It has been a thousand days since that one morning in August 2023.

Not that I counted each one deliberately, but grief has its own way of keeping time. It marks itself quietly, in anniversaries you try not to anticipate, in ordinary days that suddenly feel heavier for no clear reason, in moments that arrive and leave without the people who once held them with you.

A thousand days since my mother left.

And before that, nine months earlier, my father left too. On my birthday. A day that used to belong to me, that now carries something else entirely. It is strange how a single date can hold both celebration and loss, how something that once felt like a beginning can also become a reminder of an ending.

Back then, I kept asking a question I didn’t know how to answer. How much of me did my mother take with her when she died?

It felt like everything. Like something essential had been pulled out of me, something I couldn’t name but could feel in every breath, in every silence, in every moment that reminded me she was no longer here. I was afraid that I would spend the rest of my life as a version of myself that was incomplete.

A thousand days later, I think I understand it differently.

She didn’t take parts of me with her. She left parts of herself in me. In the way I think without realizing it, in the way I carry myself through difficult days, in the quiet strength I didn’t know I had until I had no choice but to find it. There are moments when I hear my own voice and it sounds like hers, moments when I make decisions and feel, somewhere deep inside, that she would have understood.

And my father, too, in ways I didn’t notice before. In the way I endure things I never thought I could, in the way I keep going even when I don’t fully know how. They are both here, just not in the way I once knew them.

And still, that doesn’t mean it stopped hurting.

Grief doesn’t disappear. It changes shape. It learns how to exist beside your life instead of overtaking it. It becomes quieter, more patient, but it never really leaves. It waits in the small spaces, in good news that feels incomplete, in the instinct to reach for your phone and realizing, again and again, that there is no one on the other end.

I still live in their house. The one they built, piece by piece, through years of work I only began to understand after they were gone. The walls hold more than just structure. They hold effort, sacrifice, everything they did so I could have a life that felt safe. People tell me not to sell it. I always nod, say yes, because it sounds like the right answer. But the truth is, I don’t think I could ever let it go. I would rather work endlessly just to be able to stay. Because this is not just a house. It is what they built for me, and what I am still trying to hold onto.

And yet, at the same time, it feels unbearably empty.

They lived here long before I existed. I grew up within these walls, with them, in a space that was sometimes loud, sometimes quiet, sometimes chaotic, sometimes calm, but always safe. Now, when I walk through it, I still see them. My father sitting at the dining table, reading. My mother somewhere nearby, the sound of the television filling the background. It is all still there, just... without them. And that is the part no one really understands.

People wonder why I travel so much, how I manage it, how I can afford to keep moving from place to place. What they don’t see is that I am working for it, yes, but I am also running from something I don’t know how to sit with for too long.

Because staying means coming back to that silence.

To a home that still holds everything, but feels like it’s missing the only things that made it whole.

There are still moments when something happens and my first thought is them. I still want to tell my mother everything. I still want to hear my father’s voice exist somewhere in the background of my life. And then there is that pause, that quiet understanding that settles in before I can even question it.

And I carry it alone.

People say you get used to it. I don’t think that’s true. You don’t get used to losing people like that. You learn how to live with it. You learn how to hold joy and grief in the same moment, how to continue even when something in you knows that things will never feel the same again. The world continues. That was one of the hardest things to accept in the beginning. Watching everything move as if nothing had happened, as if my life hadn’t just been split into a before and after. It felt isolating. It felt unfair. It felt like I had been left behind in a place no one else could see. But slowly, without noticing it happening, I found my way back into it.

Not as the same person, but as someone reshaped by loss, by love, by everything they gave me before they left. Because in the end, what remains is not just the absence. It is the presence they left behind. In the way I love. In the way I continue. In the way I am still here, even on days when I don’t fully understand how I made it through.

A thousand days later, I am not the same person.

But I am still their daughter.

And maybe that is what stayed.

May 20, 2026.

Ugh.

It seems I like you a lot.

I mean, a lot a lot. Like, I think about you more than once in an hour. And don’t think that’s an insignificant amount. I’m a busy-ass person. I have shit to do. I have loose ends to tie up. I have projects to complete. I schedule my time very carefully, so devoting approximately five minutes of each hour to you says a lot about what you currently mean to me. Okay. It’s more than five minutes an hour. It’s ten. It’s probably more than ten. Sometimes less. It depends on the hour. I don’t know how many minutes an hour it is. Get off my back. Whatever. So I think you’re pretty cool. It’s no big deal. Except it is a big deal.

I’m kind of nuts about you. Not like, bend-over-backwards and give-up-my-whole-life-for-you nuts. I have priorities in order. I have my shit together. This is reality, not a low budget romcom, which means you aren’t the focal point of everything. I have a full life, and it’s thriving without you. Except it’s also thriving with you.

And it’s so damn ridiculously wonderful to have you along.

Because you make everything a solid 25% more awesome. I think that’s an acceptable percentage for now. If things were 50% more awesome around you, I’d know the rest of my life was pretty bleak. If they were 10% more awesome, you’d require some reconsidering. But 25% seems about right. 25% seems like the precise amount of awesome someone ought to add into your life. Recalculated once the honeymoon phase has concluded, of course. Don’t you agree?

So far, you seem to be working out for me. I hope I’m also working out for you. Because the thing is, I can’t get you off my mind. I get the sound of your laugh stuck in my head. I keep getting these weird impulses to buy things I think you would like or text you something sickeningly adorable. You make me feel all flustered and off-centered in a way that is frankly becoming statistically concerning. I think you might have worn down my defenses. I think you might have trampled straight through my boundaries. I think I may have accidentally rewritten my priority list to bump you problematically close to the top.

Because you make it so damn hard not to.

Because you show me more compassion than everyone else I know combined. Because you’re there whenever I need you, but absent whenever I need to be alone. Because you get me. Because I get you. Because when I’m around you, life feels a solid 42% easier, even though that percentage seems objectively too high. 

But you make me not want to recalculate.

You make me want to throw percentages right out the window. Because dammit, I think it really is 50% more awesome to have you around.

All the odds against it be damned.

May 16, 2026.

The kind that arrives quietly, without asking to be noticed. Morning slips in through the blind, carrying a softness that lingers on her skin. The air feels lighter, touched by the slow movement of wind through half-open windows, by the warmth of a sun that is in no hurry to rise too high, too fast.

She wakes into it gently, without alarms, without urgency, only the distant hum of the city stretching itself awake somewhere beyond her walls. The faint rustle of leaves, the sound of someone passing by, life continuing but softened, as if everything has agreed, just for today, to slow down. The room holds onto the scent of clean linen, fresh and familiar, grounding in a way that does not need to be explained.

Coffee follows, as it always does. A careful pour, water meeting ground in a slow bloom, releasing something warm and bright into the air. Sometimes Bali Kintamani, sometimes Aceh Gayo, light and a little citrusy, almost playful. On quieter mornings, a simple drip bag is enough, something easy, something gentle. It is never just coffee. It is the way she begins.

She moves through the morning without needing to name it. Watering the plants as they lean toward the light, feeding the fish as they gather in quiet familiarity, tending to small things that do not ask for much but give something back in their own quiet way. Somewhere nearby, a voice calls out, a neighbor, an aunty with something small to say, and for a moment, words are exchanged lightly, carried through the morning air, nothing important, and yet, somehow, it is.

The hours pass without asking to be filled. There might be something in the kitchen, something simple, its warmth slowly settling into the room. Music plays somewhere in the background, soft enough to blur into the day. Nothing feels rushed, nothing feels missing.

Later, she steps outside, just for a while. The sun rests more fully now, warm against her shoulders, the streets moving but without urgency. She chooses what she feels like eating, letting her hands linger over things she does not need. Sometimes she brings home flowers, red lilies, something alive that will open quietly over the next few days, changing the room without asking for attention.

Back inside, the space shifts again. A tablecloth replaced, a corner rearranged, light falling differently, making everything feel slightly new. These are the kinds of changes no one else would notice, but she does, and that is enough. There is a rhythm to it, carried not by time, but by feeling, a quiet understanding of how she wants to spend her hours.

For the past few months, her weekends have belonged to movement. Airports, schedules, the constant pull of somewhere else. A different kind of life, one that leaves little space for stillness to stay. And so when a Sunday like this finds her, she lets it. She stays, letting the afternoon soften into evening, watching the light fade slowly across the walls, turning everything golden before it disappears.

At the end of it, she returns to herself once more. A face mask cooling against her skin, a glass of wine catching the last of the light, the room quiet again, holding the day gently as if nothing needed to be more than it was.

It’s just another Sunday in her city.

And yet, in the softness of air, in the warmth of sun, in the quiet presence of everything she has touched and tended to, it feels like something whole.

May 5, 2026.

Turning thirty doesn't feel the way I thought it would.

There is no grand arrival. No sudden clarity. No moment where everything finally makes sense. Instead, it feels quieter than expected. Slower. A little unfinished, and yet, strangely full.

Lately, I’ve been sitting with this quiet sense of gratitude for being here, in this exact phase of life where things are still uncertain, but no longer unsettling in the same way. There is still chaos. Of course there is. But it feels softer now. More familiar. Like something I’ve learned to live alongside instead of something I need to escape.

The questions are still there. Where am I going. What am I doing. Who am I becoming.

But they don’t carry the same weight anymore.

Something shifts underneath all of it. You begin to feel more at home within yourself. Not because you have everything figured out, but because you stop expecting that you should.

Some time ago, I realized that the phrase “time is money” was never really about money. It is about time itself. The older we get, the more we understand how valuable it is. You start choosing differently. You would rather stay in your bed, in your own space, than go out and force conversations that don’t feel real. You no longer have the energy to fake smiles for people who only remember you when it is convenient. And for the first time, that choice does not feel like missing out. It feels like protecting something important.

Friendship still matters. Deeply. But your relationship with solitude changes too.

Being alone is no longer something to fix. It becomes something to return to. A place where you can breathe without performing, where you can exist without explaining yourself, where nothing is required of you except being there.

Something about the way you move through life begins to change. You grow more comfortable in what you do. Things start to fall into place quietly, without needing to be announced. You realize there is less to explain about yourself, because you already know who you are. And without even noticing, you stop struggling against life the way you used to. The constant urgency softens. Not everything feels like it has to happen all at once. You start noticing where your time and energy are going, and you become more careful with both.

And when life happens, as it always does, you don’t react the same way anymore. You pause. You sit with it. You try to understand it before letting it pull you in.

It does not mean life becomes easy.

There are still difficult days. Still uncertainties. Still moments that feel heavy and unresolved. Life does not suddenly become gentle. But it no longer feels as overwhelming as it once did. It feels like you have made a quiet agreement with it. Not a surrender, but an acceptance. A recognition that things may not always go the way you planned, and that you are still capable of continuing anyway.

At thirty,

I realize life is not perfect. It probably never will be.

But it is also not as heavy as I once feared.

May 1, 2026.

Dear Mr. Spaceman,

I used to think time would do something dramatic. That it would erase you, soften you, turn you into a distant version of a life I could barely remember. But instead, it did something quieter. It kept you in the background of everything, like a constant hum I have learned how to live with. And maybe that is the strangest part.

Because I am not the same person you knew. Not even close. Life kept moving, and I had to move with it. I’ve grown into someone a little steadier, a little sharper, a little more aware of what I can and cannot accept. And somehow, even without you being here, it still feels like you had a hand in that. Like you set something in me I didn’t even notice forming at the time.

You are no longer loud in my days, no longer the first thing I reach for in the morning or the last thing I hold onto at night. And yet, you are there, in the in-between moments, in the stillness that follows after everything else has settled. Not enough to undo me, but enough to remind me. There are days when you pass through my mind gently, almost kindly, like a memory that no longer needs to be questioned. And there are days when it catches me off guard, the way certain songs sound a little too familiar, or the way a quiet evening stretches just enough for me to notice what is no longer there.

Time did not take you away. It simply changed the way you exist in me.

You didn’t just show me love. You showed me how I should be loved. And now, two years later, I catch myself measuring everything against that quiet knowing. Not in a way that traps me, but in a way that guides me.

Still, there are moments. Small ones. Honest ones.

Sometimes I still think about the days when your name was the first one I would reach for over something as small as a mosquito bite, or when your hand was the first thing I searched for in the dark when I couldn’t sleep at night. I remember how you made everything feel easier. How even my worst breakdowns didn’t feel as heavy with you there. Like facing a new direction in life wasn’t something to be afraid of. Like living alone didn’t actually mean I was alone in this universe. Because somewhere, in my own way of understanding it, you were still there, walking beside me, just from another planet.

You didn’t just stay for the easy moments. You were there when everything felt like it was collapsing in slow motion. When getting out of bed felt like an achievement. When I didn’t know how to carry what I was going through. You never asked me to be okay before I was ready. You just stayed. You just listened. You just smiled.

And somehow, you became the voice that helped me begin again. Even on days when all I could manage was something small, you made it feel like enough. That is when I understood what love was supposed to feel like.

Sometimes, in the quiet, a thought still slips through before I can stop it.

But I don’t hold onto that the way I used to. It feels different now. Softer. Less desperate. More like a truth I have learned to sit with instead of fight. Because maybe the best was never meant to stay. Maybe it was meant to shape. You didn’t stay, but you built something in me that did. A quiet refusal to settle. A kind of love I now recognize, because I once had it with you.

I no longer look for you in the same way. I no longer wait, no longer expect, no longer build small hopes around things that will not come. But there is still something that remains. Not longing, not quite love, but something softer. Something that has learned how to stay without asking for anything in return.

And I think that is what surprised me the most.

Not that you stayed, but that remembering you no longer hurts the way it used to.

There was a time when everything felt louder. When missing you filled entire days and spilled into nights that were too long to carry alone. Now, it moves quietly, almost respectfully, like it understands that I have a life that no longer revolves around it.

And I do.

Life has continued, in all the ordinary ways. Mornings that arrive whether I am ready or not. Evenings that settle into their own kind of quiet. Days filled with things that have nothing to do with you, and yet, somehow, you exist gently within them. Not as something I need to return to, but as something that once mattered, and in some way, still does.

So this is not me holding on. Not really.

This is me accepting that we were never meant to last, but you were never meant to be meaningless either. Some people do not leave you. They just change form. From a person you once had, into something you carry.

And maybe that is what you are now.

Not mine. Not anymore.

Life has a strange sense of humor.

Not the loud, obvious kind that makes you burst out laughing, but the quiet kind. The kind you only notice when you slow down enough to really look.

For a long time, many of us move through life half asleep. We follow what seems logical, we do what is expected, and we silence the subtle voice inside us when it says something feels wrong. We call it overthinking, fear, or doubt. But often, it's simply instinct trying to get our attention.

And something interesting happens when you finally start paying attention.

When you begin opening your eyes a little wider, when you allow your heart to widen too, and when you start trusting your gut even when it cannot explain itself clearly, life begins to shift. Not dramatically. Not all at once. But slowly. You begin to notice the small signals you used to ignore, the situations that quietly drain you, the people who leave you feeling lighter, the paths that feel forced, and the ones that feel strangely natural.

Little by little, your instincts begin to guide you somewhere else. Somewhere calmer, somewhere clearer, maybe even somewhere happier. And that’s when life starts to feel mysteriously funny. Because the signs were always there. The patterns were always repeating. The quiet voice inside you was always speaking.

Life wasn’t hiding anything from you. It was simply waiting for you to start paying attention.

March 13, 2026.

It was a Sunday afternoon.  We were listening to Eenie Meenie when I suddenly said, "Yeah, I'm sorry for being indecisive."

You never directly called me that. But you rolled your eyes when I couldn't choose between ice cream flavors, or which restaurant to go to for dinner.

You didn't say no. Instead, you laughed and said, "There was this guy in high school. We always made fun of him because whenever someone asked, 'Which one do you want?' he'd answer, 'Which one do you want?'"

That day, I laughed with you.

But what you never saw was what happened inside me when you were around. How sometimes I paused before choosing a restaurant because I could already hear it: "It's not as good as the one I chose."

How I said, "Anything is fine," because I didn't want to see that subtle look of disapproval. How I started scanning your face before finishing a sentence. It wasn't that I didn't know what I wanted. It was that wanting something started to feel embarrassing.

I know, sometimes we say things without realizing their weight. Sometimes words don't come out right. Like when I asked how I was supposed to believe you'd really come see me and I didn't realize you just left your family earlier than you were supposed to. I snapped. I know I did. And it hurt me too. But there's something about being constantly misunderstood that makes you speak from a tired place.

And sometimes I told you, "I don't like to use my brain when you're around."

Maybe that sounded like pressure to you. Maybe you misunderstood it as I don't like to use my brain at all.

But for me, it meant peace.

It meant I wished being around you felt safe enough that all the outside noise would disappear. That I could rest. That I didn't have to calculate, anticipate or solve. 

But tell me,

who has been making the big decisions for us?

When you ditched me because you said you didn't have the capacity to handle our problems, who stood up for us?

I did.

When your legs hit every glass table in my house because you were emotional, whose brain was thinking for you and finding solutions?

It was mine.

With a cup of chamomile tea on your table too, if you remember.

I remember one day, you were surprised when you saw me cooking broccoli in your kitchen. "Oh, someone knows how to cook," you said. But you never asked about these hands that baked you the best brownie you've ever had. You just enjoyed it. 

You assumed I didn't know how to clean properly because you thought I grew up spoiled. You were shocked the first time I replied your text with JavaScript code. "Which AI told you that?" you joked. And I remember smiling, but thinking quietly:

Do you even know what my job is? Have you really paid attention? Or was it just my body you decided to pursue from the first day?

You seemed fascinated by me.

But not curious. 

Then came the passport jokes. 

The first time, you smiled and said, "Maybe you took it."

I laughed, because that's what you do when something feels strange but you don't want to make it heavy.

The second time, you said, "If you took it, you can give it back now." I still didn't respond much.

The third time, you told me that even if I hid it somewhere in my house, you wouldn't know where I kept it. That I must have my own dark spot to store it.

I remember being surprised. 

Not angry.

Just surprised.

Is that really how you saw me?

And one night, when I was praying, you asked what I prayed for. I don't share my prayers. They're private. So that night, I just told you I prayed for you to find your passport.

You looked at me and said, "Why would you pray for that? Aren't you supposed to be happy if I lost it? If I find it, it means I'm leaving."

That was the moment something inside me went quiet.

You thought I would rather trap you than trust you to stay. And suddenly, my hesitation made sense. That wasn't indecisiveness. That was self-protection.

Because how do you confidently choose around someone who subtly paints you as manipulative? How do you freely want when someone suggest your wanting is dangerous?

Outside of you, I am not that girl.

I live on survival mode almost every day. I've lived for years without backups. I know how to stand steady in my hardest day. I know how to live in one of the hardest country to live in. Yours, to be precise. And still, I found happiness inside it.

I know how to feed myself, you don't even have any idea how many people I have to carry. 

I am not fragile just because I am soft. 

I am not incompetent just because I don't perform my strength out loud.

And most importantly, I know how to love.

Properly.

Deeply.

Genuinely.

I know how to give warmth without making someone feel small.

I know how to care without keeping score.

I know how to choose someone without trying to control.

And if one day you tell them you were only treating me like a friend, then I would quietly say, I am not the crazy one. Maybe I don't know your definition of friendship, maybe you can call me conservative. But I am grateful I am old-fashioned enough not to do the things we did with someone I consider just a friend.

People ask me if I regret loving you the way I did.

I don't.

In any life, I would still treat you with the same tenderness. 

Because that is who I am.

But if I ever seem indecisive again, it won't be because I don't know what I want. 

It will be because I know exactly what I want, and I have learned to pause when someone has already decided who I am,

without ever asking.

February 21, 2026

Emotions leak through the crevices made by the broken edges of the heart, lies that leak through perfectly glued excuses, what do you believe? What are the things you believe in anymore? Are you one of them? Do you believe things will get better or will they repeat the same pattern as before? Who will return to you when the week ends? Will you shut the door on their face? What does it mean to forgive anyway? Isn't it a bit redundant when it happens all the time? You get hurt and then you are the one that apologize to them?

What kind of trouble did your beliefs get you into this time around? Did you think what you wanted was really the truth? Or you just wanted to be truthful for once with someone?

What are these secrets that you would die to protect? What is this form of security around your heart and mind that keeps you from living your life as you want to? When I see you taking a step back, I want to take a step forward. The more you purse your lips, the more I want to pry them open. What is it that you think when you look at me looking at you like you're the only person in the room— the only person in the world?

Walk with me. Along this line of trees. Along this endless shore. Along the houses that might be ours sometime in the future.

What is your favorite color of the sky? How does it feel when you have nothing left in your life to protect so you turn that need to protect to other people no matter what the damage that does to you? What is this need to let others push you down from cliffs and from buildings just so you can feel the fall and feel alive just for a short while? You're not going to feel anything when you hit the ground, you're going to have to start over once again, with someone new, make a new set of beliefs, brainwash yourself with new memories, someone new to chase, someone new to protect.

What will happen when your illusions shatter? What will happen to your heart?

I feel like an outsider in your world no matter how much we talk.

I just don't want to feel like a stranger in your life anymore.

October 25, 2025.

Today, I found myself unexpectedly happy,

the kind that arrives quietly but settles in all the same.

I was sitting there, surrounded by paper bags and half-open boxes, receipts tucked somewhere between them, someone else’s wishlist still resting in my hand. And for a moment, I just looked at it all, realizing how strange it was that none of it belonged to me, and yet, it felt like it did.

I’ve always loved malls. The way they smell, a mix of polished floors, new fabric, and faint perfume in the air. The quiet hum of people moving from one store to another, the soft rustle of paper bags brushing against each other. There’s something about it that feels almost comforting. Familiar, in a way that doesn’t need explaining.

And then there’s that small, undeniable satisfaction, the pause before tapping your card, the subtle thrill when the payment goes through, the weight of a paper bag in your hand as you walk away, as if carrying proof of a moment you chose for yourself.

I used to think that was the best part. Buying something. Owning it. Bringing it home.

But somewhere along the way, something shifted. It started casually, almost accidentally, back in Malaysia. A message here, another there. “If you see this, can you grab it for me?” “Can you help me find that? I’ve been looking everywhere.” At first, it felt like a favor, something small, something easy. But then I found myself walking through stores differently. Not looking for what I wanted, but what someone else had been hoping for. Holding their wishlist instead of mine, searching shelves a little more carefully, picking things up and imagining their reaction before even reaching the cashier.

And somehow, it became even better. The same thrill of shopping was still there, the same quiet excitement, the same satisfaction of walking out with full hands. Except now, it wasn’t just about the things. It was about the people waiting for them. About being part of that small moment of happiness that would arrive later, somewhere else, in someone else’s hands.

And the irony of it all is that I forgot to buy anything for myself.

Somewhere between their lists and my own tired feet, my plans slipped quietly out of my mind. By the time I returned to the hotel, surrounded by all those bags, I realized not a single thing in there belonged to me, and yet, I felt full.

Because now, I still get the smell of the mall, the feeling of walking out with paper bags in both hands, the quiet thrill of a purchase going through. But this time, I’m not spending. I’m earning. And somehow, that makes it even sweeter.

Maybe happiness is like that sometimes. Not loud, not extravagant, just a quiet kind of satisfaction, found in the rhythm of something you didn’t expect to love, in carrying what isn’t yours and still feeling like it is. So now, whenever another message comes in, another list, another "can you find this?”, I don’t hesitate. 

I smile, and I think,

let’s fill another cart with happy!

March 3, 2025.

Hearing the song did not just let me remember things. It also made me realize how much I miss my mother. It has been 3 weeks since she left me, but I still have so many questions that I know I will never find the answers to. Some people probably have it figured out, but I still have not. Maybe because sometimes, it is easier to just throw stupid questions out in the air than face the answers right in front of us. 

How much of your character is taken away from you when your mother dies?

I am pretty sure that I am never going to be the same person as I was when my mother was still alive. I am not certain if it is a good thing or a bad thing. Honestly, I do not care. But I want to know how much of my whole thing did she take with her and how much is left with me now. I read once that us — the children — were inside our mother's tummies only for nine months, but their hearts forever. I think it is true because I felt it. But if she kept me in heart for so long, what happened when she died? When she left this lonely cruel world, did she take a part of me that she loved the most? And if yes, does that make her happy up there? Does being allowed to take something from the earth — from the people she loved — make dying worth it?

I also ask sometimes, how exactly can you move on and live a life with that gaping hole in your chest?

They say you cannot really get over a loss of a loved one — that you just get used to it. But do you, really? Do you really just get the hang of not ever talking to the person who witnessed how you achieved your greatest successes and made the most unforgivable mistakes but loved you all the same? Then why do I feel so terrible when something great happens, and I just realize that I can no longer call my mother to tell her about it? I can tell other people, yes. But no one can replace my mother. Her words of encouragement and pure adoration. The assurance that she is proud of me no matter what. The hugs and kisses translating that everything is going to be okay — that it only gets better. Even if it really does not.

How is it possible to finally accept that you are going to spend the rest of your life without her?

Growing up, my mother was no nonsense, and all about raising me to be exceptional woman. I was always expected to be above standard, even with whatever chaos that surrounded me at any given time. It was no secret that she loved me more than anything in this world and as I got older, my mother suddenly shifted to be a friend; someone I could call and she was always there. The loyalty was unmatched. She was my best friend.

A parent's death is never easy. But this one, was definitely hard to swallow. It doesn't get easier to process.

You won't feel like you can relate to anyone anymore. This may come across as a bit selfish, but after an unexpected death — especially both of your parents — you become a shell of yourself. And you start to subconsciously not want to deal with anyone. Unless they've been through it. No one understands how you feel, so you sort of file everyone in a category as just someone being kind during your current hardship. And in a weird, completely unselfish way, you do not want them to. You even start to think of ways that you can get "Thank you, I really appreciate it," stamped for automatic reply.

But the fact is, everyone feels sad for you and they all want to support you. But because the situation isn't exclusive to them as it is to you, you find yourself uncomfortable with the comfort and feeling alone. I remember chatting with Neeraj and telling him:

"The hardest part of this whole ordeal, is that you've been ripped apart, and you can't breathe, and your whole world is falling apart. And to everyone around you, it's just another day."

Particularly, I remember receiving group chat messages of the usual memes or videos we'd often share and looking on social media and seeing my entire feed being completely normal. And it's hard. Because to you, nothing is normal anymore.

On the day my mom died, the community came out of the woodwork. And I mean that in the most literal form. We had people come from all over the country, some asking how they can contribute to anything, food was coming from every corner of the city, and flowers and cards and messages and calls. You never know how much you are loved and valued until this moment. I even had friends I hadn't seen since high school to come to my mother's funeral service. All the love is incredible and it got me through for sure. I had friends and family who were there for me and checked on me everyday, no matter how much I didn't want to talk. But I also had friends and family that I would have been that supportive person for, that I never heard from — some even to this day. My mother had 11 brothers and sisters, 7 of them passed away, and the whole 4 came to her funeral. But no matter what, family drama will come to the surface that people cling to. Jobs will wonder when you're coming back because you just have to get those emails out. And companies will apologize for the death, but still want their money no matter what kind of situation you've just got into. Some people who claim to be your best friends might not be there to hug you in person because they're busy with their lives, some of them might also busy complaining and comparing your sadness to theirs — that will make you look very very selfish if you get upset. They'll text me sending long messages saying "You are not alone," or "I will hug you soon," at the end of paragraph but fuck it. Who cares? The fact is you are sitting on your bed, alone, and not a single soul is there with you because it is your life anyway. It is not theirs. And you'll be very grateful because you have someone who truly understands you, who's really putting your comfort above anything. By all means, you still want hugs, but his presence even if it's only through video calls every night until you fall asleep; it means so much to you.

Friends will become question marks, family will become strangers, and situations become accentuated. But in a time where you need all the support, you have to not let that disrupt your energy. You are not obligated to comfort anyone, no matter how strong you are. And you do not have to take on anything that doesn't help you heal. All you can do is focus on the people who supported you and loved you. Let any disappointment be background noise.

Yet, the support you receive will be a direct reflection of you and your parents.