeat it several times, but her mother never rushed her.
“Take your time,” Mama would say with a smile. “The Qur’an is not a race.”
Nurr would smile and continue reading.
Those evenings were some of her happiest memories.
As Nurr grew older, however, things slowly began to change.
School became harder. There were assignments, tests, group projects, and endless conversations with her friends. Her phone also became a big part of her life. She could spend hours watching videos, chatting, and scrolling without realizing how late it had become.
At first, she still prayed on time.
Then she started delaying her prayers.
“I’ll pray after this,” she would tell herself.
But sometimes “after this” became much later.
Her Qur’an remained on her bedside table.
One evening, Mama walked into her room and noticed it.
“Nurr, when was the last time you read?”
Nurr looked at the Qur’an and felt uncomfortable.
“Yesterday,” she lied.
Mama didn't argue. She simply nodded and left the room.
Nurr stared at the Qur’an after she left.
She knew she hadn't opened it in days.
Weeks passed.
Nurr still loved Allah, but she felt increasingly distant. She missed prayers, avoided reading Qur’an, and stopped making the little duas she once whispered before sleeping.
She didn't understand how something so important had slowly become something she kept putting off.
Then one afternoon, everything changed.
Nurr came home from school and immediately noticed that something was wrong. Her mother was sitting quietly in the living room, and her usual smile was missing.
“Mama?” Nurr asked.
Her mother looked up.
“There has been some difficult news about someone in the family.”
Nurr sat beside her.
As Mama explained what had happened, Nurr's heart sank. Suddenly, the things she had been worrying about—her phone, school gossip, small arguments, and other distractions—didn't seem so important anymore.
That night, Nurr couldn't sleep.
She sat on her bed in the darkness.
Her eyes moved toward the Qur’an.
For a long moment, she simply stared at it.
Then she reached for it.
Her fingers touched the cover, and memories came rushing back. She remembered sitting beside Mama after Maghrib. She remembered her grandmother teaching her short surahs. She remembered how peaceful she used to feel after salah.
A tear rolled down her cheek.
“When did I become so far away?” she whispered.
Nurr opened the Qur’an.
At first, her voice was shaky. She struggled to concentrate, but she kept reading.
Afterward, she placed the Qur’an beside her and made dua.
“Ya Allah, please bring me close to You again. I don't want to keep living like this.”
She made wudu and stood on her prayer mat.
Her prayer wasn't perfect. Her thoughts wandered, and tears came more than once.
But when she finished, she felt something she hadn't felt in a long time.
Peace.
The next morning, Nurr woke up for Fajr.
She wanted to stay in bed.
Instead, she remembered the night before and got up.
Day by day, she began rebuilding her relationship with salah and the Qur’an. Some days were easy. Some days were difficult. Sometimes she made mistakes and had to begin again.
But she stopped expecting herself to change overnight.
She simply kept returning.
Months later, Nurr sat beside her mother after Maghrib with the Qur’an open in her hands.
Mama looked at her and smiled.
“You found your way back.”
Nurr smiled too.
“I think Allah was guiding me back all along.”
And for the first time, she truly understood what it meant to return.