I've Been Writing a Book I Never Meant to Start.

And the pages don't forget... even when I do.

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I didn't plan to write a book this early. It just began. One sentence here, another there.

Some lines on paper, some in places no one would ever think to look. Not even me, myself.

There are pages that look so neat, almost thoughtful. The ones that seem too perfect to be real. Almost like the kind that shine softly, like morning light slipping across a clean floor.

Then there are some that look nothing close to that.

Scribbled, messy, full of crossings-out. Words that run over each other, as if trying to escape what they're saying.

I don't reread those often. Sometimes I close the book halfway through a sentence and tell myself I'll come back later to finish, but I rarely do.

But you know what's the surprising part?

The book still doesn't stop expanding.

Even when I think I've put it away, or locked it inside the cupboard, it keeps filling itself, quietly, patiently, with the kind of details I forget to notice.

A gesture that made someone's day. Or a word I shouldn't have said. A kindness I almost missed.

They all find their way in it somehow.

It notices the good just as faithfully as it notices the bad.

The moments that made me feel peaceful. The softness in my speech when I remembered to be gentle towards others. The quick forgiveness I offer even when I could have withheld it.

The small, sincere prayers I make even in exhaustion, with tired eyes and an aching heart. The patience that flickers within me like a broken switch, on and off, but doesn't die.

Not to mention it even dictates how I offered a helping hand to a passing stranger, or made someone smile in the midst of their sorrows. Every little struggle that I overcome within is witnessed in this extraordinary book.

But that's not just it. There's a darker side, too. It doesn't fail to capture the ugly pictures I end up painting of myself; the times I raised my voice at my mother for not understanding me the way I wished she would.

The times I wasn't true to my word, a trust broken, a promise forgotten, perhaps even something as small as ignoring a text from someone waiting for my reply.

It records the words I let slip carelessly, the ones that bruise hearts without meaning to.

Nor does it skip the times I walked past someone who needed me, pretending not to see.

It notes down those instances where I've let out a sigh of complaints while blessings crowded around me.

It writes about the days I forget my Lord and chase the luxuries of this fleeting world, the nights I'm too tired to turn back to Him, the prayers I rush through like small tasks to be checked off from a list.

It doesn't accuse or make harsh comments.

But it sure does simply record the truth. Plain and straight.

And somehow, that makes me tremble more than any other judgment ever could. Because this book tells the truth, even when I don't.

It's not loyal to my mood swings or any of my lame excuses.

It doesn't exaggerate my good qualities, nor does it hide my faults. It just tells the story as it happens, unfiltered, unflinching, completely fair.

Have you guessed what book I've been talking about?

It's not one I chose to start, and it's also not one I'll ever get to stop.

It's written even when I'm unaware, even when I forget, even when I'm no more in this world.

It's the one that never misses a heartbeat of who we are. The one that holds every smile we gave away, every prayer we whispered from our hearts or hurt we brought.

If you've guessed it right, it's:

Kitab Al-A' mal, (The Book of Deeds)

The book that never lies, never skips, nor does its ink fade away.

But here is the harsh reality: It is not only mine.

We're all authors of it. All of us.

Every path we take, every choice we make, every intention, every deed, done in both secret and open, are filling line after line.

We're not the only ones involved.

For every word and action, we live, it's written by hands we cannot see, the two noble angels, Kiraaman Kaatibeen , guided by a justice we cannot escape. The justice of our Creator, Allah.

It's strange, isn't it?

That how often we go about with our days, so certain in our beliefs that no one notices the tiny little details, the small eye rolled in irritation, the sinful glances, the muttered complaints, or even the quiet good we do when no one claps. But the book notices. The angels never fail to record it.

And so, one day, your book, my book, will be opened before the One who never forgets. The pages will speak our words when our tongues will be tied, our limbs would bear witness against every action we committed, and every line will testify it in its truest of forms, preserved since the day we did the act in our life.

Yet sometimes, I pause and think that how strange, yet how comforting at it is to know that the same ink that records and pens down my flaws also carries my traces of repentance, those tears that came out of guilt after a sin, a soul that felt remorseful.

How every tear, every return back to Him, every whispered Astaghfirullah rewrites light over the darkness of my sins. That too is recorded. How the story is still being written, still open, still redeemable by me.

So now, I write more carefully. I measure my words before they leave my lips, my actions before they take shape.

Hoping that by the end of it all, when my pages are turned for the last time, they read like a story of someone who tried their best to be worthy of His Mercy.

And you, dear reader, are writing too.

Your book is still open, its ink still wet. For the book may still be being written, but the question is until when?

You and I never know what the last page of our book might be, so let's make it worthwhile, make it one that causes the angels to seek mercy and forgiveness for us, make it one that makes our Rabb smile at us, not look away on the Day of Resurrection.

So that when the ink of this world runs dry, may the first words written for us in the next be of peace and glad tidings of Jannah.

If this little reflection of mine reached your heart, perhaps Allah wanted you to remember that your book is still open, waiting for you to return back to Him. ✨