It occurs to me that there would come a time that one would find themselves clueless of time and would be found lingering upon the letters that used to be written by the writer the one in which the love used to be alive in it's margins yet, by that day they would keep on searching for the writers hands yet, eternity would steal the hand of writer for eternity and they woilf find themselves clueless standing upon the Bureau desk, the one that in the wake of the author's death, the desk would be fallen into a dignified stillness, dust gathered in tender devotion upon it, covering the vacant wood like a final unspoken epilogue.

She would be gone yet her words would keep on reconnecting with the world. The room would feel unchanged at first, her desk, her papers, the faint trace of her presence linger. Yet, she is gone- no movement, no voice, no further future words.

What would be remained her letters that she wrote, in which her thoughts would still exist, the time that her body is absent lifeless and no movement, yet her words would continue to speak, they would be found lingering over her penned letters of her full of life.

That scene would carry two emotions at once: absence and presence, the room would be filled with the uncertain hopes and the scent of her would still linger longer than it should and she would be found no where.

Author: sarahwa87

Publisher: sarahwa87

Dear life

Allow me to write about you when the evening comes with a tenderness known only to old hours. dusk leans in gently against the windows, and the world beyond them seems content to hush itself

While a single candle kept vigil upon my desk, its flame low and unhurried, breathing softly as though it, too, were afraid to disturb the moment.

I wrote of you slowly, as one might speak a prayer, careful, reverent, unwilling to rush what the heart had taken so long to learn. Your beauty is not the kind that clamours for notice, but a quiet grace that reveals itself in the patient and greatness.

I wrote still, when the candles bent and sighed as I wrote, as though it understood you became more than a memory; you were warmth, constancy, and the promise of goodness made flesh. The evening passed, hushed and perfect, with only the flame, the page, and my devotion bearing will to the cherished moments written in light and shadow, meant not to be read aloud, but quietly kept.

Please allow me to bleed my heart out on thousands of papers without even hesitating about it. Without even giving a single thought about whether it would be delivered or not.

Dear Life,

If you could only know how many unsent letters written and poured my heart out onto those that will remain sealed for eternity. The one which I had bent over my paper as one might bend over a grave, yet with warmth, with memory. The one in which the ink of my pen moves slowly, reverently, as though it already knows it is destined for silence.

When I write to you in those letters that all of them wait in drawers and boxes like patient ghosts, forever unread. Time has made them faithful to me only alone. When the candles flicker, and with it my heart too, I write not to be answered, but to be remembered, not to send but to survive, and as the final line dries upon the page, I know this letter too will be like the others.

Author: sarahwa87

Publisher: sarahwa87

Dear Life

How could I possibly express how much I have to spread ink that you would hear me out or begin to believe that I loved you and endured all the struggles that have made me go through so far?

How could I possibly think of something else when you have come into my life and made it worth breathing each day that passes? How to make you come to realise that sometimes you do not seem pleasing to me, when I would think of leaving you behind and never think of you as the same again.

It occurs to my mind how I could express the situations when the lamp flickers as I write about you, though the air is still there. When shadows lean long across the walls, restless things that move when I do not.

How come I express the perfect evening when the silence feels heavy, pressing into my ears, even the scratch of my pen sounds too loud?

How could I make you believe how much the evenings are cherished when you are there with me for eternity, the evenings when the book rests on the shelf across the room. Closed, yet never truly silent, its cover seems darker than the shadows around it, as if it swallows the light rather than reflects it.

It occurs to me how I could explain to you how frightened I am, not because those evenings will last in my mind for eternity. When the evenings would have grown heavy by the time we parted, as though the sky itself were stitched together with grief and old shadow, where I would realise that love could haunt a place long after footsteps were gone.

How to make you feel that those evenings would be a haunted and nostalgic one when I would simply watch the darkness close around you, as one might watch a candle extinguish in a forgotten chapel, slow and reverent.

It occurs that I could express to you that the separation is not always a departure of the bodies, but a quite unthreading of souls, left to wander different halls of the same sorrowful house.

How to make you feel why I keep writing about it, except that not writing feels worse, it waits for me, patient, certain. I fear that opening it, I will not be able to close it again. But the darker fear--- the one I can not name aloud--- is the one evening when I will not have a choice.

Author: sarahwa87

Publisher: sarahwa87

There are times that I'm convinced that I will be longing for time to be patient with me so that I could get to experience the joyful moments with the loved ones in which the time dares to linger a bit more and let me finish that one last page in that snowy soft night in which i would be finding myself sitting by the window, watching the snow flakes falling into the night, it would occur to me that by each snowflakes falling felt like forgotten memories drifting back to me.

It would occur to me that, the world would seem to pause in quiet thought and time would choose when our paths would cross again.

I would be found sitting all by myself, as the night settles into its perfect cruelty. It occurs to me that those lifeless pages would carry the weight of grief and silent nostalgia, as if yearning itself chose to linger upon the window and the darkening shadows of tall, imagined trees upon the desk where I might almost write of unforgiven times—words lingering the way one lingers, hoping to feel free.

It occurs to me that i will never stand in this same moment again, as if the thought is quiet that, this moment will never return. I will never be the same as the snow drifts softly and though I know it must be wrong, I can no longer tell where right begins.

Author: sarahwa87

Publisher: sarahwa87

You will be looking to the people and yearning for me in each soul that you would encounter yet, my existence will never return as if I'm all vanished through the dark tall figurative tress into the dark shadowed forest in a ghotic evening that never returned.

You will find places all empty in search of something that will return my existence into your life yet, those places will let you down since you will be calling upon me by my name and will be found yearning for android answer, you will find nothing but a silent shadow of your standing by those roads and never finding the reason for yearning.

You will be found watching the moonlit light at night very empty and that you will start wondering how to return to those soft evenings.

Author: sarahwa87

Publisher: sarahwa87

There is always a feeling that can never let alone my side that has always been reminding me that the world is a chaotic one in which there is no one to provide you their true time and attention so that you can really feel loved and heard in which there would always make me recall the times of pain and agony that made me go through them and yearning for the own days to be kind and tender. This only makes me feel that people’s heart reshapes themselves with time and sorrow the times in which their feelings shift over time and let grief settle upon me like an endless night as if they let me down in the sea of torment.

Author: sarahwa87

Publisher: sarahwa87

It occurs to me that there is one soft evening in which she is sat by a window where the light came to die, it is when the evening had folded itself gently over the day, like a worn shawl draped across the tired shoulders, where the ticking of the clock felt louder than usual, each second echoing like a quite accusation in which she is found writing of the times in which she has felt the most miserable and unfortunate in times that she has been over the times in which the hope was not something she was searching for in which she wondered that not for the first time that, when exactly the world had began to feel distant from it in which she wandered endlessly but found no rest.

Outside the evening depended on the night.

Yet inside her home there were a fragile hope that kept her dreaming of the things she has ever wanted and would do anything possible to get it so that her dreams are not just a dream anymore.

She is found yearning and writing of those soft evenings in which the candlelight flickering leaving a tall figurative shadows upon the desk as if by which she has almost her entire life bleeding her heart to those lifeless peices of papers which is remained sealed for the eternity and though she writes about the life being pleasent to her eyes in which she feels that each page that she writes holds the possessed gentleness to cradle her sorrows without question.

She is often sounding mlore pleasing to the ears of those who really shows solicitude towards her dreams and ambitions in which she is feeling the warmth of the togetherness. She sounds more like a soft melody in which she is speaking of the goodness of the life and the times in which she has been told that she is enough and has been glared at with the eyes of affection and soft concern in which her beauty was not all that mattered only yet, her true self was.

Author: sarahwa87

Publisher: sarahwa87

One day by today you will be found pleased with the way of viewing life and it's beauty, that way only you would realise those sleepless nights all those struggles gone through was worth it and your finally made it to the place that you longed for almost for eternity.

One day by today you will be sitting and wishing for the things that you already lost in life the time you didn't get to spend with the loved ones or the sapertation of the one which kept haunting you as a nightmare or it could be the home in which you would be found seeking for peace of mind and present life.

One day by today you will not have to feel the agony and suffocation it would almost be making you feel miserable and you would be finding yourself suffering as it would linger upon your life like a haunting shadow at the darkest of the nights for eternity…

One day by today evenings would seem more pleasant to the eyes of one in which they would never want to succumb to the exhaustion of the days and would be willing to live the evening to the fullest and get to write more of the time being forgiving to them and less of it being unkind and having the signs of pain and anguish.

Author: Sarahwa87

Publisher: sarahwa87

Sarah's Publication

It occurs to me that it's them only who keeps carrying the energy whether is is positive or complete the opposite. It's you who can have access to those emotions or to controlling them to never get to experience them again.

It occurs to me that life is but a dream in which one is always found yearning for the things they lack in their lives, now it could be anything, the happiness that that have lost long ago or the sapertation of the loved ones by which their memories still lingers as the weight of cold evening falls into.

Or it could be the dreams the unrealistic wishes and the uncertain hopes that keeps one fall into uncertainty or misery yet, those wishes are indeed beautiful in its surroundings by the sudden rages of a Fading dream, in which her silence would leave a quite melancholy in the room, and she walks away carrying the rains of hope.

It occurs to me that once someone experiences the nostalgia and the moments in which they have felt the most and will tend to stay in th same situation that, they have been it almost turns into a cold and shivering evening in which they would find themselves clueless of the time that passes through as though it never lingers upon the velvet nightfall in which one finds themselves hoping against the dark as if it all resembles of a quite whish holding onto faith.

Author: Sarahwa87

Publisher: sarahwa87

It occurs to me that by choosing to stay in the situation that allows the darkness to surround your life is the worst type of vision’s one must always learn to grow and move on instead of trying to stay still in the situation that brings them misfortune or misery.

It occurs to me that there the time will come that you will be found sitting in the place that you have never ever think of sitting or reaching to the situations that you have never thought of reaching then only you will realise that life takes shape whether we want it or not if we try to find the reasons based on that fact, we will learn that life never lingers whether it is for your miseries, your downfalls, your times of joys or the darkness that has lingered upon your life.

Life is beautiful and so the time granted to us. The way one is viewing the life is the way they either get to be welcomed with happiness or be haunted by the miseries that falls under.

It occurs to me that one day by today you will be found sitting in your vintage antique sofa when the springs murmured faintly, as though recounting stories only furniture.

When the afternoon light would be thin and ungenerous, slipping through tired curtains like a reluctant visitor, when you would get to understand that time was and is unkind in the way old letters, fade—not all at once, but word by word, in the way footsteps disappear from a once—trodden path.

Inside, she is found trying to preserve something from erasure when she is found filling the pages gradually, lines leaning into one another like old companions sentencces carrying like a weight of evenings just like the evenings— where the world is muted, and the only sound that truly matters is the quite insistance of thought becoming form.

Light filtered through lace curtains, thin and intricate as frost, in which it would scatter across the wooden floor in delicate patterns, in which the air would carry the faint scent of old books and polished woods.

It would be like a complete way of living the life or to be call it living the moment, when outside, snow would continue its quite descent sharp edges from the world, softening fences, blurring footprints, forgiving everything.

Author: sarahwa87

Publisher :sarahwa87

She will be gone but her writings the one in which she had written of the loves ones of those by which she felt disappointed and of them being unkind towards her, the one's in which she has mentioned of the life treating her as if she would succumb to the unforgivable situations and it's worst possible ways to make her kneel to and succumb to it's cruel endings and the world forgetting her name for eternity yet those will remain sealed for eternity.

Author: sarahwa87

Publisher: sarahwa87

It occurs to me that life is but a dream in which each morning one's soul is detached from the beautiful dream that one could desire to live for eternity yet, by passing of each day it starts to sigh even more silently and refuses to linger still for daydreamed longings the one in which one is longing for a craving eternity's breath the one that contains of hopes for the clock forgetting her name the one in which she is asking time to linger so that she could grasp the infinite tomorrows where the love is awaiting for her and refuses to fade away from her and linger for eternity, the one in which she would he found sitting still under the shadows of the tall figuring trees that it's roots resembles of remembrance and it's shade abiding upon her days as an ever-- watchful bowers more like a presence that outlasts seasons.

She writes of the beauty of the existence the beauty of the year, the heartbeats and of the days and nights in which she mentions about the unpardoned people the ones by which she has been haunted for eternity the ones in which their names has been put as untouched by pardon by which her heart has been torn by peices that would take an eternity to be etched.

It occurs to me that she has been exhausted of time being unforgiven-- towards her and the life being unfair with her softness and innocence to this cruel world.

Author: sarahwa87

Publisher: sarahwa87

I who do not simply long would long for the days that in my longings, I imagine you carrying a single flower, the one I adore, held gently as a vow, its fragrance already lives in the room around me, though it has not been born into my sight.

In my longings i would imagine how one could linger upon the chair and keep writing of the cherished moments for eternity rather than letting go of those precious moments with the cherished people.

I, who do not cherish, would cherish the beauty that you carry and the ways you would make me feel. Your beauty is something that can not fade away with time, as time changes i speak of your beauty as one speaks of things untouched by years, for time itself seems to forget its duty in your presence. The hours pass you gently, as if afraid to leave a mark, and the season bows without daring to change you.

You seem pleasant to me when you allow me to cherish all the moments of togetherness without letting me linger upon the empty darkness surrounding me, whilst in my worst.

Dark is the night in which you would be found sitting time—worn chair, whilst candle lights flickering silently throughout the whole night as if they too know that their disturbance could dim their light for eternity.

I sometimes wonder how time is unkind to us, whilst I find myself writing about your beauty, whilst the fatigue is creeping in with the moon and candles flickering a tall shadow upon my desk, in which its bureau surface feels like it has been written for almost a decade, yet those will remain sealed as if the life itself vowed to let all the memories in it linger like a darkening shadow upon my life. The one in which it is written of the time being unkind and the life being unfair towards the desires folded into the heart. The times in which it succumbs us to the darkness, which felt like ill—fated shadows.

I sometimes wonder how in the hush of an old evening, when the walls seem to listen, I take up my pen with a tenderness learned from sorrow. Of how the paper before me is yellowed, soft with age, as though it has already lived a lifetime. Of how I write not in haste, but in ritual, aware that every letter I shape is a vow made to absence.

Author: sarahwa87

Publisher: sarahwa87

To love is to suffer, yet if one wants to never suffer, one must not. One must give only when they receive the same in return, which is not being called selfish, but rather being called appreciative and valuing oneself.

It occurs to me that as long as one belongs to this world, hope must be alive in one’s heart. To me i feel it, that life is beautiful in our eyes when it blesses us with love and care, which are one’s basic needs to survive in the world.

People often refuse to see the real beauty of life, how amazing it can be when they start to notice the ways that they can get themselves and their loved ones’ lives a better one, the one in which each breath feels a blessing itself.

It occurs to me that life is unfair, with such unpleasant moments in which one would often succumb to its darkness rather than putting effort in getting out of that situation or the darkness surrounded by the whispers which coming from the origin of the sleepless and demotivated nights all along.

Life could be beautiful or could be cruel beyond the sight of our imagination. It all depends on the way you shape it. What I mean by this is that we view our lives completely differently from other people, which means there will always be the thinking of other people’s way of living life and the way they carry themselves, rather than being concentrated to ones own life.

I am writing of life as one writes of a passing season— aware that even the words take shape, the moment is already slipping away. Each sentence bears the weight of time; each pause is a reminder that our days are a brief guest, lingering long only before they vanish into the silence for eternity.

Life can be shaped the way one wants it. Or it could be just the same way as it carries itself to the eyes of the person who lives it. Without even thinking of shifting shape with that, it will proceed with the same old, or it could sound pleasing to the eyes, as it might let one experience goodness and love.

Author: Sarah wahedi

Publisher: Sarah wahedi.

Sarah publications

It occurs to my mind that there is something that will keep visualising my future ahead of me and I see it vividly in which I would remain in peace with myself for eternity which can also mean that would get rid of the toxic energy all which surrounds us most often for eternity.

It occurs to me that, there will come a time that, you will be the one holding the bag all by yourself all the lonely nights walk.

It occurs to me that one night by tonight you will be found sitting in the worn embrace of a vintage chair, facing a time- scarred desk that carried the quite weight of years. A cup of coffee steamed gently besides you, it's warmth rising like a whispered comfort. Candle flames flickering nearby, stretching their shadows tall and wavering across the walls, as if the room itself were breathing in that fragile- light, you would write- your pen tracing the contours of life, it's sorrows and it's quite enduring beauty.

It occurs to me that life is not fair. Life , in it's peculiar and unfeeling wisdom, has never pretended toward fairness. It bestows it's joys sparingly, as though they were borrowed luxuries, only to reclaim. Life has never been fair, i have learnt it gives with one hand and takes with the other, never asking which loss linger longer. I often revisit moments that once felt endless to me, a laughter that decided to fade too soon, made promises were never kept. The time that has always played unfairly as it was belonging to the other world faithful to the dead.

I sit with all those recollections, as I always sit by myself with the letters written but never been distanced to reach to the world yet, only found to be kept somewhere far across the sight, all away from the world , as if they have been faithful strong to me.

Author: Sarah Wahedi

Publisher: Sarah Wahedi.

Sarah’s publication

You would want me to stay rather than vanishing through the shadows when I could hold that power to perform that, so.. yet you do not attempt to bring changes into becoming the one I once used to cherish rather than trying to learn how to depart from them, yet the way one uses the things they had longed for.

I would look for you in the moments of silence, the moments in which the silence will linger upon the walls of the room, and I would find myself clueless about the time in which the candle’s flickering leaves a tall figurative shadow upon my bureau desk, the one that is named a heavy-bodied witness to time, its drawers swallowing years, its surface bearing the weight of remembrance. I would look for you to sound pleasing to me again, so that I would find myself engaged in writing again about you and the ways that you would recollect the moments of joy.

Please allow me this much so that I would find myself deeply involved in you and let me be devoured by you, devoted to the time of writing about you and the beauty that you carry all with you, rather than bleeding my heart into papers in which I could be pretty much certain about the fact that it would never really be delivered to you and would remain sealed for eternity.

Please allow me this much to write of you and the warmth you carry to my cold nights. Please allow me in the ways that I could never get the feeling of those that you would never reach to you and would not be read by you, which frightens me the most, that it would remain, you see, you are taking my breath away every time you walk past me, not being watchful enough of my feelings for you.

Please allow me to write to you the moments in which you have been loving towards me, and do not lay your hand upon my resolve to write about the times that you did not seem pleasing to my eyes, the times in which you let me all by myself in the shadows, where the hurt and nostalgia lingered longer than I ever expected in which the nostalgia stayed by my side more than the moments of joy and content.

Please allow me to bind myself to someone as beautiful as you, who has always acted amazingly towards me and never let me seek validation from others. Whilst you are with me, allow me to speak of your gentleness and grace, which you carry beautifully, rather than speaking of evil towards me.

Would you allow me to hold you tightly in my arms and never let you go, so that even your shadow might linger upon my life for eternity, should you ever, by chance, walk away from me

I would set the world on fire, yet not let a single flame touch you if ever you felt starved of affection. I would steal the stars down from the vivid night sky and let the moon shine alone. I would rather stay in the moment of loneliness rather than letting you suffer with me, for I, in any good conscience, can not let you bind yourself to someone as shattered as a i am.

I would look for you in times when I am surrounded by people in the press of the evening crowd, in which I would finally learn that loneliness can exist among thousands. I would pass by the crowd as though in a dream, seeking you in every shadow that turned away.

Author: Sarah Wahedi.

Publisher: Sarah Wahedi.

You do not seem calming to my mind when you make me anxious and stress me out; you do not make me feel pleased by surrounding me with the dark and Gothic atmosphere, rather than blessing me with the happiness and joy that I deserve in reality.

You seem to sound disgusting to me when I keep longing for the times that my wishes would come true, and I would suffer in anguish and hurt.

It seems that you vowed to show mercy on me, which means you would sound pleasing to me, would be the time when I would wish and long for the things, and you would bless me with them rather than letting me suffer all by myself in the lost era, and letting the spark of life back into mine.

How to make you understand you do not seem pleasing to my eyes when you make me long for the things that I have been wishing for almost eternity i suppose. The situations in which you do not seem beautiful to me are when you make me feel all left by myself at my lowest.

You do not seem pleasant to me when you make me walk the paths that I had pushed myself to never pass by again, and have regret in my heart that would forever sting me as a scary snake that would make me short of breath and succumb to the anguish.

The ways that you would make me feel at my worst and the feeling of hurt and nostalgia, will last for eternity in me. You do not seem joyful to me, the times when you let me succumb in the saddest moments of my life, yet you are watchful of it only.

You do not seem pleasing to my eyes in times when I see the loved ones struggling in their lives, and you tie my hands tightly the way a prisoner’s hands are tied, as if she is about to run away at any possible time, and can never get to see the happiness that she deserves after she has been imprisoned.

The times in which you do not seem cheerful to me are when I do not get the chance to bleed my heart out for the ones I have ever wanted to, and yet, they have never reached out to them and remained sealed for eternity. Those unspeakable things and those of the ones in which i had sobbed with the blurry eyes and the candles flickering a dim light on my desk while i wrote them as if they could know that they are going to rest beside the other sealed letters in the drawer next to my desk and never be getting the chance to be opened or be delivered to the one which the ink of the pen has been finished of.

The moments in which you make me all shudder to myself are the moments in which you always make me feel desperate for affection, so that I would regret letting go of the past and the people in it, too.

There is always a thought that keeps lingering with me: Why not me? I can have my wishes come true, can have the things I want in this life to be with me, why not me? The things that I adore are not fading away from me, so why not want the things that others can easily access?

The thought in which i bend close to my desk, and the dim flame of the candles leaving tall figuring shadows on the paper that lingers for me to write on it slowly and reverently as if the paper itself knows that the night is going to be a perfect one where i would be finding myself writing about the beauty that you carry not for the moments of hurt and nostalgia that you have put me through by many times.

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Author: Wahedi SArah

2026

The reason behind my pauses.

Publisher: SArah.22

The life in which people see her as a melody, not just a mere ornament on a shelf. To be cherished, not just admired from afar.

The life where she is looked at like a rose, not just a pretty bloom to be plucked and discarded, but a lovely, fragrant, velvet-pealed flower to be savoured, and gently held.

The longing for a life where one can stay content without having to think about what others will think of them.

The longing for a life where one could vanish from the life of those who are ruining their mental health and never return to them. And when the air would carry the scent of beautiful and mesmerising life, when the people in your life would appreciate you and the way you put effort into it for a better future for yourself as well as them.

How beautiful is the life in which you never have to stay away from the loved ones and the way of being unaware of their way of living.

How beautiful the life in which you would vanish from people’s lives and never return, while you have been in your downfall, and all they would care less about the way that would affect you.

How beautiful the moment in which you have left behind all those memories that once used to disturb and haunt one like a faithful ghost sitting under one’s window, in which all the sorrows that once used to make their life miserable have faded away, and they made it.

How amazing it would be that one evening, in which the candles’ golden glow danced upon the walls, a mesmerising wall, whilst the coffee, a rich, bold elixir, coursed through the veins, infusing the heart with warmth.

How amazing that evening would be, in which she would be writing of love, of loss of hope, and the beauty that binds the fragments of our lives together. The candle’s flame, a beacon in the dark, illuminated the path, guiding her through the labyrinth of her own heart.

Life, when the cold winter morning one wakes up, and when the winter’s dawn breaks, a chilly whisper, as one sits entwined in the warmth of their sanctum, cradling a steaming cup of coffee and the candle’s gentle flame, a beacon in the forsythia air.

Life is when the moment one notices the way of life and how it has been kind towards them by letting go of some people in their life so that they can succeed, and when the air carries the scent of life back and its spark again.

How joyful is the moment when one has accomplished the things they have longed for eternity and endured all the hurt and nostalgia?

How beautiful that one soft evening, as they already feared to know, and when they knew that the words itself preparing to forget the writer’s name, when they would sit among the letters-- while the candles shiver, sensing that it would remember the writer than her pulse would, and when the heart fell silent the room would not weep, instead it would listen. And those who once knew the writer would wait beyond the reach of time, yearning to write to them again, though eternity would steal the hand of the writer. They would be found lingering over the letters of the writer as if she would answer, as if the devotion alone would bring her return to the world. She is gone, yet her words would endure-- faithful beyond the dead-- and the evening is perfect in its cruelty.

When she is decay- she is absent-- but her letters still breathe, they would keep the love alive in its margins- whispering promises she would no longer fulfil. And that evening would remain her final romance, the moment when she died, and the devotion would refuse to follow her in the dark.

What I mean by beautiful is that it is lovely, like the snow that most people admire when they have fun while playing in the snow with each other, it is lovely as the moments of joy and happiness shared by the loved ones with us and through us to those who do not get them often.

It occurs to me that we often struggle to figure out what could be a possible reason behind feeling in a certain way and how to communicate them to others, while feeling that way.

To feel alone is to feel all by yourself and not be able to focus on one thing, rather than feeling all the joy and happiness which never meant to be experienced by you, in fact we often fail to recognise our own inner voice and to see what it whispers to us and how to communicate our feelings to the loved ones rather than going silent and hurting in silence.

It occurs to me that to feel a lot is to feel everything that other people often neglect to feel and have empathy towards those who they really were there for them, rather than neglecting them while they were at their downfall. People will only show love when they receive, yet there are also people who give love without even asking in return.

Oh! To feel alone is to feel far away from those who you used to share memories to feel that way is to feel being all left out to feel lonely is to recall the dead freezing evenings that you used to share memories while having gatherings with the loved ones whom you used to, to feel lonely is to not having anyone anymore to share the cup of coffee and the nice evening chats with them.

There is the light that never goes out, and people always wait for it to go out, yet that light is the spark you carry with you. Do not let anyone get it to go down for you; that is, you who do not let it, and those who want it are the ones who are always in search of their sparks themselves.

To feel all by yourself is to always feel unsure of the decisions made by you, or to feel the need for the people who could support you in some part of your life, rather than facing all the struggles by yourself. And enduring all the pain without even having a shoulder to cry on.

To have someone by your side is like to have the source of support that can happily lead you to the situations where you always imagine yourself and the source of happiness just by them being by your side is to feel heard and seen even though you would not mention anything with them but they could read you from the eyes and would do anything to make you feel loved and cared for.

Author: Sarah Wahedi

2026

If you could only know how much I have to die just to live a little with you!

When I linger upon the shadows and the candles flicker, so that I could get to write about you!

If you could know how far I can go just for the love that you deserve and are worthy of being provided to you. You may see the real beauty of life and learn to appreciate yourself the way I do.

Dear you!

If only you could see nights, I marvel at your beauty, and long for the mornings that would take me to see you in the eyes.

If you could only know how many pens I must have finished just to write those letters which would remain sealed for eternity to you, and which would never get to be delivered to you, where the life would no longer linger for the nights which would take me to come to realise that you are too perfectionist and whatever I would write about you, would be finding myself unequal to the task of describing you, for each attempt reveals more of my insufficiency than of your excellence whatever i write of you is but, an echo, never the voice itself.

The moment you walked away from me, you left a hollow space in my heart that could not be filled with anything but your warmth and love. How could you realise how many sleepless nights I must have experienced just to write a little about you, that little in which I would mention your beauty, your presence, and your effortlessly mesmerising eyes.

If only you could notice your face from my eyes, you would realise how beautifully it is shaped, how endlessly shaped with a marvellous spark that chooses to stay forever in my eyes.

The moment of amazing presence of yours in which it has taken the place of the times you had walked away from me.

If you could only see the nights when I would often pass by the street where we got caught in the rain- still one of my favourite nights. The lamplight that would flicker for the very last time before I could fully finish writing about your presence with me each night.

The evening in which they would call upon me and would often mention that those letters would remain sealed for eternity, and would never get to be unsealed by the one whom it is written for in the freezing evenings of the winter season, whilst teary and blurry eyes could not take it too further, so that it could be written more about you.

If you only could know the craving for the rainy nights that would take us into deep thinking, and when each drop of rain would fall for us the way we fell for each other’s love.

If only you could see how many unfinished letters must have been written for you, perhaps you would understand how much I have longed for you, I who do not long without longing.

If only you could hear my heart out perhaps then you would understand how fast it aches for you, then you would undoubtedly understand why each time that you would walk away from me, would carry the every last breath of me while leaving me surrender myself to the dark nights, when there would be no presence of light, when i would feel the separation that the darkness has come to lie with me.

Dear you!

If you could know how much death scares me, not because that parts me from this world. Still, it would part me from you, beloved. Perhaps then only you would understand how much love I carry within myself, for I am frightened that you might get fed up with me, and your heart would not ache for me, and someday would decide to fade away from me.

If you only could see the nights, I would long for the mornings in which I could get to see your beautiful face, those mesmerising eyes of the beloved, and the warmth of your presence, perhaps then only you would realise why i linger upon the shadows of the night and the last flickers of the lamplight in which after that the darkness would surround me and the whole room would look like a haunted vow in which it has been done only to punish me rather than wrapping me into the closeness of your presence and the warmth of your body.

If you only know how many nights I have passed by enduring all the hurt and nostalgia that you made me endure, perhaps then only you would never walk away from me and would never choose to let go of us, and you would come to realise that the moments you have put yourself into the darkness and endured all the hurt and nostalgia for me that same moment i would go through too.

If only you would see each time my heart skips a fast beat while my fingertips start to shake, and I would pause, when your name is mentioned, as if my body is reactive to your name, as if it longs for you for eternity, perhaps then only you would realise how scared I am if death parts us.

If you could only see how falling apart makes me feel, each time thinking about them sends shivers down my spine, and how frightened I am by knowing that someday this heart that longs and aches for you would slowly decide to stop aching.

Author: Wahedisarah

2026