I am loved

Out of all the blogs I've written, I feel like this one is going to be different. Unlike the others that were written at my study table or while I was lying dramatically on my bed staring at the ceiling, this one is being written in a cafe. I'm sitting here with my favorite coffee, typing away, writing the blog I probably should have written a long time ago. If someone had told me even two months ago that I would walk into a cafe alone, order for myself, sit confidently, and write an entire blog, I would have laughed. Or said "maybe"  and never actually done it. But here I am. And the fact that I am sitting here, unbothered, with words flowing so naturally, feels a little surreal. Maybe growth doesn't always look loud. Maybe sometimes it looks like a girl in a corner seat, sipping coffee and finally choosing herself. 

Because today, I'm not writing about heartbreak or confusion or lessons learned the hard way. Today, I'm writing about something I'm finally allowing myself to believe. That I'm loved. Not in a fairy-tale way. Not in a constant reassurance way. But in the quiet ways. In the way people check on me. In the way my name is remembered. In the way I carry warmth inside me, even when I pretend I don’t. 

I always knew there are two ways of looking at something. At least that's what I told everyone else. I had all the advice ready, neatly packed, whenever my friends needed it. I could flip perspectives like it was nothing. But when it came to me? I said, bye, I’m good. No alternative view required.
For myself, there was always just one version of the story. The worst one. The loudest one. The one that confirmed every insecurity I already believed. I never even considered that maybe there was another way to look at it. Maybe I deserved the same.

For the longest time, I thought love was something loud. Obvious. Impossible to miss. So if I couldn't see it clearly, I didn't even allow evidence to be presented. Turns out, I was just looking for it in the wrong places.
AND THEN I STARTED NOTICING THINGS.

Every time I have morning classes, I need tea. Not want. Need. Otherwise, my brain simply refuses to cooperate. And there's only one stall in front of campus that opens that early, so naturally, that mama has seen me at my most sleep-deprived and least functional.

During semester break, I didn't go for weeks. No classes, no 8 a.m. survival tea.
A few days ago, I had a morning class again. I was walking toward the stall, still half asleep, and from a distance I saw him look up and notice me. Before I even reached there, he had already started making my tea. Extra sugar. The way I like it. He remembered.

When I got there, he handed me the cup and said, "I haven't seen you in a very long time, mama." 
And I don't know why, but something shifted inside me.
It wasn't dramatic. No violins. No life lesson background music. But in that small, ordinary moment, I realized something very quietly.

My absence was noticed.
My preference was remembered. In the simplest way possible, I mattered enough for someone to remember how sweet I take my tea.

Maybe love is just extra sugar without having to ask. And there I was, emotionally unstable over a plastic cup of tea before class even started. 

I started noticing tiny things differently. Like how people actually remember stuff about me, even when I’m too busy thinking no one does. It hits quietly, but somehow it makes your chest feel warm and slightly panicky at the same time. 

And apparently, I have friends who notice the tiny stuff. Which is terrifying and magical all at once. Honestly, I don't deserve this, but I'll take it. 

I met one of my school friends for the first time in six years. And he showed up with colored pens. Just because he noticed I'd started doodling random quotes again.

And of course, he also bought me a sunflower, because he knew how much I love them, like, really love them. So much that I even kept "Himawari" as one of my other identities.

Another friend guessed what would make me happy and showed up with markers, color pencils, and chocolates.

Two of my closest friends wrote me letters. They didn’t ask if I wanted them. They just… did it. Because they know me. Because they remember things I never even told them out loud.

And when I vanish from social media for days? They check on me. Quietly. Consistently. And I don't know why, but somehow that feels like love I never expected.

And how can I even forget the love that waits for me at home? Dogs running up like I'd been gone forever, cats pretending they don't care, but clearly bothered when I'm not in my room.

And then, out of absolutely nowhere, the last picnic of university life happened a week ago, and somehow it hit me like a sugar rush mixed with a sunburn and way too many inside jokes all at once. Friends noticing when I went quiet without asking why, it all made me feel ridiculously loved. It fixed something I didn’t even know how to fix for months, and somehow, that was enough.

All of this love, the small, messy, quiet kind, has brought me here today. So, naturally, I bought pretty flowers for myself on this little Falgun/Valentine's Day celebration. Because why not?

And yes, I might be slightly broke and overthinking everything, but apparently I'm loved anyway, and that’s enough to feel like a full heart today. 

Like the moon that chases me everywhere I go, I want to chase all the tiny hopes. I hope I never stop looking at life like this, noticing the small magic tucked into ordinary days.
And maybe, just maybe, that's enough to call today… a good day.

Dear Twenty 25

2025

A whole year passed, and I still do not understand how a year can hold this much when my brain clearly has very limited storage. Honestly, how is that even fair? As the year ends, I am choosing to focus on the good things, which I can count on one or two fingers, max. But I am a positive sunshine person, so we move forward anyway.

Somewhere along the way, I started noticing smaller things. How quiet mornings feel like they are speaking softly. How some days do not need fixing. How it is okay to sit with a feeling instead of running away from it like it is going to chase me. Some things ended this year. Some things started. Some things quietly changed shape. Not everything asked for closure. Life rearranged itself while I was busy just trying to get through the day.

Did I figure life out? No. Did I suddenly become wise? Also no. I am still confused most days. But I did learn how to pause. And I think that counts as growth. At least a little.

Before the year even started, I got influenced by all those vision board reels. I did not have an actual board at home, so I unwrapped one of my favorite notebooks instead. It genuinely felt like betrayal, but dreams require sacrifice, apparently.

I made a vision diary. I knew myself well enough, so I did not write any unrealistic goals. Now I do not remember half of what I wrote, and I am way too lazy to get up and find the diary. But I do remember a few things. Saving money to buy things I like. Reopening my work. Doing the things I love. And the fact that some of these things actually happened, even a little bit, still feels magical to me. Like the universe was listening. Or at least half listening.

I also did something that was not on my vision board at all. I started feeding as many cats and dogs as I could on my way. Somewhere during the year, I began carrying cat food in my bag like it was completely normal behavior. Cats and dogs running up to me became a regular thing. The way they look at you with trust and excitement is a feeling I never want to trade for anything.

Most importantly, I tried to keep little Anikah happy. I bought a Harry Potter side bag without thinking twice. I really wanted to buy a Jhilmili balloon too, but it was too expensive and I was very broke. Still, I promised her that the next time I see one and have the money, it is coming home with me. No discussion.

The other day, I was washing the pot we use for making tea, and suddenly I remembered something. When I was much younger, I was scared of washing that pot. Just looking at it felt overwhelming. So I would wash everything else and leave the pot in the sink, hoping someone else would magically deal with it. One day, for no dramatic reason at all, I decided to wash it myself. My inner independent girl showed up, I guess. I soaked it in water, took my time, and washed it. And it was fine. Completely fine.

That tiny moment taught me something no motivational video ever did. Most problems stop looking so scary once you give them a little time. They lose their power when you stop running.

There are moments when I pause and wonder why I am the way I am. Why certain things hurt. Why some things feel familiar even when they shouldn’t. And somewhere in that wondering, I realized something that I will always carry the people I have loved with me forever. Not in a I can never get over them way. In a softer way. Loving them changed me. It meant something. And I am learning to let that be enough.

I remember being ten, when the future felt very far away. Everything was a someday. And now I have one foot in that someday, and nothing feels exactly right. Sometimes all I want is to step back. But the past does not wait. It crumbles the moment I try to hold onto it. There is no going back. Only forward, even if I am walking slowly.

I believe if I do nothing else in this life than make people feel a little more loved when they feel alone, then I have done something right. From just a girl in her room trying to forgive herself, to a girl who realized she always tried her best.

I don't think I'm chasing big moments anymore. I think I’m collecting small ones. The kind you almost miss if you're not paying attention. A good cup of tea. A quiet laugh. A moment where nothing hurts too much. I don’t know if that's growth or just me getting tired, but either way, it feels honest.

Now I see the sun. And even on days I cannot see it, I know it is there. There is comfort in that. I found a quote on Pinterest that said self-care is creating a life you do not routinely have to escape from. I cannot stop thinking about it. So with soft hope and a slightly tired heart, I am signing off from 2025.

maybe

I think in the whole dictionary, this one word, "maybe" holds both hope and grief at the same time. Whenever I’m unsure what to say, I usually go with maybe. Like the day before exams, when I look at all the hard topics and quietly tell myself, maybe it won't come in the exam (spoiler: it almost always does, but that's not the point).
It's just that this one word… it feels like a soft place to land. It’s full of hope. Or maybe, sometimes, it hides a bit of fear, too. Or doubt. Or the feeling of not being ready to say yes or no. Just maybe.

Now that I'm thinking about it, I've realized I say "maybe" a lot. Like just yesterday, I was lying on my bed, thinking, maybe I should buy some art markers and start drawing again. It's been ages since I picked up a pencil. But then again… I know myself. It's probably not happening anytime soon. Still, just the thought of starting something I've been putting off for so long it felt nice. Like the idea was stretching out its hand. "Maybe" has kind of become my comfort zone. Not a yes, not a no, just a soft little space to breathe in.

Sometimes, maybe feels like a tiny kind of hope I hold onto when I don't have the energy for anything else.
Like - Maybe one day it won't hurt this much.
Maybe someday I won't overthink this memory so much.
Maybe I'll find what I've been quietly looking for, even if I don't know exactly what it is yet. And on good days? Maybe I'm already becoming someone I'd be proud of.

That version of me is a little more healed, a little more sure, a little more okay, maybe she's already waiting for me, just a few steps ahead.

I don't always believe it fully. But maybe is enough for now.

And sometimes, maybe sounds like little promises I haven't said out loud yet.

Like- Maybe I'll start another blog series like "Parallel Me" again. Or maybe I already am, in bits and pieces. Maybe I'll finally open up that sketchpad I keep pretending I don't see. Maybe this blog, this exact one, will be one of those little things I'll look back at and smile.

It's funny how "maybe" holds so much. Worry, hope, delay, excitement, everything, all at once. And I think that's why I keep going back to it.

Of course, maybe also shows up when I'm being totally chaotic.
Like- Maybe I should cut my hair again at 3 AM. Maybe I'll just spend all my money on random cute things I don't need but absolutely need. Maybe I'll reorganize my entire room at midnight because my life feels like a mess, and this is my solution.
These aren't always the smartest ideas… but in the moment, they feel like little acts of survival. Of trying to feel better. Of don't want to do something, anything, to feel like I have some control.
So yeah, maybe is a little unhinged sometimes. But it's mine.

The other day, I came across a quote that said, "You can never gain cold, you can only have an absence of heat." It made me wonder, maybe hatred isn't something that truly exists either. Maybe it's just the absence of love.
People are often called complicated. But then again, I've seen them carve little hearts into tree bark or scratch their initials onto the corners of desks, tiny acts of wanting to be remembered. And I think… maybe people aren't so complicated after all. Maybe they just don't want to be forgotten.

Sometimes life feels like this: " ; "  - a semicolon. It seems like an end, but it's really just a pause.
Maybe life isn't about becoming something new. Maybe it's about unbecoming everything I never really was, just so I can slowly return to who I was always meant to be.

Maybe there won't be another lifetime. Maybe this is it. And if that's true, then I want to spend it creating the things I wish existed. I want to practice kindness, the soft, conscious kind, again and again, even when it's hard.
Because maybe, someday, in one of those quiet nights when time feels still, the universe will gently kiss my eyelids and whisper back twice the love I gave away.

Because it turns out, I've been borrowing grief from the future, preparing myself to lose the things I love, instead of simply basking in their light while I still have them.
Maybe I don't want to do that anymore.

So yeah… maybe life is a mess. Maybe I am, too. But maybe that's okay. Maybe I'll keep changing my mind, overthinking at 2 AM, crying because I dropped my food, laughing five minutes later because a cat meme made me forget why I was sad in the first place. Maybe I'll never have it all figured out.

But I'll keep showing up. I'll keep writing, loving, laughing like an idiot, giving people weird nicknames, and trying again. And somewhere deep inside, maybe, I still believe something good is out there, quietly waiting for me to notice it.

And if you're reading this, I hope you feel the sunshine too, even if it's just a little.

the child in me

Ever since I started realizing what growing up really feels like, I have tried to take care of myself the best I could. I chose peace, chose quiet, chose to protect my little world - because somewhere deep down, I've always believed peace is everything. And maybe I did okay.

But the other day, something happened. Like a whisper from an old friend I hadn't seen in a while. The child in me peeked out, just for a moment. And I realized - maybe I wasn't just looking after my grown-up self all this time. Maybe I was keeping her happy, too. That little version of me who still believes in magic and laughs without a reason. She never gave up on me. And the truth is, I never stopped carrying her with me.

Sometimes, she shows up when I laugh a little too loud at something silly. Or when I stop to stare at the moon for no reason. She's there when I hum old cartoon songs, or feel proud after neatly organizing my shelf. She still believes that kindness matters. That people can be good. That magic doesn't have to be loud - it can be quiet and simple, like finding a book that understands you or a cat curling up beside you on a tired day. And maybe, without even trying, she keeps me soft in a world that tells us to toughen up. She reminds me that it’s okay to cry, to hope, to dream like no one's watching.

She still shows up, quietly, without warning. Like when I buy candy on a rainy day - not because I need it, but because it reminds me of school tiffin breaks and muddy roads. Or when I catch myself doodling stars and hearts at the corner of a notebook during a boring lecture, just like I used to. She's there when I dance alone in my room to songs only I seem to like, or when I pause for a second just to smile at a butterfly fluttering by. These little things, so small yet so full of her - that child in me who still knows how to find magic in the most ordinary days.

She still believes in handwritten letters, like the ones I used to write to my best friends during long, boring classes. She still dreams about birthday surprises, like the time I made a wish and it quietly came true. She believes that a late-night message from someone you love can fix the worst days. She still thinks people mean it when they say "forever,"  and maybe, somewhere deep inside, I still do too - even if I pretend not to. She hasn't stopped believing that one day, I'll figure it all out. Maybe that's why, even now, I keep writing, dreaming, and hoping - just like her.

The child in me still believes in saving pretty chocolate wrappers. In making random wishes when the clock strikes 11:11, in laughing until my stomach hurts over the smallest, stupidest things. She believes that if you find a really good sunset, you have to tell someone about it - even if it's just a blurry photo in the middle of a busy day.

She's the one who makes me buy notebooks I don't even need. The one who still gets excited seeing fairy lights or bookstores. The one who thinks that maybe, just maybe, magic isn't just in stories- it's in people too. She's why I still smile when someone remembers a small detail about me. Why I still write blogs and pour my heart into them, even when no one asks me to. Why I still find reasons to be soft in a world that sometimes tells you not to be. Maybe growing up didn't mean leaving her behind. Maybe it just meant learning how to walk beside her.

So if I ever meet her again -

I think she'll run up to me with a grin so wide it could light up a whole room. She'll tug on my hand, show me all the little dreams she's still carrying around in her pockets. Some crumpled, some still shiny. Maybe she'll ask, "Did we make it?" And I'll smile and say, "We're trying. And we're doing better than you think." I'll sit with her for a while. Tell her about the days we were scared but kept going anyway. About the people who stayed, and the dreams we grew brave enough to chase. And maybe she'll just laugh, because she always knew we would.

Somewhere between growing up and staying soft, I realized the child in me was never lost - she was just waiting for me to notice her again. If today feels a little heavy, slow down. Maybe the child in you needs a little sunshine today.

so this is life

I recently celebrated Eid. Everyone around me was sharing happy moments with their family and friends. Among them one of my closest friends, Anannya, posted a story with the caption "best day." For some reason, my mind got stuck on those two words. I've written that same caption countless times before- best day.

It's not like those days weren't truly special, or that the ones before them stopped mattering. But every time life takes a gentle turn and smiles at me, I find myself using those same two words again. Maybe that's what life is- a string of moments that feel like the best day, in their own way. 

While growing up, my idea of a 'best day' kept changing. As a kid, I used to think the best days only came once in a while- like a birthday, a picnic, or the last day of exams. If I had the best day today, I believed I'd have to wait another 365 days for the next one. But it turns out, life doesn't work like that. Best days aren't always rare or loud. Sometimes they show up quietly- in small wins, deep laughs, or even peaceful evenings. Maybe it was always like this, or maybe I just started seeing life a little differently.  Everything about my life has changed over the years- except the fact that it's still mine. And maybe that’s what makes it special.

Not all 'best days' look the same. Sometimes it's the day I finally let go of something that's been weighing on my chest for too long. The relief may not feel like joy right away, but it is a kind of peace. Other times, it's a quiet night where I sat with someone I love and had a conversation that felt real - raw, honest, and needed. Or maybe, it was a day when no one was around, and for the first time, that didn't feel lonely. It just felt... peaceful. 

 I realized… best days aren't always loud or picture-perfect. They don't always come with big celebrations or fireworks. Sometimes, they arrive quietly- like a soft breeze you almost miss if you're not paying attention.

There was the day I hit publish on my very first blog post. I had no idea if anyone would read it, but it felt like I finally gave a little piece of myself to the world. That quiet courage? That was a best day.

Or the day I opened my embroidery business page. I was nervous, excited, and full of doubts. But then someone placed the first order. I stared at the screen for a while, smiling like an idiot. It felt like the start of something real. And it was.

Then came the day I stood on stage and received the Vice Chancellor's Award for the first time. My name echoed in the hall, my heart raced - and just like that, I had proof that hard work does bloom. But even then, I remember thinking, 'I want to do better.' Funny how the best days sometimes make you want to grow even more.

And there are the soft days- the ones where I play with Kiko-Kai, or now, Fifi. Just chasing around the room, tiny paws tapping on the floor, silly little things that make the heart full. No big moment, no applause. Just happiness, pure and simple.

And of course, the old kind of best days- the ones that live in comfort. Like spending time with a friend you’ve known for 12 years, laughing about the same old jokes, still finishing each other's sentences. Nothing changes, and that's the best part. We’ve seen life twist and turn, and yet, here we are. That counts as the best day too, doesn't it?

Then there was this one day I gifted myself a little Harry Potter merch- nothing big, just something I'd wanted for a while. I remember holding it, smiling like a kid, feeling like I had just hugged a piece of my childhood. It wasn't on any calendar, but it was the best day.

So maybe 'best days' aren't always about being happy. Sometimes, they're about healing, growing, loving, or just being present. They come in all shapes- loud, quiet, messy, soft. You just have to notice them.

And maybe that's why I remember them all so clearly.

I have this habit of remembering dates- not just the big ones, but even the quiet, ordinary days. A random Thursday when something felt different. A moment I didn't think would matter much but ended up staying with me.

I don't always write them down, but I carry them. And when those dates return, it's like the memory whispers, 'Hey, remember this?'

It makes even regular days feel like something more.

And maybe… today will become one of those 'best days' too.

Not because something big happened, but because I sat down, let my thoughts wander, and wrote all this. Maybe one day, I'll look back at this moment and smile at how I tried to put life into words.

So, if today feels just okay, hold onto it anyway.

You never know- it might become a day your future self counts as a 'best day' too. Cheers! 

 

The Friend Who Always Stayed

The other day, I was busy wandering in my thoughts. At some point, I picked up my phone and scrolled through the gallery. I was going through my memories and suddenly I found a photo of us - a moment frozen in time. I looked at it for a while and my thoughts wandered again. What about her?  Would we've met in another universe? Would we laugh at the same things, finish each other's sentences, and understand each other without a single word? 

The room around me blurred as my mind wandered. What if there's a version of her out there, in another universe, where we're exactly as we are now? I picture her parallel self; it feels so familiar, like looking at her through a slightly different lens. 

Maybe in another universe, we are friends too. We’re still the same, just like we’ve always been, laughing over the same silly things and sharing the same understanding without needing words. Maybe there too she doesn't see my messages either. It’s as if nothing ever changed, and everything stayed just as it is now, strong and easy, no matter the world around us. Perhaps both of us moved into the purple apartment that we wanted like Monica and Rachel, we became each other's bridesmaids and we grew old together, just like we promised. Maybe we did everything we always dreamed about. 

The thought drifts in, and suddenly, I can see her. Sitting by the window, she was there, completely focused on the Rubik’s cube in her hands. Her fingers moved quickly, turning the pieces like she was in her own little world. Her face looked so serious, her eyebrows drawn together, just like she always did when solving one. It was the same funny expression that had made me laugh so many times before. I used to tease her about it, and yet here she was, doing the exact same thing in this universe. I smiled softly, watching her. Some things never change. It was like no matter the universe, there would always be something about her that stayed the same.

I stepped closer, and she looked up from her Rubik's cube, her fingers still twisting the colors into place.

''Took you long enough to say hi,'' she said, a small grin forming.

''You looked pretty serious there,'' I said, sitting across from her and nodding at the cube. ''Didn't want to disturb your groundbreaking Rubik's cube strategies.''

She snorted. ''Groundbreaking? I've been stuck on this one side for five minutes. If this is genius, I'm in trouble.''

''Some things never change,'' I teased. ''You still make that weirdly intense face when you're solving those things.''

''At least now you don't scold me for not replying to your messages,

lol.''

I looked around, letting it all sink in. ''It's exactly what we always talked about. It even looks like Monica's apartment. And the Harry Potter stuff? That shelf is giving Hogwarts Library vibes.''

She laughed, the sound so familiar it tugged at my heart. ''Well, we promised ourselves we'd live like this one day. And look at us - twelve years of friendship and still going strong.''

''Twelve years,'' I echoed, shaking my head with a smile. ''Who knew we'd actually make it this far? In this universe, we really pulled it off.''

She nudged me playfully. ''In this universe? What's going on in the other one?''

I sighed, the thought hitting a bit too close. ''There, she doesn't like herself much. She's always thinking about how things should've been different. Always so disappointed in herself.''

Her face softened, her teasing tone gone. ''I used to be like that too, you know. But we can't change the past. And honestly, the things we think went 'wrong' often lead to the best parts of our lives. Tell her that. Tell her to trust herself a little more.''

I smiled faintly. ''She'd probably roll her eyes and say, 'Easy for you to say.' ''

''And I’d tell her, 'Hey, I’m not perfect either.' But look around - this apartment, this life? It’s not about being perfect. It’s about living in the moment. Enjoying what you have.''

''She worries too much,'' I admitted.

Her gaze met mine, steady and kind. ''Then remind her she's not alone. She's got you. And one day, she'll realize she’s been enough all along.''

I leaned back on the couch, the cozy apartment glowing around us. ''We always said we'd live together. Be each other's bridesmaids. Grow old together.''

''And we will,'' she said firmly, a spark of humor returning to her voice. ''Both here and there. We're too stubborn not to.''

Kiko’s meow broke through my thoughts, pulling me back to the present. I looked up and found myself staring at the soft glow of my laptop screen once again. I just sat there for a second, smiling to myself at the thought of it all.  Even though we noticed each other on the very first day, we didn’t talk right away. It wasn’t until the 13th of January, during a random seat shuffle, that we finally spoke. Maybe that’s how it works with the most special people in your life - you don't meet them all at once. It happens at the right moment, just when it's meant to.

A buzz from my phone snapped me out of it. It was her. I couldn't help but laugh quietly. ''Bet you're making that cube face right now,'' I muttered, shaking my head. I leaned back in my chair, the thought of her still fresh in my mind. 

Honestly, she's not just "people" to me—she's my person. With her, it's ride or die, no questions asked. Spending time with her feels like hanging out with a part of me. It is okay if she doesn't see how amazing she is in this world, but I do. I hope someday she'll see it, too.

Parallel Me

The day I posted my last blog about Earth's twin, I couldn't stop wondering – if Earth had a twin, what is my twin self doing right now? Is she having coffee, painting by the window, or maybe playing with her cats? I imagine her life unfolding just a little differently, shaped by choices I didn't make. It's strange to think that somewhere, in another universe, another version of me might be living the life I sometimes daydream about.

Like parallel lines maybe parallel me and this 'me' have a lot in common or perhaps a lot of differences? I wonder if she pets every dog she sees on the street too. Does she stop mid-walk just to say hello to them, like I do? Is she just as obsessed with Harry Potter - does she still rewatch the movies when life feels too much? Does she laugh at herself when trying to imitate Joey's ''How you doin'?'' even though it never sounds quite right? Maybe she has more friends, or perhaps she's finally opened that cozy little embroidery shop I daydream about during long classes.

I imagine she's the type to still write blogs late at night, pouring her heart out just to feel lighter. She probably still has funny yet thoughtful gift ideas - like the coaster, I wanted to paint after someone called ''ঠান্ডা পানি'' ''ঠানডি পানি.'' I bet she's doing well in university too, maybe even holding onto a VC’s award or two. I picture her juggling work, life, and dreams, but somehow with a little more ease.

In that universe, maybe she's already grown into the version of me I hope to be - fit, confident, and at peace with herself. I like to think she's watching over me, smiling when I take small steps forward and whispering ''You've got this'' when I stumble. Maybe she's just as proud of me as I am of her.

I close my eyes and let the thought drift in - what if I could step into that other universe, even just for a moment? I imagine the air feels slightly different, softer somehow as if the whole place breathes in a quieter rhythm. The colors around me aren't strange but glow just enough to feel unfamiliar.

And then I see her – me, but not quite. The moment I saw her, I knew. She's sitting at a cafe, sipping coffee, sketching in a notebook I don't own. Her hair falls a little differently, and there's something light in her expression as if she's figured out something I haven't yet. I wonder if she notices me too. Would she know right away who I am? Or would she tilt her head, curious but not certain, trying to place the familiarity between us? This version of me carried something I couldn't quite place. Confidence? Peace? Maybe both. I wondered how her life unfolded compared to mine. Did she make the choices I hesitated on? Did she let go of fears I still hold close? I wanted to know if her dreams looked like mine and if the things that kept me awake at night ever bothered her at all. 

I imagine walking up to her - this parallel version of me. She looks up, tilts her head, and smiles like she's been expecting me.

''So, do you pet every dog on the street too?'' I ask, sliding into the seat across from her.

She laughs. ''Of course. I thought that was a universal rule.''

I smirk. ''And Harry Potter movie marathons? Please tell me that’s still a thing.''

''Obviously. You think I'm going to skip my annual watch?''

I lean back in my chair, watching her. ''Be honest. Do you ever try Joey's 'How you doin'?' just to see if it works?''

She grins. ''You know I do. And no, it doesn’t work any better in this universe.''

We both laugh, the kind of laugh that feels like home.

''But… have you opened the embroidery shop yet?'' I ask, trying to hide the hope in my voice.

Her smile softens. ''Yeah, I did. It's small, but it's mine. People seem to like it.''

I can't help but grin. ''And friends? Do you have more of them?''

''Enough. But I still keep my circle close. You know how we are.''

We sit quietly for a moment, watching the world go by. I wonder if she struggles the same way I do – if she gets anxious over things that don't matter, or stays up too late chasing thoughts she'll forget by morning.

''Do you ever feel lost?'' I finally ask.

She pauses, then looks at me with something soft in her eyes. ''Sometimes. But I think that’s how I find things that matter.'' 

After a while, she stretches, finishing the last sip of her coffee. ''I should probably head out,'' she says with a soft smile. ''There's a dog down the street that hasn't gotten his ear scratched yet.''

I laugh, knowing I'd do the same. ''Figures. Well… it was nice meeting you.''

She stands, tucking her sketchbook under her arm. ''You'll be fine, you know. You' re already doing better than you think.''

And just like that, she walks away, blending into the crowd as if she was never really there.

I blink, finding myself back at my desk, the glow of my laptop screen pulling me back to this world. The cafe fades, but the warmth of that conversation lingers - like a quiet reminder that maybe, somewhere in another universe, I’m already living the life I dream about.

I guess I'm the biggest paradox I've ever known. I'm insecure in everything I do, yet I love myself to the point of total narcissist. So while I am living through this life, I live it with a smile. Because in the parallel universes, I live a different life and hope she is happy. And maybe,  I can hold onto that thought when things feel heavy now. Somewhere, in some version of reality, there's a me who's already overcome this. She's watching with pride and joy, knowing I'll find my way too.

For now, though, I'm here - and that feels just fine.