Duality

Sana’s friend sent me a picture of herself wearing one of Sana’s dresses. She looked beautiful—so much like Sana. For a moment, I felt a flicker of happiness, a comforting illusion that Sana was still here, woven into the lives of those who loved her. It was a fleeting moment, but one that reminded me that she is always present in some way. Lately, Idris and I have been missing her more than ever. I’ve been trying to understand what triggered this intensified grief. My nights have been filled with dreams—some nightmares, some just echoes of the past—leaving me restless and exhausted. After some reflection, I realized that it’s not the everyday routines that bring the most pain; it’s the joyful moments. Celebrating Maahir and Serena’s engagement without Sana felt profoundly difficult. Happiness, in many ways, magnifies her absence. On Friday, Idris and I went out for drinks and dinner, and both of us felt the weight of our grief. We talked, we cried, and in that moment, we found our own form of therapy. There is something deeply powerful about tears. They are not a sign of weakness but rather a release—an acknowledgment of love, loss, and the pain we carry. If there is one thing I have learned, it is this: cry as much as you need to. Tears don’t erase the pain, but they make it more bearable. These days, I feel like I am living with a dual personality. Around family and friends, I smile, I engage, I celebrate. But when I’m alone, I retreat into my sadness. It’s as if I have become two versions of myself—one who carries on, and one who mourns in solitude. Life changes us in ways we never expect, reshaping our emotions, our personalities, and our very sense of self. Nothing lasts forever—not happiness, not grief. But in this ever-changing landscape of emotions, one thing remains constant: Sana is, and always will be, a part of us