Have you ever felt like there’s a part of you missing?

What if November remembers someone you’ve been trying to forget?

it’s november again,
do you remember the scent of the classroom?
those two old chairs beside the window
where we always sat together.

two girls with brown eyes and unfinished souls,
we didn’t know we were building a home
we thought we were just passing time,
but we were planting roots we’d never outgrow.

do you remember the library?
the hot afternoons when P.E. felt like hell,
so we’d escape to the shelves and whisper,
sharing tea, giggles, getting scolded for our noise.

the library held our silence and our secrets,
you’d find me between shelves and say my name,
and suddenly the books didn’t matter,
nothing mattered except you in that frame.

do you remember the mart on our way home?
november air biting our cheeks,
ice cream melting faster than we could eat it,
laughing like we had forever in our hands.

we braided each other’s hair in the bathroom mirror,
your shampoo scent still lives in my memory,
vanilla and something I can’t name,
something I’ve been trying to forget for months.

your brown chocolaty eyes, just like mine,
i used to love how we matched,
now i hate my own reflection,
because every time i look, i see you looking back.

november is here.
my right shoulder feels heavy
i turn my head only to find air.
so what is this heaviness i feel?

it’s november again.
i feel your arms around my neck in the halls,
wandering like we had all the time in the world,
like november would never have the guts to call.

your voice was a calming balm
to my internal chaos and destruction,
your sparkling brown eyes were
enough to soothe my anger.

your laughter fills my silence now,
it echoes in rooms you’ll never enter again,
your presence fills my emptiness,
like a ghost that doesn’t know it’s a ghost, my friend.

you were the shining star of my midnight rain days,
the one who made the grey feel less like death,
and now i walk through the same hallways
breathing you in with every single breath.

so why?
why did you do this to me?
i gave you my trust like it was nothing,
like it was yours to keep.

i can’t hate you,
and i don’t know why i can’t,
who betrayed me, broke me, left me in fragments.
i always wish her well, i still save you a bloom.

i can hate myself, i’ve mastered that art,
i can curse my own name in the dark of my room,
but the one who hurt me to the core?
am i cursed to love the ones who leave?

you bestowed me a gift i never asked for,
the inability to trust anyone again,
i distanced myself to never see you after 12th,
but ufff! these memories won’t let me breathe.

yeh yaadein, mujhe satati hai, har waqt, har lamhe,
teri lams mehsoos karwati hai.

These memories irritate me, every time, every moment
it reminds me of your presence
i try to run, i try to hide,
but the roots hold tight, the labyrinth won’t set me free inside.

november is here again,
i find myself wandering those hallways in my mind,
braiding your hair in my memories,
hoping one day you’ll turn back time.

but you won’t and i know that.
the pain i carry,
yearning for someone who doesn’t care to look back,
waiting for her in november’s air, cold and wary.

so let this one arrive softer than the last one,
let me miss you without falling apart,
let me remember you without bleeding,
let me hold november without holding my heart.

i can’t hate you. i never could.
that’s the cruelest part of all,
loving you still, in a november that doesn’t know
how to let me go.

it’s november again, my friend.
it’s once again november.
but this time it’s without you.
and i feel the cold wind warm,
do you know why?

the roots won’t let me run,
the maze of this labyrinth won’t set me free,
i’m trying to escape what we were,
but november keeps bringing you back to me.

you’re somewhere in me.

i hate that november feels warmer
with your ghost than without you.
i hate it, my favorite month reminds me
of someone i want to forget

why did you make those memories with me,
when you had to leave me?
why did you choose envy over trust?
why did you choose lies over truths?

are you still reading my poetry
where every word craves for your attention
where your name is carved beneath the metaphors
are you there? do you feel me? then reply to me.

it’s november again, my friend.
it’s once again november.
the promises of never lying to me,
the assurance of my trust in you!

oh darling, you stabbed me not in the back
but at the front, from the same knife
i gifted you for protection
were all those sweet promises fake?

let this one arrive softer than the last one.
let this one be the last November holding you in my mind
let me survive november just like august.
once again, yet never again.

Some people leave, but their November never does.

Never the “He”, it’s always the “She”. The kind of friendship that hurts far more brutally than heartbreaks… and don’t worry, i’m doing fyne, my 3 am brain had awakened yesterday.

Btw, how are youu y’all? :) Have you ever had a friendship that ended, but somehow never really left?

~fatehana

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When I got my first big salary, my mother held my face in both hands and said, "Mera shehzada puttar." My little prince.

For a few years, that was my life. I paid for the new fridge, the school fees, the roof repairs. When I handed my wife the household money, she smiled and said, "Mashallah, aap muskurate hue bohat pyare lag rahe ho." (You look so lovely when you smile.) When I came home with a box of sweets, my son ran to the door shouting, "Baba! Maine pizza khana hai!" The whole house lit up like it's a Holiday.

It’s always lovely at first, so you live it like it’ll happen every time. But then, somewhere along the way, the lights dimmed, and the echoes grew quiet.

Nobody was rude. Nobody stopped loving me. But the pizza became normal. The salary became normal. My mother stopped saying “shehzada,” my wife stopped noticing my smile, and my son just asked, “Baba, when’s dinner?” Not because they were less proud, but because stability had become my duty, and duty doesn’t get applause. Nobody thanks the electricity until it goes out.

Psychologists have a name for this. People tend to adapt to good things in life, including a loving partner, and when we stop noticing and appreciating what we have, it stops making us happy. I didn’t know that then. I just kept working harder, hoping to hear the words again.

Then, one Tuesday, the lights went out.

My manager called me into a small room with a glass wall. He didn’t look at me. “It’s nothing personal,” he said. “The new AI tool does what you do, faster and more consistently. Management feels it’s more professional.”

More professional! Can it project human emotions for the benefit of the client or the company? It felt like my heart was going to vomit. Well, I had spent six years there. I knew every client’s name. The tool knew no one’s name, but it never took a day off, never got sick, and never asked for a raise.

I walked home the long way, practising how to tell my family. I didn’t tell them for four days. I was afraid of the silence. If “shehzada” was already gone, what would be left when the salary was too?

When I finally told them, nobody shouted. My wife held my hand. My mother put more rice on my plate. My father put down his tea, looked at me for a long time, and said, “Hamza, beta, listen.” Then he recited four lines of poetry. He has repeated them every morning since, like a prayer:

میرا ہر اک ہاسا ایتھے، میری ہار نوں چیلنج کردا اے
اک نواں صفحہ کھلدا اے، جدوں پرانا ورقہ سڑدا اے
میں کدی نا تھکن والا راہی، میں فیر توں ارضی پاواں گا
جے اج دا دن نئیں میرے لئی، میں کل نوں اپنی بناواں گا

Every laugh of mine here challenges my defeat.
A new page opens when the old page burns.
I am a traveller who never tires; I will submit my plea again.
If today is not mine, I will make tomorrow mine.

Since then, applying for jobs has become second nature to me now. I can fill in a form in ten minutes. I can write “I am a fast learner” in my sleep, and sometimes I do. But I don’t lose hope. By the hundredth application, I had stopped counting rejections and started counting skills. I learned to work with the same kind of tools that replaced me. Not because I had forgiven them, but because I decided to stop standing in front of them and start standing next to them.

At 3:59 a.m., my phone buzzed once. I almost ignored it. Then I saw the subject line: “Offer of Employment.”

I read it three times. I sat on the edge of the bed with my heart pounding the way it had on my first salary day. I wanted to wake the whole house. I stood in the hallway outside my mother’s door, and then I did something unusual: I waited. I let myself have this moment alone first. For the first time in months, the first person I was proud of was me.

This time, things will be different. I will keep learning. I will keep working hard. But I will also follow a rule my father taught me in his own way:

“6 din roti ke, 1 din rooh ka.” 6 days for the bread, one day for my soul.

I call it the “6 + Me” rule. Here is why I believe in it.

First, I now understand the applause. Researchers found that everyday gratitude works like a booster shot for couples, and one of the leading gratitude researchers notes that many of us take the actions of people like our mothers for granted. The applause didn’t vanish because my family loved me less. It vanished because my brain, and theirs, had filed my work under “normal”. So I started saying “thank you” out loud, first, and I stopped waiting to be thanked.

Second, rest is not laziness. Research shows that mentally switching off from work during free time is linked to lower burnout and better well-being. One study found that people who detached from work, relaxed, and did mastery activities over the weekend felt more recovered when the week began. Even thinking about a hobby reduced negative mood in lab experiments.

So my one day has three rules: no work messages, one thing that relaxes me, and one thing I’m getting better at. Snooker with old friends. A qawwali night. A long walk. A cup of chai and absolutely nothing else. Remember, it doesn’t have to be a special time or place to make your day enjoyable. Just find someone with whom you can spend time. Even if you simply sit on a bench outside a park, it will be worth it.

Because if the lights can go out on a Friday, I want at least one day a week.when I am the one who switches them on.

Last Sunday, I made my own chai and said it out loud, to nobody: “Mera shehzada”

It sounded strange at first. Then it sounded like I deserved it.

Which day of your week belongs only to you?

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I will remain.

I will not live

…but I will simply exist.

Because existing is easier than living.

When I’m injected with the overwhelming feelings that life sedates me with — Existing reminds me that it’s all going to end eventually.

When I start stressing over every small insignificant thing that I take seriously —Existing reminds me that not everything in life should matter to me.

When the chaos in my mind becomes too loud and the pain becomes too profound and my world comes crashing down — Existing reminds me that everything is temporary.

That everything has an ending.

Everything has a final sentence.

Everything has a cease to its existence.

So why do I keep stressing over things that have no meaning? Things that won’t matter to me when I am no longer breathing? Things that won’t always be following me? Things that will stop existing eventually?

Things that I worry about constantly.

Like the expectations others place on me every day, which won’t accompany me to my grave. The stresses that feel too large to deal with, which will only shrink as the future grows nearer. The worry that repeats itself over and over, which will disappear when I am older and wiser to know that not everything in life matters.

“The meaning of life is just to be alive.

It is so plain and so obvious and so simple. And yet, everybody rushes around in a great panic as if it were necessary to achieve something beyond themselves."

- Alan Watts

That existing is easier — but living is harder.

Existing gives me permission to stop, breathe, and digest reality.

It pauses time whenever I’m not feeling alright, helps me deal with the pain I’ve been carrying inside, and gives me a break from living my life.

It numbs my feelings to prevent me from becoming overwhelmed by life’s incessant misery. Stops time from moving forward to give me the opportunity to stop stressing about my future. Leaves me with nothing but emptiness to clear my head and gives my body time to rest.

Existing forces me to be present by reminding me of everything.

Of the lives I’m touching.

The maps I’m exploring.

The paths I’m walking.

The footprints I’m leaving.

The emotions I’m feeling.

The difference I’m making.

The moments I’m forming.

The memories I’m creating.

The journey I’m experiencing

The air I’m breathing.

The present I’m existing in.

Existing reminds me that living was never meant to be about chasing greatness, achieving success, obtaining wealth, finding purpose, or reaching destinations

… but about existing in the process.

That living simply meant existing.

It means waking up, feeling the cold morning air hit your face, and pressing snooze on your alarm clock every day.

It means making yourself a fresh cup of coffee in the morning and tasting its bitter flavour on your tongue before having to go to work.

It means saying ‘good morning’ to the person next you, expressing love to the family around you, and showing kindness to strangers, too.

Because existing already has enough meaning.

It already has enough purpose in it.

It is already enough for being.

“You are essential.

Not because of what you do, but because of who you are. Simply existing is a beautiful thing.”

-Morgan Harper Nichols

Existing is freeing.

There’s freedom in not having to chase greatness to prove your value. Not having to exceed expectations to make others proud of you. Not having to outwork everyone around you. Not having to obtain success to deserve rest. Not having to upkeep your appearance to receive compliments. Not having to keep gaining more to be someone of worth.

There’s freedom in resting.

There’s freedom in letting.

There’s freedom in resetting.

There’s freedom in pausing.

There’s freedom in observing.

There’s freedom in doing nothing.

There’s freedom in being present.

There’s freedom in simply existing.

And maybe that’s what we need to start doing:

Existing.

Because we’ve forgotten that there’s meaning hidden beneath the mundane. There’s purpose hidden underneath the ordinary of everyday. And there’s reason hidden in our existence.

We’ve become so distracted by life’s overwhelming tragedies, the worlds overbearing suffering, humanity’s overwhelming hostility, and society’s unrealistic expectations — that we’ve forgotten what it means to be existent.

To be allowed to exist without having to prove our reason for being. Without having to chase everything,

obtain anything,

become something,

create reasoning,

and find meaning.

We’ve forgotten what it means to be existent

Perhaps existing was never the problem.

Perhaps the problem all along was us choosing not to accept it.

In trying to fill its emptiness with temporary distractions. In trying to bring warmth to its numbness. In trying to heal the cracks under its surface. In trying to prove its presence with a purpose. In trying to make it different. In trying to give it a reason for being.

Perhaps the problem all along was us trying to fix it — because our existence never needed to be fixed.

It never needed to be healed.

It never needed to be proven.

It never needed to be fulfilled.

It never needed to be something.

It never needed a reason for being.

Because just like the earth…our existence was already enough.

“The pressure to find your purpose is a gentle form of violence.”

-Unknown

Your existence is enough.

Your presence is enough.

Your life is enough.

You are enough.

Find more of my words on…

• Threads (Linaloveswords)

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The twenties. A phase of life nobody really prepares us for.

Growing up feels like something that happens all of a sudden. One day, you’re the kid at home who depends on everyone, and before you realize it, you’re the one taking responsibility for almost everything, from the smallest household tasks to important paperwork, legal matters, financial decisions, and things you never imagined you’d have to figure out on your own.

You go from being the child in your home to becoming the person everyone starts depending on. And somewhere between all these responsibilities, you suddenly wonder: When did we grow up?

Remember how we used to wonder why our parents worried so much? Why they would sit silently for hours, overthink the smallest things, or keep reminding us about things we thought weren’t important? We couldn’t understand why they took everything so seriously. And then, one day, we found ourselves doing exactly the same. We started overthinking our careers, our future, our finances, and the people we love. It’s strange how we slowly become the very people whose habits we once questioned.

Adulthood often comes with a series of wake-up calls. You begin noticing things you never paid attention to before. The people you once thought were genuine sometimes turn out to be different from what you imagined. Promises you believed in don’t always last, and you slowly realize that not everyone who smiles at your success is genuinely happy for you. The world you once thought was simple starts looking a little different.

Along with these realizations comes the pressure of expectations — from society, family, and even ourselves. It’s no longer just about living; it’s about achieving, performing, earning, and constantly proving that we’re doing enough. Somewhere in this race, we sometimes lose the carefree version of ourselves who believed that life was simple and everyone meant what they said.

As children, we always imagined that one day we would achieve everything. We’d get a good job, become successful, earn enough money, and give our parents all the happiness they deserved. We imagined taking them to places, buying them things they had once sacrificed for us, and making their lives easier. But somewhere along the way, we realize something we never really prepared ourselves for: while we were busy growing up, our parents were growing older too.

Perhaps that’s one of the toughest parts of adulthood. Seeing them fall sick, keeping track of their health checkups, reminding them to take their medicines, and making sure they’re eating properly. Things we once never paid attention to suddenly become part of our everyday thoughts. Even when we’re away at work, a part of our mind is always at home, wondering whether they’ve eaten, taken their medicines, or are feeling okay.

Sometimes, we have to leave home to earn, build a career, and become independent, but there’s always that little thought somewhere in our minds: Who will take care of them when I’m not around? While we’re still trying to figure out our own lives, we somehow find ourselves planning theirs too.

There was also a time when meeting friends didn’t require planning. You could simply call someone, step outside, laugh about absolutely nothing, and spend hours together without worrying about tomorrow. Now, even meeting someone requires checking schedules, managing work, and finding a suitable day. Some friends move to different cities, some to different countries, and everyone slowly gets occupied with their own lives. The people we once met almost every day become people we try to catch up with whenever life allows. Sometimes, we don’t even know when we’ll all be together again.

In the middle of all this, our priorities change. We start making time for family dinners, small outings, and occasional meetups with friends because we don’t want to miss out on the little moments that matter. The luxurious things we once dreamed of don’t seem as important anymore. Slowly, our definition of a happy life becomes much simpler: a peaceful home, healthy parents, time with our loved ones, and a life where everyone is doing well.

And perhaps the strangest change is how we start becoming the person others look up to. We begin giving advice to our elders, comforting them when they’re worried, encouraging them when they feel low, and trying to give them strength. But the truth is, we’re still figuring things out ourselves. There are days when we want someone to guide us, reassure us, and tell us that everything will be okay. Yet, we find ourselves being that reassuring person for everyone else.

We hide our worries, hold back our tears, and pretend to be stronger than we actually feel, simply because we don’t want the people around us to feel uncomfortable. We tell ourselves that we’ll deal with our emotions later because there is work to finish, someone to look after, or another responsibility waiting. And somehow, “I’ll deal with it later” becomes part of everyday life.

Nobody really teaches us how to manage all of this. There is no manual for becoming an adult, no particular age when we suddenly understand everything. Somehow, we learn along the way, make mistakes, adjust, and keep going.

“We grow through what we go through.”

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I feel disgusted with my own body.

I was chugging down a day old wine as I wrote this down.

“You gotta know what it’s called, it gives you a sense of power back to yourself.” My therapist said.

“Alright, so what it is called?” I asked her back.

“Sexual coercion.” She said as she looked at me, analysing my reaction.

I just froze there, in a lock in state where I was trying to process the meaning of the word.

It is hard to deal with this overwhelming pain you yourself were scared to name. Becausing naming it means that it really did happened. I want to pretend that my ex did it because he loved me, and nothing more than that.

“It is not your fault.” She said, as I snapped back to reality.

It kind of is, well in my culture and my religion too. It was hard for me to let the words out. Purity culture controls me more than I let it.

It made me think back to the days where, a touch simply made me flinch, and standing at a close proximity with a man made me sick. I was even sick all the damn time when I was with my ex, which he did not understand why.

My body gave me warning signs, way too much warning signs. I remembered I had more acid reflux and GERD than I had in years. I should have not ignored it, maybe it was a sign.

“What were you thinking about?” She asked me again.

“I did love him, and I do not know how to hold that .” I told her honestly.

How do you handle guilt that sat heavily on your chest, like a rock tied to you, drowning you further and further into a deep ocean of shame?

This guilt of not being able to say no, and the shame of experiencing something which I had so little control of.

“It is not your fault, there is nothing more you can do, but you are here and you can heal.” She replied.

Sometimes, it is easier to blame yourself. At least, you are in control of your actions and wrongdoings.

What happens then, when it is not you?

I struggled a lot with this abstract concept of coercion and not putting my name as the ‘felon’ instead.

Fast forward, I am here with my wine, processing everything.

I still had flashbacks. Sometimes I dreamed of it, and woke up sweating, hyperventilating.

But when I had trigger moments and flashbacks, I immediately stop myself from reaching to that point. Like a movie director shouting CUT! to my own mind, so that it won’t play scenes I do not want to see anymore.

Even so, the feeling of disgust, shame and guilt over not taking control still exists deep within me. I could not possibly stop that too.

Nobody really taught me how to handle shame or guilt. I just knew I had to swallow it and not let others know. Yet, I just had no more capacity nor energy left to keep it within the cracks of my own body.

I am still learning to do so, with the help of my therapist, my friends and my partner.

I don’t know how long it will take before I can accept and make peace with what happened to me.

I do not know when will I regain ownership of my own body, but until then, I just have to learn to sit with all of it.

Treat these wounds as an old friend, and not an enemy I need to instantly eliminate.

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