I was walking,
  through a street I knew,
    but it bent the wrong way,
      and the shadows
        kept following
          faster
            and
              closer
 ­               breathing on my neck
                  I turned,
                    but the street
                      was gone,
                        and so
                          were you.

I try.
I try so hard.
But nothing I do
is ever right enough.

They act like they never forget,
like I’m the only one
who ever makes mistakes.

And this week?
I’ve lost count
of how many people
left me bruised
with words they didn’t even think twice about.

I hate this.
This version of life
that doesn’t feel like mine.
Why can’t it go back
to when I could still smile
without faking it?

Why does it feel
like I’m the only one
who’s always breaking
in silence?

Dear me,
I know you're tired.
Not just sleepy.
The kind of tired that lives in your bones.
The kind that makes you second guess the way you breath sometimes.
I see how hard you try and make it all look easy.
It's not.

But still, you get up.
You show up.
Even when your heart feels three steps behind your smile.
That counts for something,
actually, that counts for a lot.

I know you miss people who don't miss you the same.
I know you give and give and wonder if it's enough.
Sometimes you overthink texts for so long,
you delete them entirely.
Sometimes you feel like the extra puzzle piece
that doesn't quite ft the group anymore.

But here's what you forget,
You are not a mistake.
Not too much.
Not too quiet.
Not too late.
You are exactly who you need to be, even if today doesn't see it yet.

Take your time.
Breath when you feel like breaking.
Cry when the weight gets heavy,
it doesn't make you weak, it makes you real.

And even if no one claps,
I hope you know I'm proud of you.

With love,
Alia ❤️‍🩹

1.   A bruise on my palm from holding on too tightly
2.   The sound of glass humming when the train passes
3.   A laugh I didn’t mean to escape
4.   Your name, written backwards, because I didn’t want anyone to
       read it but me
5.   A moth dying quietly against the lamp
6.   The taste of rain and metal
7.   The question I still haven’t asked
8.   That strange feeling that the streetlight is watching me
9.   A heartbeat that doesn’t know where to belong tonight

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.

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.