before the sun is rising up

everyone keeps saying "enjoy your last year of high school!" um. how? while i'm being pressured into studying how the multi fucking store model of memory works and english lit essays that expect me to analyze the trauma of characters who didn’t even go to therapy?

and don't even get me started on the pressure. every adult is like “just do your best :)” while simultaneously reminding me that if i mess this up, my entire future will combust. thanks for the motivational ted talk, yamma.

but even with all the chaos, i kind of want this year to be good. like not peaceful good, because let’s be honest, that ship sank around october. but funny good. memory good. laugh-until-i-cry-on-the benches-good. maybe even get a little unhinged with my friends before we all get emotionally exiled to university.

i’m not trying to have a perfect year. i’m just trying to survive it with my brain cells semi-intact and my sense of humor still functioning

you’re quiet. not the kind of quiet that feels empty.yours is the kind that hums. the kind that makes people wonder what you’re thinking, what kind of worlds are blooming behind your eyes. i always wondered that. still do.

i remember biology last year. the way you’d sit there, still, like the noise of the classroom didn’t touch you. like you were somewhere else. and when ms tahir called on you, it wasn’t hesitation—it was calculation. like you knew the answer but were deciding if it was worth saying out loud.

i always wanted to ask you something. anything. just to hear how your voice sounds when it’s not answering a question. but i never did. and you never looked like you were waiting for anyone to.

sometimes i pass by your street. not on purpose, not always. i see your brother out there, loud and running and alive in a way that makes the world notice. i know where you live now, and I'm not trying to say this in a creepy way but ik your house number

it’s funny. you don’t do anything, and yet i find myself writing letters you’ll never read. like you left a mark on a version of me you never even met. and maybe that’s all it ever was, an idea. a maybe. a moment that never asked to become anything more.

besides cleaning the entire house and stressing myself out bc of gateaux, one of the worst eid experiences imo is phone calls back home. "sa7a eidkoum, t3idou w tzidou n'shallh. F'hyatek khair" on repeat bruh.