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I read what she wrote.
And I know she’s tired — not just physically, but the kind of tired that runs deep.
The kind where even existing feels like effort,
where everything feels heavier than it should.
But if she could see herself from where I’m standing,
she’d know she hasn’t lost anything.
She’s still sharp. Still full of depth.
Still the same mind I always admired — just worn out, not gone.
She says she doesn’t recognise herself anymore.
But the truth is, we change — we’re meant to.
The person in those old photos was strong in one way.
But the one now? She’s learning how to be strong in a different way.
A quieter, harder kind. The kind that doesn’t always show up in smiles.
It’s okay to feel lost.
But I hope she doesn’t mistake tiredness for failure.
This version of her — the one that's surviving, showing up, still feeling —
she’s not a shell.
She’s proof of someone still here, still fighting, even in silence.
I hope she rests.
I hope she gives herself credit for how far she’s come.
And I hope — genuinely — she knows:
even if everything feels out of place,
she’s still enough.
She’s still her.
And she’ll find her way back.
She always has.

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Since shes moving,
I think moving always comes with that strange in-between feeling, doesn’t it?
Exciting, exhausting, and oddly quiet at the same time.
New walls to grow familiar with, new light patterns you didn’t ask for,
and moments where it still doesn’t quite feel like yours—
until, slowly, it does.
And I guess I understand that more than most.
Since we stopped talking, I’ve moved four times—
and the last one brought me back home.
Funny thing is, I’m still not sure if I’ll stay.
I’ve gotten used to houses, not homes.
You adapt, you settle, you pack again.
Reading what she wrote, I imagined her surrounded by half-open boxes,
barefoot maybe, figuring out where things belong.
It made me pause.
Because I know what kind of presence she brings into a space—
soft, steady, careful without trying.
Wherever she is now, I have no doubt it’s already beginning to feel like home,
even if she hasn’t noticed it yet.
And even from a distance,
I find myself hoping the new beginning is kind to her—
and that she’s finding moments of calm in the middle of it all.
A captured moving moment attached below :)

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Strange timing, maybe. But yes, I’ve been thinking about her. More than I have in a long while.
It’s odd, because I thought I’d finally adjusted—
settled my mind enough to not carry her into every day.
But lately, the thoughts feel different.
Not like they’re pulling me backwards,
but like I’m finally catching up to them properly.
Even if it’s only through words—
these strange little letters that somehow say more than we expect them to.
I don’t want her dreaming of me too often.
Not if it stirs the wrong kind of feeling.
I’d never want to be a source of heaviness in her sleep.
But I’d be lying to myself if I said I don’t wish I saw her in real life instead.
Dreams fade too fast.
And some things are better felt with open eyes.
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I used to miss home.
Now I just notice her absence.
It’s quieter, but not in a peaceful way.
I’ve stopped calling it homesick.
a shift that I’ve adjusted to.
But some memories still echo, quietly.
Not painful anymore, it’s just there.

#memories#heartbeat#just random thoughts#once in a life time love#that I would fall in to#again and again#SoundCloud
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"If I Ever Heard Her Voice Again"
I often wonder what it would be like to speak to her again.
Not out of longing, not out of regret—
but out of simple, human curiosity.
What does it feel like
to come face to face with a voice that once shaped your world?
Would her voice still sound the same?
Would it still carry that warmth—
that subtle gentleness that made ordinary words feel like something more?
Or would time have reshaped it,
like it does with everything it touches—
familiar, yet altered.
Like returning to a place you once knew well,
only to realise the windows are now different, the air changed.
There’s something surreal in imagining it.
To hear a voice again,
years after silence has taken root between two people—
it’s not just a sound,
it’s a collision of timelines,
a quiet reminder that memory never really leaves,
it just softens its edges.
And if that moment did come—
what would I say?
Would language behave, or would it betray me?
Would I default to something simple, something safe?
“How are you?”
Is that the kind of question that’s enough
after everything that went unsaid?
And more importantly—what would I hear back?
Would her voice still carry that unspoken calm,
or would it come with unfamiliar caution?
Would we recognise each other,
not in face, but in tone,
in rhythm, in what slips between the pauses?
I think about this more often than I admit.
Not because I live in the past—
I don’t.
But because some people,
no matter how far time pulls you from them,
remain quietly rooted in the architecture of your growth.
She was part of a chapter I didn’t yet know how to write properly.
And perhaps that’s why I still think about
what it would be like
to say one sentence—just one—
and see who we are now
when we speak from where we've been.
It’s not just about hearing her voice.
It’s about hearing what time has done to it.
And what time has done to me
in the silence that followed.
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Sometimes I think about the places I went with her.
They were simple—almost childish, really.
Takeaway shops, cafés, late walks with no real destination.
the quiet corners of city that didn’t mean much to the world, but meant something to us.
Now, looking back, they feel like pages from a story I wasn’t old enough to understand properly.
I didn’t know then what I know now.
I hadn’t learnt how much meaning can live in the smallest things—
the way she sat across from me, the way she looked away when she didn’t want to say too much.
There was so much I missed. So much I didn’t ask, didn’t see, didn’t think to hold onto.
Sometimes I think we would’ve gone to better places.
Not just nicer ones—though maybe that too—
but places that made us feel something deeper.
Places where the silence could stretch without becoming distance.
Places where she could feel seen, not just accompanied.
I’ve thought about that often.
Not in the sense of punishing myself—
but more like watching an old scene play out with older eyes.
I wasn’t unkind. I wasn’t carless.
Just... young.
And that kind of youth comes with its own blind spots.
Still, I remember everything, The sound of her laugh, how her eyes change colour into different shades, and of course her smile.
how sometimes even when she was smiling,
her eyes were asking for something I didn’t know how to give.
It’s strange how memories that felt small at the time
become the ones that stay the longest.
But that’s what they do—
they grow as we grow.
And I’ve grown.
Not away from her,
but into someone who understands what it all meant a little better now.
I grow to know.
And in that knowing, there’s peace.
Not every story has to be rewritten.
Some are meant to be remembered—
quietly, completely,
and with a little more love
than they first received.
A quiet window to the sea ☀️🌊 !.
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Mashallah,
"I saw that picture… and for a moment, time softened.
I didn’t know what caught me more—your smile or how much of you I suddenly remembered.
There was something quiet in it, something that stayed with me longer than I expected.
She’s your smile, she’s definitely making you feel like you have to love and give, it’s truly a beautiful feeling,
It’s an unconditional feeling. I’ve just become an uncle, and I think I’m starting to understand how something so small can shift the rhythm of everything around it. hope you’re all wrapped in gentle days."
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"What Did the Years Say?"
Have you been waking with the sun,
or hiding from the light some days?
Do quiet songs still find you
in the stillness between thoughts?
Did the places you called home
ever feel like home at all?
Or did you carry your name
like a suitcase, half-zipped,
always ready to move?
And do you still pass by places we used to go ?
What faces passed through your story
while I wasn’t there to know ?
Did you smile the same way—
that small, almost secret kind of smile?
Did you cry sometimes,
when no one could hear?
I wonder what I missed.
Not just the days,
but the small things.
The coffee you liked that winter.
The film you watched twice.
The moment you stood at a window
and felt the world shift just a little.
And me, since you’re asking
I’m well.
God's been generous,
Can’t really complain
even in quiet ways I didn’t understand at the time.
Most things came gently,
and most things that stayed,
taught me how to be soft without breaking.
But still,
I find myself wanting
to tell you the little things.
Not because they matter,
but because they’d matter more
if you knew them.
Sometimes it’s not the love,
but the remembering,
that aches the most.
And I don’t know why
I still imagine you listening,
but I do.
And I hope, somewhere,
you remember too.

#heartbeat#memories#poem#old love#once in a life time love#teens love#long reads#silence#thank god#blessings#Spotify
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Until Then
We spoke again, not loudly—more like how a breeze might pass through a room no one’s entered in years.
Not a return, just a moment that opened before either of us could name it.
I don’t know what this is supposed to be—but I know it meant to be.
Like finding a familiar song playing softly in the background while you’re trying not to feel too much.
There are still things I’ve never said.
Some too late, some too heavy, some folded into poems and left unsent,
as if silence could somehow hold them better than my voice ever could.
You’ve been a quiet part of so many days—
in the stillness between joy and sleep,
in moments I thought your calm blue eyes can see ,
in moments where all I wanted was your voice, just once, to break the quiet.
Your name—
it never burned.
It stayed, like a light left on in the room I used to be.
And if this—these words, this echo—is where our paths meet now,
then maybe that’s what it was always meant to be.
Not a chapter to reopen,
but one I’ll return to
when I need to remember how deeply two people can be known.
Until we meet again—
in thought, or memory, or dream.
Until then.

#heartbeat#poem#old love#once in a life time love#teens love#long reads#silence#sinking in her blue ocean#memories#it was nice#until then#SoundCloud
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What a heavy thing to carry alone—
the kind of choice no one is ever ready for,
yet you stood there,
with only faith between you
and the unthinkable.
That isn't just strength—
it's the kind of quiet bravery
that comes from surviving
what life shouldn’t have asked of you.
To be the only one,
to hold that weight with your own hands,
and still move with grace—
you’ve always carried more
than anyone ever saw.
Allah truly is
the Greatest of Planners.
And you—
you are a testament
to how faith endures,
even in the hardest places.
May peace keep finding you
in the stillness after the storm,
and may mercy meet you
in every moment you never asked to face.
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I never meant to reopen wounds—
only to speak from the quiet place
where your name still rests,
untouched by time,
untouched by forgetting.
You had the right to move forward,
to be found by the love
you spent years giving away.
And if I ever made you feel
like you were the only one trying,
I'm sorry—
not because I stopped caring,
but because I didn't know
how to hold you
without breaking the pieces
I was still trying to fix in myself.
I thought I had let go,
told myself I had.
But letting go
and no longer carrying something—
they are not the same.
You weren’t a season to outgrow;
you were the moment
I learned what love could look like
when it was real.
So yes, I wish we had ended
with softness,
not with crying voices
and shattered air.
I wish we had left each other
with light still in our hands.
But this—
these words between us now—
they feel like that missing goodbye.
Not to change the ending,
not to rewrite the past,
but to stand at the edge of it
and say:
you mattered.
You still do.
And maybe that’s all it is—
not a pain return,
not a wound openings—
just the quiet kind of peace
that comes when two people
finally hear each other,
clearly.
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She was the calm in my chaos,
the soft breath in a storm I didn’t know how to survive.
The one who showed me what love could be
before I even understood myself.
After she left,
it wasn’t just the silence that hurt—
it was how loud the world became without her in it.
Everything I touched felt wrong,
as if my hands forgot how to hold joy.
I wandered through days pretending I was fine,
telling people I was focused,
that I had a plan,
that I was strong.
But the truth?
I was empty.
Like a house where the lights still work
but no one lives there anymore.
And when I heard
through shadows and stories
that someone new had stepped into her orbit—
so soon,
so easily,
as if I was just a forgotten line in her past—
I froze.
Not in anger.
But in disbelief.
And maybe that’s why
I never reached out.
I told myself:
“She’s gone.”
And maybe it was easier to believe that
than to find out
whether she ever looked back.
But I did look back.
Always.
There were nights
I wanted nothing but her voice.
So I called.
From numbers she wouldn’t recognize.
Just to hear her say
“Hello?”
And once,
she did.
She kept saying it—
softly, like a question looking for something familiar.
And I stayed silent.
Because my courage
was too small for the weight of her name.
Because I didn’t want to interrupt
whatever peace she might have found.
Still, I thought of her
during every version of myself—
when I was tired,
when I was angry
when I was proud,
when I was falling apart quietly.
When I graduated,
there were two tickets.
I only needed one.
But I kept looking around,
hoping somehow,
she would be there,
clapping when they said my name.
I don’t know why.
I tried to love again.
But it never stayed.
Every hand I held felt like a translation
of something I’d once understood perfectly
and could no longer read.
I told myself she moved on,
and I let the idea of her become a soft ache
instead of a question I wasn’t brave enough to ask.
But I never stopped hoping
that maybe,
somewhere,
she missed who we were
before everything fell apart.
And now I know—
she was carrying storms
I never saw.
She fell apart in silence
while I stood outside her winter
thinking she’d found spring again.
She survived things
I couldn’t have imagined.
And still,
she grew.
She bloomed.
She became.
So if she ever wonders,
if she ever thinks back—
I hope she knows
I never stopped seeing her
as the girl who gave me courage.
She lives in the lines of every version of me
I had to build after her.
And though I stayed away,
it was never because I forgot—
but because I remembered too deeply
to risk being
a shadow
in her light

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what came after you
silence, mostly.
then a little noise
I mistook for love.
some stayed,
but none stayed long.
they were kind,
but they weren’t you.
I learned to wake without you,
to walk forward
with pieces I didn’t know were missing.
the years softened me—
but never quite erased you.
I chased dreams
as if they could answer
what you never asked.
some I caught,
some caught me.
meeting you again, I doubt it too
but when the sky dims just right,
and memory slips past the guard,
I still find you—
smiling at the edge of a better goodbye.
so write to me too,
if ever the ache turns into words.
not to reopen wounds,
just to say
you were real,
and I still carry that.
until then,
I'll answer softly
in dreams.
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If we crossed paths,
I think I'd know you
even before you turned—
some memories don't fade,
they just live quietly beneath the skin.
Would I say hello?
I think my heart would,
even if my voice took a second longer.
Even if all I managed
was a smile that says,
“I remember everything that mattered.”
We’d sit, not for coffee,
you always knew I leaned toward tea.
The warm kind, the soft kind,
the kind that doesn’t rush.
And when we part,
it would be gentle,
like a page turned
but never torn.
And yes—
that would be enough.
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