It’s 8:49 pm in Gulistan-e-Johar. I’ve just finished iftar and prayed namaz, and a heavy thought lingers: what if this is the last time? Tomorrow is the 22nd day of Ramadan, and my mind keeps spinning, what if something happens to us? A crash, a gas leak, my mom forgetting to turn off the stove. The fear feels so real I can barely breathe.
It’s okay to feel this. The quiet after iftar, the exhaustion, the holiness of Ramadan, it all makes thoughts louder. I’m scared of losing them, of something small unraveling everything. I keep noticing ordinary things—the stove knob, the front door, my family’s voices and wondering how I’d survive without them. I don’t want reassurance right now; I just want to name it: gratitude tangled with terror, love that hurts because it could end.
Dear diary,
Tonight the fear came like a wave after prayer. I’m writing it down so it doesn’t choke me. We made it to day 21. I want us to make it to Eid. I want ordinary tomorrow—the stove, the traffic, my mom’s reminders, all of it again and again, as many times as we’re given.