Babibubebob

You keep saying that I forget you easily. I don’t know why that hurts so much, but it does, because if forgetting you were easy, I would have done it already. I would have saved myself the effort, the waiting, the quiet disappointment. But I didn’t forget you. I stayed through the good mornings I sent every day, even when you replied late or not at all, through the selfies I asked for because seeing your face reminded me that you were real and not just something I made up in my head. I stayed through the nights too. I waited for you to finish your day just to hear your voice for a moment, even when I was already tired, even when my body wanted rest. I stayed awake longer than I should have, watching you fall asleep on the other side of the screen, pretending that this closeness was enough, telling myself that love sometimes looks like patience and silence. None of that was easy for me. I am not someone who likes to suffer. I used to sleep on time. I used to take care of myself. But som...

I have come to realize something about myself: I am always the one who waits. In love, I wait. In friendships, I wait. Even within my own family, I wait. I wait for messages. I wait to be remembered. I wait for someone to choose me. And slowly, the questions begin to surface, quiet at first, then louder. Am I not important enough? Am I that easy to ignore? What hurts the most is not the waiting itself, but what it does to my sense of worth. I start to wonder if my presence is disposable. If I am too available, too understanding, too patient, so much so that my absence would barely be noticed. Am I cheap? Am I replaceable? Am I only valuable when I am convenient? These questions do not come from jealousy or drama. They come from exhaustion. From constantly giving space, offering understanding, and choosing silence over confrontation only to realize that no one seems to notice when I am the one stepping back. Waiting does not mean weakness. Often, those who wait are the ones who care dee...

I remember the first time I realized how strange this feeling was. I am a Muslim, and somehow, I like pigs. Not in the way people might misunderstand. Not for food, not for rebellion but in the way one feels curious about a creature that is constantly misunderstood. A creature that never asked to be what it is, yet carries the weight of human judgment everywhere it goes. Pigs did not choose their bodies. They did not choose their names. They did not choose to be forbidden. They were born, breathed their first breath, and lived because God allowed them to exist. Growing up, I heard people speak of pigs with disgust. Not just caution, but contempt. As if avoiding pigs made us cleaner, and hating them made us better. Sometimes it felt as though the pig was not only haram but humiliated. One day, that made me stop and think. Did God really create a living being only to be despised? We believe that God forms every creature with purpose. That nothing is random, nothing is flawed, nothing is ...