Dear Papa,

Another year passes, and somehow the missing never lessens. I've
grown older, but part of me is still that child waiting for you to come home. Sometimes I wonder what life would be like if you were still here, would I laugh louder? would I feel safer? would I walk with more confidence?

Mama carries your strength, but I can see in her eyes that she still carries the ache too. Every time I hear stories about you, it feels both like a gift and wound. A gift because it brings you closer, a wound because it reminds me of everything I've lost.

I try to believe that Allah S.W.T has given you peace, that one day, we'll meet again. Until then, I'll hold onto the love you left behind.

Love,
Alia.

Just so you know,
I keep recordings of my crying.
Not for drama,
not for show,
but because it’s the only way
to prove to myself
I’m still surviving.

And if you ever ask
how you hurt me,
and your mouth shapes denial,
I’ll have the evidence:
shaking breaths,
fractured sobs,
the kind of truth
that doesn’t lie.

I muted all your chats,
not because I don’t care,
but because I can’t carry
your voices
on top of my own breaking.

If my replies come late,
pretend I’m busy.
It’s easier than saying that
I’m just tired.
Too tired to explain
how it feels
to hurt quietly
with proof in my hands.