I miss you more than I admit.

Dear Xappa,

It’s been more than six weeks now.

Six weeks since I heard the news from Rojava. Since that day, you’ve been on my mind in a way that doesn’t need permission. I don’t know what’s normal there anymore, or if nights feel safe, or if silence feels heavier than usual. I didn’t ask. I know I don’t have that right anymore. Still, I worried. Still, I do.

I’m not part of your life now, I know.
But loving someone deeply doesn’t end just because roles change.

Last month was exhausting. I barely slept. I stayed busy maybe too busy. New responsibilities, new work, longer days. My sister got engaged. Life kept moving, and I moved with it. But every night, before sleep, I talked to you in my head. Like I used to. Like muscle memory.

These days, I miss you more than I admit.

Sometimes it comes out of nowhere. Even my Instagram seems to conspire against me intercultural couples everywhere. Different countries, different languages, same kind of warmth. Foreign girls with Indian boys, building lives, laughing, making ordinary moments feel meaningful. I see you in all of it. I see us. Not the fantasy just the simplicity we could’ve had.

I won’t lie.
There are moments I feel angry. Not in a loud way. Just a quiet frustration that sits in the chest. I don’t know what was going through your mind back then. I sometimes feel you didn’t listen to your heart. If you had given yourself a little more time, things might’ve looked different. Maybe happier. Maybe calmer.

And then I stop myself because love isn’t about rewriting someone’s choices.

Sometimes I wonder if you miss me too. If you ever get angry at yourself the way I do. I know I’m not easy to forget. People like me don’t disappear quietly. We linger. It takes time. Maybe a lifetime.

I still call you stupid sometimes in my head.
But only because you were mine enough to earn that softness.

These last two days, my back has been hurting badly. No accident. No reason. Just pain that showed up suddenly. I lie down and it feels uncomfortable, like my body is carrying something it can’t set down. Funny how the body speaks when words don’t.

There are so many things I could say to you.
But some feelings don’t ask to be explained.

Poetry

If she were to ask me what I’m grieving for,
What grief would remain if she asked me herself?

If she were to ask where I spend my evenings,
Where would my evenings be if she asked me that?

The sorrow of love is tied in knots of questions
If you ask, I can answer; if you don’t, who do I tell?

My room feels unbearably lonely
Should I hang your photograph on the wall?

Should I tell everyone that you are mine?

A whole day passes writing to you,
Should I spend the night thinking of you too?

Should I tell everyone that you are mine?

On one side, the ache of your absence.
On the other, the question of why you were never mine.

Believe me, I am happy
But the moments with you, the days, the months, the years stand apart.

I have a thousand complaints,
But those few days when you cared for me stand apart.

I’m not asking you for anything.

I just wanted you to know I’m still here. Living. Working. Carrying things quietly. Thinking of you more often than I should. Hoping you’re safe. Hoping you’re okay.

Some people don’t leave our lives.
They just move to a quieter place inside us.

And sometimes…
Silence is just another way of saying, “I still remember you.”