The biggest loser is me when I’m crying for reasons I do not know.

The biggest loser is me when words refuse to come out of my mouth.

The biggest loser…is me when I’m making Dua to Allah, with tears spilling out of my eyes and with words stuck in my throat.

The biggest loser is me, when all I can say is:

“Ya Allah, you know what’s in my heart.”

The biggest loser is me…when I do something stupid, and believe…even hope that Allah looks down and smiles.

The biggest loser is me who holds onto the small things I hear about Islam and refuse to let them go.

The biggest loser is me…when even after all this I fear that Allah may not forgive me. And then I feel stupid for even thinking that.

The biggest loser is me when I think of all the Prophets and think about what kind of stories they’ll tell in Jannah…even though I don’t have a clue if I’ll make it or even have the honour of hearing them.

The biggest loser is me who proceeds to sit down and make Dua…listing down things I can’t wait to do in Jannah.

The biggest loser is me…who just dreams and deludes herself with nothing but belief.

Belief that no matter what…Allah has got my back.

Be the biggest loser like me…because it’s the loser of the best kind.

there isn’t much to say this time. all i can say is that i’m a loser and i’m kinda okay with that.

also maybe this is an early birthday post??

The first incident is regarding medicine.

Now, I take out medicine for my grandfather and sometimes I’ll do it at snail speed while other times I’ll speed up like it’s a competition that needs to be won. And on this particular day, it was the latter. I was busy beating an invisible being in our daily competition when the pills fell on the floor… all of them.

I stared at it. Eyes wide. Mouth slightly open.

And within a second, I crouched down to pick everything up.

Here’s where my brain decided to take a quick interval and left the controls, because the first thing that came out of my mouth was:

“Should I quickly wash them?”

…

…....

………..

Yeah… it became a running joke in the family for a bit where it would end with my face being flushed in embarrassment while still laughing.

In my defence though, when you drop something on the floor, your first instinct is to wash it, right?

RIGHT?!

Now this one was fairly recent, around a couple months ago. I had started my 6th semester in university and was finally asked (ordered, if you ask me… but in a funny way) to bring the Diagnostic Statistical Manual (DSM) for our course.

For those who don’t know what the DSM is; it’s a stupidly thick book with all the disorders along with the criteria and risk factors and so on and so forth. Essentially, a manual for disorders.

Makes sense?

Okay. So, here’s what happened. My cousin and I decided on a lovely afternoon to read through some of the disorders. We knew the known ones such as ADHD, OCD, Depression, Anxiety, etc. We wanted to see the disorders we’d never heard about.

And we did… they were interesting.

Especially the ones under the ‘sexual disorders’ section. Don’t ask me why we went there, but we did. We got curious, okay!

So here we are, reading through them and getting horribly confused because how… what? (I am not saying this out of mockery but in genuine confusion because first, we were never taught this and second, we didn’t understand it.)

And during this time, my loud mouth decided to automatically get plugged into a speaker. My cousin stared at me MORTIFIED while I so obliviously repeated the disorders with my bedroom door OPEN!

(Yes, I am getting horrified writing this down.)

And mind you, I am so lost to the point I asked, “Why the hell are you looking at me like that???”

I remained that way until I read the first line… OUT LOUD.

The bedroom door was closed immediately.

This next incident was a day before Ramadan started.

We were in class and all of us decided that we should have one last meal in university before everything closes for Ramadan. Now, here’s the thing, we didn’t particularly plan it so there was the issue of no cash. Luckily for emergencies, my mom had instilled in me to keep cash in my bag at all times and I had a decent amount of money that day.

Us friends decided that we’d pitch in, get whatever, and just have a good meal.

What was the issue then, Aymen?

Oh, I’ll tell you.

When we reached the place (mind you, everywhere had human traffic because we weren’t the only ones who decided to have one final meal), I opened my wallet and there was enough money for a couple candies because the actual money was still in the bag… which I forgot in class…

I found the situation hilarious and burst out laughing. My friends stared at me and the (practically empty) wallet and went like, “I thought you said you had money???”

Yeah… I explained it and ummm… hmmm… that was embarrassing.

And now this lovely final incident is no less either. It’s the kind of incident that would make anyone think: damn, this kid is in uni?

No, because same.

So let’s create the scene.

It’s Ramadan, and we just got done with iftaar. I’m in the kitchen with my mother, grandmother, and father and all I have to do is assort a couple things into boxes and put them in the fridge.

Now, I got 2 boxes from the cupboard and I was the one who opened them, put the food in. All I need to do now is just close them.

Simple enough, right?

My brain didn’t think so.

Because while it was off in wonderland, I was busy trying to slam the box shut with a lid of the wrong size (obviously).

But I didn’t realise and neither did my brain, or my eyes (yes, I had my glasses on), or my hands. All I cared about was trying to get this thing to shut.

My grandmother looked at me and said, “Aymen, what are you doing?”

I told her and she says, “Honey, wrong lid,” and hands me the one with a very obvious size difference.

I sheepishly closed the lid while my dad just stared with this unreadable expression, making me crack a smile.

It’s an everyday experience, honey, don’t worry.

I have sooo many more incidents and I can’t wait to sit down and write them all!!

Was it fun when I told you my biggest fear?

Was it fun when I shared my trauma believing that I was in a safe place?

Did you laugh behind me back at how stupid I was?

Did you enjoy listening to the things I told you?

Was it fun when you sent those pitying looks my way?

Was it fun when you lied, making me believe I had somewhere to go?

Was it fun…before you realise I got to know everything you said about me?

Would that look still be the same when you realise I can’t stand it anymore. At times I can ignore it but other times I can’t be asked about anything.

Was it fun?

I hate it.

I absolutely despise myself for falling for it. Every fibre in my body resents that time for ignoring the signs; for brushing off every comment, every single phrase that was made under your breath thinking I couldn’t hear.

What in the world was I thinking?

I should’ve just left. I should’ve turned around and walked away…

It would’ve saved me a lot of pain.

Part of me has forgiven you. Not because I wanted to, but I needed to do something to move on.

But the other part?

That one refuses. It wants to hold onto the grudges for dear life. That bit remembers the pain all too well. It remembers how I shot up from my seat during class and rushed out the door because I couldn’t hide the tears anymore. It remembers the way I called my best friend crying because I couldn’t believe the things I had heard. That part remembers the way I sat there…call after call, message after message just hoping I would get a response.

That part…

It remembers how I pathetically saw myself get ridiculed…insulted…ignored.

It remembers it all too well.

And she hates it.

She despises every part of it with a burning passion.

The other part may laugh it off and take it as a joke but she noticed the shift in her mindset. She noticed how she stares at the smiles a bit too long wondering if it’s true. She finds herself paying attention to tones and dialogues, trying to figure out the signs she may have been missed.

She doesn’t want to make the same damn mistake anymore.

She REFUSES TO.

It’s okay if you don’t like me.

Not everyone is meant to like everyone, and I’ve accepted that. But you knew it wasn’t going to work out. You knew but you chose to stay when pain could’ve been avoided.

You know?

I was sitting in class writing a different post (literally) and I don’t know…before I knew it, I flipped to a new page and started scribbling everything that was in my head.

Was I angry? Not really. It’s been a bit over a year. I didn’t have a reason to be angry.

But I still wrote everything and anything that I could think of. I still don’t know what made me do it, but it felt…riveting to write it.

Funny how that works.

I don’t hate them. I honestly don’t. But I would still do anything to keep my distance and not interact until I don’t have a choice.

Things could’ve been prevented, sure, but I wasn’t a complete saint in the situation either. But eh. It happened and I mean sometimes it still rings in my ears and I find myself either joking around about it or forcing myself to get distracted.

Life happened and it’s fine. We accept and move on and call it a day.

Edit (22nd April 2026):

The more classes we take and the more things happen, I realise that I have truly moved on. Sure, stuff happened and I got hurt, and yes, I was also the bad guy. But I learned that life goes on and you forgive and just move on. I don’t talk to them all the time, but small casual conversations are okay.

Classes today were amazing, they did a session today (I was one of the volunteers), and everything was fun; along with the imposter and mafia games we played afterwards.

I don’t know what’s the point of this edit, honestly. But I did feel like this should be something that can be said. Things happened and sure it can’t go back to the way it was, but we can acknowledge it and just….you know…

Today was one of those days I realised that my heart may randomly get reminded of the times I got hurt, but I believe I’m at that stage where I can talk to them instead of going like ‘i can’t even stand your face right now,’ because for me, that’s just childish.

It’s been over a year since everything happened and sometimes I would remember it and get this weird feeling in my stomach, but other times? I’m just glad to be having those good, memorable days, in university, even if it is with them.

There is no thrill.

No rush.

No fun.

Just the same thing every single day.

Wake up, take a class, go to the next class, come back home.

It’s…sad?

See, the idea of Psychology is interesting, but studying it — for me, at least — slowly ends up feeling monotonous. It’s like I’m studying the same information in different words, with a different teacher.

It’s boring.

If you’ve been here long enough, you’ll know that I’m a sucker for action. Movies, series, K-dramas, books, comics — you name it. I love good action.

So imagine the ache in my chest when I realised that criminal law could never be an option, and after Psychology, I realised that criminal/forensic psychology was slowly slipping away as well.

Anything that could give me the rush I was desperately looking for ran away from me.

It hurt.

But I got over it.

For the next two years, I drifted. Studied a bit, generalised my answers in class, stayed on my phone, and got average grades.

I was fine with it.

I mean… it’s not like I had anything better to do.

And then came the third year — the fifth semester.

Everything changed.

Not because I suddenly fell in love with Psychology.

But because I finally knew what came after it.

I studied like my life depended on it. Made notes, participated in class with proper answers, asked questions, did the assigned reading and somehow still did extra things on the side.

There were moments where I’d catch myself deep into my notes, highlighters on the bed and a red pen in my hand, fully locked in. Focused. Unstoppable.

And that scared me.

Because the sudden shift in effort felt absurd, especially in something I still didn’t want.

It was like I was a completely new person who magically wanted to pursue Psychology even further.

Did I actually enjoy it?

But that’s a lie.

I still don’t like it.

I don’t like the idea of sitting and analysing patterns and behaviours. I don’t like allowing the label of “problem-solver” to be stuck on my forehead. I don’t like the fact that things that normally fly over someone’s head are now sticking out like a sore thumb.

I don’t like it.

But then someone asks… why did you take it?

Because I didn’t have any other option. And that’s the truth.

Psychology is interesting, fun even…sometimes. But I don’t think I will ever like Psychology completely.

A part of me wishes that it changes. That I do end up enjoying every bit about it. But then the other part is relieved because it means that the the things I originally wanted to do are still alive somewhere inside me.

I’m not a fan of Psychology… but I still study it as if I’m the only one who can fix everything.

I am such a hypocrite.

The sudden realisation I had as I read the thick DSM 5 TR sat on my lap, with one hand opening the book and the other holding the highlighter.

It felt weird and I wanted to close the book and call it a day.

Because what you mean that I’m doing things I never did before.

That’s odd.

But anyways, it was a fleeting idea and sometimes funny when I think about it.

And it was about the things I always said. The things I always wanted. Though sometimes I questioned if it was practical. If it was even possible.

Would I truly stand by my word when there’s nowhere to run? Or would I cower in fear like a prey facing an unknown predator?

I didn’t know.

But when I saw it… I knew that I still want the things I said before. And yes, it may be hard… it may be the reason I end up crying all the time. But I would still do it… as long as it is with you.

When you grow up in a Desi culture; it isn’t uncommon for dinners to turn into business meetings, or for the times when you’re sitting with family to turn into a place where everyone is just… existing.

It’s normal.

Even though it shouldn’t be.

And I don’t blame them.

The irony woven into our culture is almost never-ending.

It’s comical, if you ask me.

But that’s how it’s always been, and that’s how everyone knows it to be…

I don’t want that.

I don’t want my husband to work so hard that all he thinks about is providing. So much so that his presence is slowly eradicated. Not physically, but emotionally. I don’t want him to only worry about what’s going on in the business all the time. And I mean it.

I may sound like this naive girl who has no idea how the world works, and maybe that’s true. But guess what? I don’t really care. Because I know what I truly want in this world.

Yes, I have been sheltered my whole life, and Alhamdulillah (all praise is due to Allah), it happened. Sure, I may not be up to date with the gossip of the world, but I do know things here and there. And I do admit, there are a lot of practical things I don’t know anything about. But I am willing to learn, and I don’t know about you, but that means something to me.

So I’ll end this with a letter…

A letter to my future husband…

Dear… whoever you may be;

I’ll cut the pleasantries for later and just say this…

I need you.

I need you with me, and no amount of money will ever replace that.

I understand… trust me, I do. Trust me to notice the tiredness hidden in your eyes and the quick stretches you’ll do thinking no one is watching. Trust me to know that shift in your voice, your tone, your look. Trust me to notice every single thing about you.

So my Love, trust me when I say this: it doesn’t matter.

It doesn’t matter if we don’t go to those lavish restaurants or those stores with the beautiful but horribly expensive bags. It doesn’t matter if I don’t walk around branded from head to toe. It doesn’t matter if our date nights consist of having chaat, or maybe even just a cup of ice cream. It doesn’t matter if we don’t have at least two dishes on the table every night.

It. Just. Doesn’t. Matter.

What matters is clutching our stomachs in pain at the dumb jokes we make. It matters when I feel safe and comfortable enough to pull those pranks I see, knowing you’ll laugh too. It matters when I make a messy bun, wear a loose shirt, and clean the room knowing you’re doing the dishes. It matters when I know that no matter how big of a fight, we’ll make sure to not go to sleep angry. Honey, it matters when you’re there. It matters if I get to cry in front of you knowing you won’t ask me to stop. It matters when I’d rather fall asleep, our hands grazing as we talk ourselves tired.

It matters.

Your presence matters.

You matter. Every part of you!

So here’s a request… a plea… a hope…

Don’t fall in tune with the crowd… let’s make our own way. It’s scary… it’s into the unknown… but as long as it is with you… I’ll be fine.

As long as we have each other… Love, we’ll be more than fine.

*clears throat* this was embarrassing.

Let’s pretend no one read that, okay?

Based on that, here’s my question: Why do we still call others out?

Growing up, I watched Nickelodeon, Disney, Cartoon Network, and a bunch of English movies like Narnia or Spider-Man.

Barely any Bollywood—or, to say it plainly, almost nothing from my culture.

Why?

I don’t know. My parents never brought us into it, and when I grew up, I never developed an interest myself.

So here I am, sticking to English. Then came anime, and a bit later, K-dramas. Never Bollywood. And I mean… there’s necessarily no harm, right?

But maybe there is…

It’s the reaction people had when they found out that threw me off—and to this day, I still see it.

Does it hurt?

Yes. Although not so much anymore, because now it just leaves a single question behind.

Why? I’m not that different… am I?

Don’t get me wrong, I have watched a couple of things here and there and know most (I hope) of the actors by face, and only some by name. But that doesn’t necessarily mean I’m stupid.

And let’s be honest—it’s the same with the stuff I normally watch. You think I know all the gossip and tea??

Brother, I live under a rock. I only know things I’m interested in; the rest is white noise.

So then why do I get looks from people like I’m this innocent child who knows nothing about the world?

It does get me fuming at times. And when do I get to say that you’ve crossed the line?

Why do I have to sit and take the hits with a stupid smile on my face just because I refuse to do the exact same?

And why?

Because it’s not right.

That’s how simple it is.

In no world, in no way, is it right to make someone feel bad—even as a joke—and I will forever stand by this statement.

So this is a request, and essentially a rant.

Please stop.

I’m not stupid, nor am I crazy. I may not understand the jokes or not recognise the actors by name, but please, please, please don’t make me feel like absolute crap for not knowing something.

Has this been on my mind? Yes.

Did I just get it out of my system? Also, yes.

Has anything like this ever happened with anyone else because this whole thing really gets to me every possible way.

Which then grew into a hope.

Which then turned into a quiet thought.

Which then became a quiet word.

And that word grew louder and louder,

until it was something you couldn’t ignore.

It kept nagging. And nagging. And nagging.

Until you finally snapped and did something to get it out of your system.

You Google. You write. You rant. You paint.

Anything to get the feeling out of you.

But it doesn’t leave.

And then you realise your heart is dead set on something that may never be yours.

Not because you’re incapable.

But because everyone around you decided otherwise.

You’re stubborn. You don’t care.

So you start working towards it.

Why?

Because you’re curious. You want to know; if these meaningless obstacles didn’t exist, would you still have a chance?

You work relentlessly. You do everything you possibly can.

Months pass.

And then it hits.

The what if you’ve been running from this whole time.

What if you do make it?

What if it actually works out?

Then what?

Do you abandon it and pretend it never existed if things fall apart?

Do you lose your mind realizing it was all for nothing?

What are you even supposed to do?

Because what if things do work out; everything aligns, you reach the goal you fought for…

But then…

Societal pressure. Family values. Unspoken rules.

Every single person around you tramples it.

Maybe there’s a reason.

Maybe…they think they’re protecting you. And maybe it’s true.

But in that moment; when your effort is reduced to something meaningless…

No reason feels worthy enough.

And that’s what scares me.

Because after everything…after the hoping, the work, the waiting…

I end up right back here.

With the same question.

What if you do make it..,

but you still don’t get to keep it?

What exactly are you meant to do then?

Because even now…deep down I know…that I’m just someone with dreams bigger than my reality.

I honestly have to stop with this. Like this whole thing is like one big issue and my brain just keeps coming up with more problems related to it…

And I don’t know, sure I don’t have to write about it but then if I can even get one person to realise that they’re not the only ones with these fears then I’lll take it!

Let’s go back a couple of years. I had just come back from a vacation — tired, jet-lagged, but still determined to do something. And I believe it was around that time I had recently started making coffee.

So that’s what I decided to do.

I thought I’d sit on my window couch, sip my coffee, and read a book. Sounds fancy, doesn’t it?

Well…things went south pretty quickly.

I put the milk on the stove…and then completely forgot about it. Not entirely! I just lost track of time. When I finally remembered, I stepped out of my room and was greeted by a strong, pungent smell.

Did I realise something was wrong?

HAHA, no.

I just thought, “That’s weird,” and casually walked to the kitchen.

And then I saw it.

Milk. Everywhere.

The “weird smell” suddenly made sense as the panic set in. I rushed (a bit too late), and when I removed the saucepan…it was very clearly burnt…along with the electric stove. I genuinely didn’t think that was possible, but life loves surprising me.

And somehow, that wasn’t the last food fiasco I had.

I decided to make coffee again. But this time it was cold coffee, and I had this crazy, weird, horrendous craving that required an unthinkable combination. Instead of using plain old milk like a normal person…I wanted to use banana milk.

Yes, you heard me.

The banana–coffee combo sounded absolutely divine. I made a coffee froth, poured the milk in a fancy cup, plopped in a straw and had the first sip.

Spoiler: It was NOT divine.

Nothing about it was divine. I had to force myself to finish it because it tasted so bad I can’t even begin to describe it. And the worst (and most shocking) part? The coffee froth wouldn’t mix.

The cleaning-up part was silent. Nothing needed to be said.

You thought that was it?

You thought wrong.

Let’s continue, shall we?

One day, I had to warm up yakhnee — essentially chicken broth (we freshly make it and occasionally add vegetables to make it yummier; people usually have it when they’re sick, have a sore throat, or when it’s winter).

All I had to do was warm it up. That’s it.

But I lost track of time…again…and found myself staring at a burnt pot.

The yakhnee burned to the point it was no more. It evaporated.

Didn’t think that was possible either, but we learn something new every day.

(I should’ve just used the microwave.)

Then there was another time I was tasked with making something for a guest (a foolish mistake). To be fair, it was just plain, simple tea. And quite frankly, I thought I aced it. Not just aced it — I genuinely believed it was banger tea.

I was very pleased with myself as I set the tray and sent it off.

Did I try it?

HAHAHA, no.

I even mentioned how amazing my tea was to someone before pouring a cup for myself.

The tea was NOT banger.

And instantly something dawned on me.

Had I been serving this crappy, tasteless tea to the guest who visited almost every day? Yes, I had been making tea for him for a while…but I never actually tried it.

In case you can’t guess, I was horrified.

If you’ve been here for a while, you’d know about the baking situations I put myself into before university started.

Remember the bread? The one I was so proud of? For those who don’t know — I forgot that salt existed.

Yup.

So the bread was tasteless. You could ignore it…if you put enough butter on it (sort of).

You see how I missed a key ingredient there?

I ended up over-adding another one in the pasta I was making.

It was absolutely delicious, though.

Only problem? It was so spicy it would put Buldak to shame.

Yup.

I somehow THOUGHT that chilli oil and chilli flakes were practically the same thing because…it’s just missing the oil, right?

WRONG!

Actually no — that part is probably true. The part I messed up was blindly adding six teaspoons of chilli flakes.

Why, you may ask?

Oh, because the recipe required two tablespoons, and since I read somewhere that three teaspoons equal one tablespoon, I thought it made sense.

Yes, I ate it.

Yes, I lost my senses for a bit because of the spice but still pretended to be fine because, well…I made it.

At this point, I think I should take the hint and realise that sometimes I need to think twice before entering the kitchen.

Maybe even three times.

Will this be a series? I have no idea.

It could be though.

There are checkpoints in life.

You achieve something you want…and then you want more.

You reach the next checkpoint.

But then there are other checkpoints around you.

They’re fancier and more impressive.

You look at yours and all of a sudden it’s not worth it anymore.

Why?

Because now you want to do what others are doing.

Get lost in the noise.

In the crowd.

You want it.

Sure, your glass may be half full…but it’s not full enough.

That’s what I felt when I joined Substack.

Everyone around me was so talented that I felt intimidated. That my words wouldn’t matter because there would always be better ones out there. I believed that what I wanted to share wasn’t enough and that others’ work was more exciting.

I was afraid that I’d had to change what I had already planned to do, to somehow get the same numbers others did.

Yup, it got to me.

The numbers always do.

And for a while, it felt that they defined me.

Even before I started writing again, I mentally prepared myself: I will love what I write. I won’t let anything get to me.

That mantra was thrown out the window real fast.

It got to me like the train that hit Peter in Spiderman: Far From Home.

I should’ve seen it coming.

But I didn’t.

And…I wasn’t even surprised.

I forgot everything and tried to get that glass full enough.

I got lost in it all because I didn’t know what truly I wanted.

My mind was a mess.

I gave up on whatever havoc was brewing inside my head and settled with the original plan.

Staying true to myself.

The glass may not be full enough right now…but it will be soon. And that would be when my checkpoint matters to me, not everyone else’s.

But then the unwanted thought lingers…

Just a simple…maybe.

Maybe I’m too much.

Maybe the things I want, I can’t get. Maybe everything is just a dream…nothing more.

And honestly, it scares me.

What if the future isn’t something I planned? What if so many unexpected things happen that I don’t know how to stay afloat.

But what if I’m simply too much in a world where people survive on being simple.

The fear of being too much in a world where people can’t stand being patient.

Just maybe…a bit.

And you know what’s worse?

I know I’m too much.

I know that I am spoiled and needy and clingy and someone who wants reaffirmation at random times. I know I am someone who’s incredibly insecure, someone who will question you and your motives. I will wonder if I said the wrong thing, who will apologise for things but still try and pretend I don’t care.

I know I’m someone who wants so much, whether it be love or anything else. I know I’m someone with evolving dreams…dreams that just make me want to stop and question: What am I thinking?

I know I’m a lot.

Maybe a bit too much.

And sometimes I feel like people will get tired of me.

It’s a fear that gets me to believe that even those who chose me, will eventually get tired.

I’m someone who gets angry and frustrated. I’m someone who prefers to just keep it in because I think if I say something, then I’m overreacting. I’m someone whose smile falters if you say something that hurt me…but it’s so subtle that only those who care will feel the change. I’m someone who ends up noticing the slightest change in your demeanour…that I wish someone will do the same for me.

And the funniest thing?

I hide it.

Oh, boy the way I hide it is hilarious.

It’s ironic, but it’s true.

I don’t like showing people that I’m weak or that I’m someone that cries easily. I never want people to know that I’m this delusional hopeless romantic who wants someone who would listen and just be there. I don’t want anyone to know that I crave freedom more than anything. I don’t want anyone to know every single time I’m in pain or if something hurt.

And most of all…I don’t want anyone to know that I want to be seen.

Just maybe…even if it’s a bit.

But then again…

Maybe it’s just too much.

It’s a fear that just keeps me unsettled.

If you related to it even just a bit, don’t hesitate to like and comment!

Still, right now…just imagine.

Imagine he holds your hand in the afternoon rush.

It’s just a touch.

But it’s the touch of warmth,

of care,

of love.

Imagine to be loved in a way so small,

that even chores together feel like it’s all.

To be loved in the language of the words shared before bed,

and those eye contacts that fill you with everything but dread.

Imagine to be loved where interests become the others’ prime concern,

and the both of you fight for each other…how stubborn.

To be loved where excuses become the norm,

not the tired kind,

but the one where flowers and letters come up in a swarm.

Oh, to be loved in a way where a home isn’t just shared,

but built together far beyond what is aired.

To be loved where going alone was never an option,

so much so that wherever you go, you want to scream, “SHOTGUN!”

To be loved in a way that childhood never said goodbye,

It comes out every time your adult version is on standby.

Oh, to be loved with a bond so tight,

that every fight feels slight.

To be loved…by a man…

a gentleman, I must say.

A man who would do anything to see that smile on my face.

A man who would break rules with me…but with grace.

Imagine a man so tender,

who makes your wounds his centre.

To be loved by a man who knows that little things matter,

because he knows that it makes you truly stammer.

Oh, to be loved by a man whose hand is perfectly sculpted to take mine,

twirling in the rain, our hands intertwined.

Is this love normal?

I do not know…

From where I stand,

it feels too grand.

But, I will be blunt,

this is the love I want.

A love so good…that it just doesn’t seem true.

To be loved like the stories,

the dreams,

the movies.

To be loved in a way…where I sway…

Imagine walking in a room…

your eyes meet his,

and you think -

To be loved so much that it feels like a crime…

Oh, to be loved,

like no other…

and like everyone else at the same time.

Oh no…now everyone knows I’m a delusional dreamer.

She was someone quiet.

Always kept to herself, minded her business and didn’t want any trouble. But that usually came with its set repercussions. And by that I mean bullying. Not too extreme, but enough to shatter someone’s confidence. She hated the way she looked, but didn’t do anything to change that. She used to have ice cream, chips and candies…and oh, also instant noodles (God, she loved instant noodles).

She was someone who hid everything - a secret, wounds, her passion or anything remotely important to her. Why? I don’t know…she probably didn’t want anyone to see her in any other way.

To top it all off, she was also a people pleaser, who ironically couldn’t stand criticism. It’s quite comedic to think about, really.

And if that made her have just a bit of reassurance, or some kind of control; she used to stay up late almost every night just because she could.

She wasn’t perfect…but she was me.

The old me at least.

This may sound like the typical, “I used to be like this, but now I’m not kind of thing,” but it’s not.

I’m still her and she’s still me.

She still lingers within me, even after the hurt I probably caused by leaving her behind.

I’m still her…and she’s still me.

I’m still someone who keeps to herself, occasionally slipping up and oversharing with people (only to later kick myself for it). I still have that sweet tooth and a semi-shattered confidence. I can do it, I know that. But sometimes I’m nervous. The only difference is, it’s not that evident.

Fake it, till you make it, right?

I still hide things too. I don’t know why but for a while, life just feels easier that way.

Those are the mannerisms still glued to me.

Now, for the habits I’ve left behind.

I don’t eat instant noodles that often anymore. It’s more like a rare occurrence.

Sleeping late? I’m trying to fix that one. It’s hard, sometimes near impossible but it sort of works.

But the best thing I left behind?

Being a people pleaser.

Life genuinely got simpler.

Trying to be the ‘good guy’ in everyone’s story sounds harmless. But it isn’t. It’s venom - slow invisible and aimed directly at the soul.

It sucks out every bit of energy in you because the whole time you’re worried about what others think.

That’s not necessarily bad.

But sometimes you can’t please everybody.

There was a story my mother told when I was young to try and get me to understand that not everyone can be happy with you.

It went something like:

There was a travelling couple and they only had one donkey with them. Before departing, they decided that they would take turns walking.

So they left with the wife sitting first. After a while they pass a village, and the people said: “Look at the cruel wife sitting while the husband walks.”

So the wife got off and let her husband sit. After a while, the couple came across another village. The people said: “Look at the cruel husband sitting while wife walks.”

So the couple decided to sit together and travel. After a while, they crossed a town. The people said: “Look at the cruel couple sitting while the donkey suffers.”

After that, the couple got off and walked beside the donkey. They continued their journey and met some people on the way. They said: “Look at the idiot couple, they don’t know how to make use of that donkey.”

Not everyone will be happy with you.

You will inevitably be the villain in someone’s story.

And the quicker we understand that, the easier life is.

I won’t say that I’m immune to people getting upset with me. Honestly, I still feel the building void in the pit of my stomach when someone gets upset because of my mistake.

It hurts. It stings, but one should say ‘sorry’ where it is required and move on.

Push your ego aside because that thing alone creates multiple problems.

The old me is still someone I used to know.

She’s a part of me.

Someone I occasionally stop and visit.

And no matter how much I grow,

Or how forgotten she gets,

A part of me will always look back fondly…

knowing that even when she was broken,

she still made it out.

So, thank you.

- To the one I used to know.

And somehow I felt at ease.

I wasn’t worried that something would go wrong. I wasn’t scared when thunder struck.

I was okay.

Which was odd since I used to cry when it rained. I used to sit in the corner, whimpering while every child my age ran out to play. I remember the time I lay on my Maami’s (Mother’s Sister-in-law) lap and cried while she prayed. I remember hearing the laughter of the kids just outside the gate. But the roar of thunder drowned everything around me as I clamped my eyes shut.

I never liked the rain.

I never loved it either.

And maybe I never even tried to.

Not because something bad had happened.

And not because it wasn’t pretty.

Just because…

Honestly, there wasn’t even a reason why I never liked it. I just fell out of love with it. I started dreading the humidity before the rain and the earthy smell that filled the air. I started squirming under the cold, wet sensation which would engulf me as I stood under one of those heavy showers.

I never liked the rain.

Even after I got to know that Allah grants all your Duas made during the rain. Even when I used to sit and stare and wonder how something so pretty can save some while hurt others.

I never understood why people wanted to run out in the rain. I never knew what to respond when people asked me: won’t you come in the rain?

And…I wanted to run in the rain. I wanted to stand there and feel every single drop as it fell on my skin. I wanted to dance under its shower like all the movies I had watched and books I had read. I wanted to laugh, smile and enjoy this terrifyingly beautiful thing while not having a care about anything in the world.

And maybe one day I will.

Because unlike when I was young…I don’t hate the rain anymore. I don’t love it…but I don’t hate it either. It’s nice when it rains. I welcome the earthy smell as it fills the air and excitedly stare as it rains.

One day I’ll run through those raindrops and that might be the day I stop liking it but loving it.

Cupboards thrown open, drawers gutted, clothes scattered; all in hopes to find what was missing.

A boy stood by the doorframe, ready to help, but the woman’s desperate shout pushed him away.

No one can know.

I’ll find it, she repeated the mantra like a broken record.

I have to find it.

She shot up and rushed to check under the bed, under the mountain of clothes, behind the closet.

She even scanned the ceiling as if it would be hanging like a broken spider web.

Nothing.

The one thing she swore to protect - gone, leaving nothing behind.

She paced around the messy room, her dress flaring with her untimely movements.

While hugging herself, her eyes went wide, glancing over every inch for the hundredth time.

She couldn’t have lost it…

She couldn’t -

No.

She didn’t.

As if a fused out light bulb lit up again, she sprinted into the washroom.

The only place which remained clean now slowly blended with the aesthetics of the adjacent room.

Her hands trembled, swishing through the hanging clothes, then the folded ones.

She stopped.

Breathe, she told herself.

Shakily, she flipped over the brown envelope.

It looked the same.

She unfolded the creased paper, the first words bled through her blurred vision.

My Darling Denise…

She tumbled to the floor.

Hey guys! I hope you liked the first somewhat of a short story introduced on my page.

This is more of a tester. I don’t know if I’ll be giving this a part 2 or introducing more pieces like this.

But whatever is in store, I hope you’re here for the journey!

i literally see them everywhere.

this genocide has to stop please…

hostages are coming back without their eyes.

did you hear that?

without. their. EYES.

why?

because they’re being tortured beyond belief.

people are being held is some gas chamber.

families have to go to a meeting and see PHOTOS of their VISIBLY TORTURED AND ABUSED family members to try and identify them.

that is sick.

it is absurd.

it is unreal.

it is simply alien.

and what are we doing?

nothing.

no one with power is doing anything.

NOTHING!

and you know what’s worse?

you know what hurts the most?

it’s because i believe…not think, but BELIEVE, that all of this is happening because they are Muslim.

you heard me.

i don’t care if i’m wrong. i don’t care if i’m biased. but this is what i’ve seen.

i’ve seen other nations being rescued and everything being done to help them…but Muslim?

no…we can be disregarded can’t we?

we’re not worth it.

because according to media we’re terr*r!sts, aren’t we?

i was probably 10-11 years old when i got to know that Muslims were called that.

did i know what it meant?

no. i just knew it was bad.

but i knew we’re not.

we’re not any of that.

it hurts when people say things about Islam.

it hurts when i hear stories that are just…inhumane…

it hurts a lot.

and it hurts to see pictures of people who have lost the light.

if it hurts me…then i can’t even imagine how those going through it would feel

please…please..please say something.

please just make it stop.

i know i don’t normally post like this. especially if the thing is unedited but i just couldn’t take it anymore.

might delete this later but i seriously needed to get this out.

this thing has to stop.

But as you grow older, you see the brutal truth. In this world, everybody is on their own and you see that every single day.

Take a very recent example. Gaza.

We all know what’s happening to it but those in power are barely saying a word about it. It’s everywhere, yet treated as if it doesn’t exist. Not by all — but by far too many.

It’s been nearly two years since the brutal incident of Gaza took place and not a single thing has been done. I see other problems, disasters, or anything else get media coverage, help and support. The prime example of this would be the L.A. fire.

But then I see places like Syria and Yemen. Myanmar and Sudan. And these are only five, excluding Gaza. The list never ends and I will never understand why some things are this way.

Because of the media, people have slowly become desensitised to everything and it shouldn’t have to be this way. It should never even come to this.

I can’t even begin to think how the victims would be feeling this way. The ones who are truly losing everything. The ones who are cradling their loved ones in their hands. The ones who were simply existing and focusing on their future. The ones whose dreams got wiped out mercilessly. The ones who are wondering, why the world doesn’t care?

Any human would feel for them. You don’t need to be of the same ethnicity, same race or culture. You just need to be human.

It just makes you realise, you can’t wait for anyone to your voice. You have to bring out your own.

Darwin had the concept of, survival of the fittest. The idea of natural selection. The idea that those better adapted to their environment are fitted to survive.

But let me ask you this.

What did a newborn child have anything to do with it? What did a five-year-old have anything to do with any of this?

Those in power may not be our voice.

But ironically, we are.

We become the voice in numbers.

Take the BLM movement. We addressed injustice and raised our voices. Take the Gaza movements, all of these brought humanity together and addressed a root cause. The way everyone collectively started boycotting, making sales nosedive, proving the small things matter.

Sure there are times I wonder if any of this even matters. And I’m not saying speaking up about such an issue makes you something. In the end, we all try to do the most we can and hope things can change.

I won’t pretend to be grossly educated in this matter. But I can say this, anyone can differentiate between right and wrong.

And what the world is turning into is nothing but unpleasant.

Just thinking about it makes me confused, angry and hurt. So I’ll ask one question:

Why?

Donation links:

Palestine: https://www.wfp.org/support-us/stories/palestine-appeal?utm_source=google&utm_medium=cpc&utm_campaign=22882130543&utm_content=190509874704&gclsrc=aw.ds&gad_source=1&gad_campaignid=22882130543&gbraid=0AAAAACOf4HoyU_TacpeHyv6DUFZjXPh-_&gclid=Cj0KCQjwn8XFBhCxARIsAMyH8BuP_Ko3uNCGZJuVTwP7tfZXpW5U5WuV4pFkl9XItB6P1nK4NVBR2BwaAu5pEALw_wcB

Syria: https://www.wfp.org/support-us/stories/syria?utm_source=google&utm_medium=cpc&utm_campaign=20801993225&utm_content=153255231062&gclsrc=aw.ds&gad_source=1&gad_campaignid=20801993225&gbraid=0AAAAACOf4HryOC79Uh7OQzSw4kC_K7zZ9&gclid=Cj0KCQjwn8XFBhCxARIsAMyH8BscFSptHSteYwnG1_5JUsFGixV9M8B32hd79atufcjjzqbrPE8eiBIaAkkPEALw_wcB

Yemen: https://www.wfp.org/support-us/stories/yemenappeal?utm_source=google&utm_medium=cpc&utm_campaign=20701846044&utm_content=160201632652&gclsrc=aw.ds&gad_source=1&gad_campaignid=20701846044&gbraid=0AAAAACOf4HrAb_fY8hH6zMqR3kjc9ZsvR&gclid=Cj0KCQjwn8XFBhCxARIsAMyH8BtVt4l6XiURXZyFHPvt7Rt8vBo4zZeX6rAZ0G_5aCiP2WhjAQGoTG8aAtiHEALw_wcB

Myanmar: https://donate.unhcr.org/int/en/myanmar-situation

Sudan: https://islamic-relief.org/appeals/sudan-emergency-appeal/

Those rebuilding lives in Britain: https://refugeecouncil.donorsupport.co/page/FUNDFPBBUCT?gad_source=1&gad_campaignid=22614779262&gbraid=0AAAAABKAl3DNTW7sfxKp6hOiAQdNyVGhR&gclid=Cj0KCQjwn8XFBhCxARIsAMyH8BuEu-Bz2x_BKYn7Y3_9QiHfMxqQ5iLxVAIBmrQ-SJpUBnmM2L-DAsoaAsAlEALw_wcB

NOTE: I tried finding authentic websites so it’s easier to donate, but please do let me know if I had added the wrong website or if there are more direct websites which can help the victims.

Feel free to comment them as much as you want! Thank you.

It’s been 2 years since everything started and it seems everyone has still forgotten the Muslim brothers and sisters dying at the hands of something inhumane and cruel. Something so worthless and pointless. Sometimes I think it’s the money or even the power but then again…is that really worth more than a human life?

Paper being worth more than someone breath.

Yes, it hurts and yes, I wish it would just end.

Pray for Gaza. Pray for Sudan. Pray for Syria. Pray for every single nation being oppressed. Donate if you can.

Just don’t forget them.

If you can, please comment any other donations links for any country that is oppressed!

If you don’t sacrifice everything for your studies, you don’t deserve success  — Marie Curie

I read the quote last night, and instead of being motivated, I had questions.

What about your family? Your body? Your health? Your time to relax and have fun? What about wanting to socialise? Make connections and not lose contact with people? What about any of that?

I understand studying is important. But is it more important than everything?

In a time where we understand mental health and the immense value of bonds while recognising and acknowledging that not everyone functions the same way. The quote is outdated. But seeing it pop up in a modern reel, makes me wonder if people still believe that?

It’s proven than humans are social animals. We NEED connections. We NEED to talk, share and be around others. So saying that if we aren’t willing to sacrifice everything for studying, then we don’t deserve success.

Maybe I’m a bit too extra about this, but that’s where I have a problem.

The word — deserve, is the main reason I find this absurd. How can anyone decide whether or not another person deserves something? We all are accountable of our life and what we deserve is proportionate to what we put in.

It’s similar to saying, “if you start late, you won’t get anywhere.” And honestly, I disagree with that even more.

That mindset is the reason we’ll hit an impossible wall.

I saw a reel the other day where the person kept repeating: Change your mindset. Don’t say you can’t do it. Say that you can.

Life is a marathon where everyone is on a different track. If studying was all that mattered, then Ivy Leagues wouldn’t care about extracurriculars. Some people excel in academics, others in sports. That’s why Sport Scholarships exist.

We all may start on an equal playing field, but we’re all on different and unique tracks.

Was this over the top dramatic? Probably.

Is it really that deep? Probably not.

Did I still write about it? Yes, I did.

Would love to know how many of you guys agree and if you don’t I’d love to see your takes on it too!

They probably get their first in Kindergarten, maybe even in the first grade. But we all have one.

With our first best friend, we get to see highs and lows. We grow up together, sharing almost all of our firsts. We see the world for the first time with them.

But usually, life gets in the way.

And its rare that this person remains in our life till College… or after.

Then comes your first BEST FRIEND.

Technically, you met them second. You share everything, but don’t really experience many firsts together.

But… I’d still choose her.

Not because the first one was bad. But because the second one saw things the first didn’t.

She saw the pain. The anger. The frustration. She saw the morals, the values, the boundaries. She saw the wanting. She saw the mistakes, the breakdowns, the confusions.

She saw me.

Sure, the first sees you grow up, but it’s the second that truly ends up seeing who you really are. Because while you’re still learning, when you’re a kid, you’re wrapped in innocence and protection.

So no, you don’t see or understand everything.

But the second usually shows up later. When you’re starting to understand the world… or trying.

That’s when the walls go up. That’s when rash decisions are made. And when they stay, after all of that. There’s a gut feeling telling you: That’s the one.

Everyone has their FIRST best friend.

And then they find their first BEST FRIEND.

Hello!!

First time writing a note here buttt I hope you enjoyed it. It’s quite short but if this reminded you of someone, share this with them and make their day!

Whether it be the desire to become famous or the hope of pursuing a dream. A passion.

We all want something.

Whether it be living the dream as a traveler or even be a world renowned black belt.

As kids, the dream is big. It’s imaginative. The idea of practicality never crosses your mind. That’s a dream. A want.

And then you grow up.

You still have a dream. A more evolved one. But still a dream.

That one may be a bit practical, but it’s something you want. Something worth fighting for.

But then amidst of everything. You come back to the dream you once had.

From the dream of becoming “someone famous” to a football player to an artist to a writer to even a good mother.

You can do it. So, why not?

But sometimes it feels like the more you fight, the more you lose. The more you chase, the more it runs away.

It’s like a losing battle and everyday you doubt yourself and ask: Is this worth it? Can I really do it?

You want to jump to get the next best thing. Seek the next best version of yourself.

But you spread yourself too thin…

Too many baskets but not enough eggs.

And then it happens.

A crack.

It’s small, silent, but permanent.

You never believed it could happen to you.

But — 

No.

Everything is fine.

You look the other way and keep moving.

Becoming the dreamer with a dash of realist.

The crack becomes bigger.

You ignore it.

It becomes noticeable.

And then it shatters.

All the dreams disintegrate right before your eyes.

What if…you’re not the realist anymore. Not even the dreamer. But the exhausted middle one. The one who doesn’t know where everything went wrong. The one who did everything they were good at and all of a sudden it comes crumbling down. As if the pillars weren’t built well and time showed.

You worked hard.

You wanted too much.

You tried to be too much.

You ran out of hands to hold all your dreams, your wishes, your desires, your passions.

And maybe…you ended with little.

So…what now?