#imissyoudad

Babah hugged me after my nikah.

I remember thinking it was just another hug. I didn't know it would become one of the photos I'd return to over and over again.

Three years have passed since he left, yet some days it still feels impossible to believe he's gone. Grief is strange. It doesn't disappear with time. It just becomes something you learn to carry.

Sometimes I'm okay.

Sometimes I see a photo like this and cry until my chest hurts.

I'm grateful that the love of my life understands. He never tells me to stop crying or that I should have moved on by now. He just hugs me the same way Babah used to. Sometimes love doesn't need words.

Thank you, love.

And to Babah,

Thank you for raising me. For walking me into this new chapter of my life. For loving me the way you did.

It’s me.

Some days I feel strong. Some days I feel like a small girl again who just wants to hear you call my name.

Life keeps moving. Work, responsibilities, deadlines, money stress… adult things. I’m trying my best, Babah. Sometimes I wish I could ask you what to do. You always made hard things feel lighter, like carrying groceries together – still heavy, but not scary.

I hope you’re proud of me. I’m still drawing. Still creating. Still trying to build something meaningful. Even when I’m tired, I remember how you believed in me quietly.

There are moments I want to tell you everything. The small wins. The silly worries. The days I feel lost. I talk to Allah about you a lot. I ask that you are safe, at peace, and surrounded by light.

Three years already. But love doesn’t follow time.

I miss you in the ordinary moments most – the beach warnings, the simple advice, the way you cared in your own steady way.

It’s been so long since I last wrote to you. Today, I just want to share some news. I got a job, even if it’s only temporary. It will be in a school environment, which makes me feel both nervous and excited at the same time.

I wish you were here so I could tell you in person, and see that proud smile of yours. I know you always wanted me to keep moving forward, to try my best, and to never give up. This little step feels like part of that journey you always encouraged me to take.

Even though you’re no longer here physically, I carry your words and lessons with me every day. Starting this job feels like I’m still making you proud, and that keeps me going.

I re-downloaded Tumblr recently, mostly because I wanted to dive back into some Dean Winchester fanfics. But somewhere along the way, I had a realization—no one I know in real life is on here. And maybe that’s exactly what I need right now.

I need a space to let things out, to process everything that’s happened over the last five years. So if you think you know me… no you don’t. :)

This past year, I lost both of my parents. And honestly, I don’t know how to cope. I feel completely untethered.

Losing my mom has hit me the hardest. I wasn’t prepared—not even a little. Her death was sudden… a massive heart attack. She coded in the ambulance and was later declared brain dead. It was devastating. As her only child, the decisions fell on me. I had support from family, but the weight of those choices still lingers. I just hope I did right by her.

With my dad, I had some time to prepare—he was older, and his passing wasn’t as sudden. But that didn’t make it easier. Losing them both so close together has left me feeling completely lost.

I find myself missing you in the quietest moments – when the world slows down, and all that’s left is silence and memory. I still imagine you beside me, gently reminding me of the things that matter.

Your voice echoes in my heart, always saying: “Jangan tinggal solat.” Don’t skip your prayers. It was your gentle reminder – firm, loving, constant.

You never forced, only guided. You led by example – waking up before dawn for tahajjud, fasting even when no one saw, and reading your Quran daily, even when your eyes were tired. You lived with quiet strength and unshakable faith.

I talk to you sometimes – beside your grave, in my prayers, in my thoughts. And even though you’re no longer here, it still feels like you’re listening.

I’m trying, Babah. Trying to be a better daughter. A better Muslim. Trying to carry the legacy you left behind.

I still have so many things I wish we could do together. So many words left unsaid. But I trust that Allah will let you know – how much I love you, how much I miss you, how I carry your words like a compass through life.

That was the song I used to sing at the door, waiting for my dad to come home. It wasn’t a real song – not one you’d hear on the radio – just something 4-year-old me came up with. A chant of excitement. Of pure joy. Because Babah was home.

We lived in JB, in an ordinary kampung house. He worked in Singapore. I didn’t understand the exhaustion in his eyes or why he always brought home the same cheap chocolate – Apollo wafer.

I didn’t even like it much back then. But I ate it anyway. Because it came from him. Now I understand – it was what he could afford. It was his love in wafer form, bought in bulk with tired hands and a hopeful heart.

He’d bring back fruits, kuih, or murtabak after a long night shift. I used to think he didn’t care about my school events or achievements. He missed Parents’ Day, Sports Day, and prize-giving ceremonies. I didn’t know then that he wasn’t absent by choice. He was sacrificing his time, his rest, his body – for us.

Mom used to plant ideas in my head that made me believe he didn’t love us enough. That he didn’t show up because he didn’t want to. But when I became an adult, I saw the truth.

When I understood what bills were, and how painful cracked hands from factory work can be – I cried for all the times I misunderstood him.

One time, he came home with a gift for me – a watch. I wanted a Swatch. He got me a simple Casio. I hid my disappointment.

But now… I’d give anything to feel that moment again. To receive anything – even Apollo wafers – from him, just one more time.

I still remember knocking on his bedroom door, scared of cockroaches, asking him to escort me to the toilet. He never complained.

I remember the sound of him praying. The scent of the kitchen when he made his kopi. The feel of his scarred hands when I kissed them after he came home.

That house... it’s gone now. And I’m angry. Not just because we lost a building, but because it was our story. It was the last place that still held my dad’s presence. The walls remembered him, even if the world moved on.

I feel furious. Frustrated. Shattered. But I also remember this:

I’m a Muslim. And I cannot abandon those I’m hurt by. I must choose patience. Even when my heart feels like it’s tearing apart. And deep down, I know – my dad would want me to choose softness. He would tell me to forgive.

Still, the biggest regret that haunts me is this: I never got to say, “I love you, Babah.” I never got to say, “I forgive you for all the things you couldn’t be.” But I hope he knew.

Maybe he did.

Maybe… he always did.

Today, I graduate–not just for myself, but for you, dad.

Even though you’re not here physically, I carried your hopes with me in every assignment, every late night, and every step of this journey.

There were moments I wanted to give up, but your strength and quiet wisdom kept me going. I hope you’re proud, wherever you are. I made it in, and I made it through.

I was lucky that I didn’t have to go to boarding school after 14 like my elder sister. That meant I got to spend so much of my childhood with him. On his off days, he would send me to school on his motorbike. At the time, I felt embarrassed—everyone else was arriving in cars, and there I was on a motorbike. I even used to ask him to park far away so no one would see me. Thinking about it now makes me sad. I should have felt more grateful.

Babah also knew how much I loved kuih bakar. Every time he went to the pasar malam or passed by a place that sold it, he’d stop and buy it for me. I never thought much of it back then, but now, as an adult, I see it for what it was—love. All these little things, they were his way of showing love.

Now that he’s gone, these memories mean everything to me. I just want to be a better Muslim so that one day, I can see him again in Jannah.