Why My Daughter Fell in Love With a Jinn

If someone had told me years ago that my daughter would choose a jinn over a man, I would have laughed. But today, I no longer laugh at the unseen.

My daughter, Alina, was always different. She was quiet, thoughtful, and drawn to silence the way others are drawn to noise. While other children played outside, she would sit by her window, whispering to herself—or to someone else.

At first, I thought it was imagination.

“Children have invisible friends,” I told myself.

But Alina’s friend wasn’t invisible.

He was unseen.

One day, when she was twelve, I overheard her whispering: “You always come when I miss you.”

I peeked into her room. She was sitting on the floor, smiling softly at an empty corner.

“Who are you talking to?” I asked.

She looked up, startled.

“No one,” she said. “Just my friend.”

I didn’t press.

But that night, I began noticing small things.

Her room stayed unnaturally cold—even in summer.

Her mirror would fog up, even when no one touched it.

I would hear a deep humming sound, like distant chanting, but no source.


When she turned fifteen, Alina became obsessed with candles. She lit them every evening, arranged them in strange patterns. I once tried to move them, and she screamed.

“He won’t come if you disturb them!” she cried.

“Who?” I asked again.

Her eyes welled with tears.

“You don’t understand.”

She began withdrawing from school, from family. Her once soft giggles turned into silent smiles. She spoke less and listened more—to nothing. Or so I thought.

Then came the drawings.

Her notebooks were filled with symbols I didn’t recognize—circular shapes, stars inside squares, names written in reverse Arabic, and eyes. So many eyes.

I took her to a psychologist.

The doctor said, “She’s bright but detached. Possibly fantasy-prone.”

But this wasn’t fantasy.

Because one evening, I walked into her room without knocking—and saw it.

A shadow beside her.

Not on the wall. Not a trick of light.

A tall, dark, smoky figure, hovering behind her as she sat cross-legged, whispering. She didn’t look up. The figure faded the moment I gasped.

I ran out of the room, heart pounding.

I called scholars. I called ruqya experts.

One came and recited Quran in her room.

Alina screamed.

Not in pain—but in anger.

“You’re scaring him!” she shouted. “He doesn’t like strangers!”

I begged her to explain.

“He’s not bad,” she insisted. “He loves me. He listens when no one else does. He’s kind. He promised to never leave me.”

I asked his name.

She smiled.

“I’m not allowed to say it.”

I cried that night.

I cried for the daughter I was losing—to something I couldn’t fight.

As she grew older, things got worse.

She began wearing black all the time. Not for fashion—but for him. She stopped eating for days, claiming, “He feeds my soul.”

She no longer used mirrors.

“He gets angry when I look at other reflections.”

She spoke to the moon. She wrote letters and burned them. She carved his name into her desk—but it disappeared every time I tried to read it.

On her twentieth birthday, she said something I will never forget:

“I don’t want to marry a man, Mama. I already belong to someone.”

That night, her bed was covered in roses. Black ones.

No one in the house brought them.

We don’t even have a garden.

One night, I found her fainted on the floor. I rushed her to the hospital. The doctor said she was severely dehydrated and malnourished.

But on her arm, I saw marks—not bruises, not scratches.

Symbols.

Perfectly symmetrical, glowing faintly under the light.

She had been branded.

I pleaded with scholars, traveled to spiritual healers, spent fortunes on ruqya. Some said it was too late. Others said it was a contract—one that only she could break.

But she didn’t want to.

She was in love.

Not with a boy. Not with a human.

But with a jinn.

She spoke to him every night.

She wore his favorite colors. She burned his favorite scents. She hummed his name in silence.

And every time I prayed, I could feel him watching—jealous, angry, possessive.

Now, years have passed.

Alina lives in the same house. But not in this world.

She walks quietly, barely speaks, and smiles at things no one else sees.

She says he’s always with her.

I no longer see the shadow—but the cold remains.

And some nights, I hear a whisper in my ear as I sleep:

“She is mine.”