BABA

 Last night, I saw Baba in my dream.

He was sleeping in my bed. Mama was on the phone, and I was sitting on the floor. Suddenly, he woke up—startled, scared—like he’d just seen a nightmare. I rushed to him and hugged him tightly, and then I broke down. I started crying because, in my dream, I had a nightmare that he died. I was sobbing in his arms, not wanting to let go—and then I woke up.

And it shattered something in me.

Because that’s what my life has felt like these past 7 months. One long nightmare I keep waking into, again and again. I never got to hug him like that in real life. We were never very expressive, both of us holding love silently. I never told him how much I loved him. And now I never can.

What hurts even more is watching myself go on with life. Eating. Existing. Sometimes even laughing. It feels wrong—like I’m betraying him. Like I’ve forgotten. But I haven’t. I just… don’t talk about him. I don’t look at his pictures. And whenever memories of that night come rushing back, I close my eyes. As if I can shut it out. As if forgetting will make it hurt less.

But I haven’t forgotten. I’m just tired of bleeding every time I remember.

I told someone today, “I never got to say I love you.” And it hit me so hard. I ache for just one more chance. One more moment where I could say it. Hug him properly. Tell him what I’ve buried so deeply.

Still, that cry—those quiet, aching sobs—they helped. Just a little. My eyes are swollen, my head hurts, and I know I’ll wake up puffy, but I feel lighter. Like a pressure I’ve held in for months finally cracked open.

I don’t want to live like this anymore—always holding it in, always being the strong one, the understanding one. I just want to heal. I want to remember my father without drowning in guilt. I want to cry without shame. I want to live a life that doesn’t feel like survival.

Maybe this was the beginning. Maybe the dream was a doorway.

A small, fragile reminder that he’s still with me. That I can still say “I love you,” even now.

And I do.

So much.

— leena