October Without Her

October Without Her October was always a happy month in our home. It was Sana’s birthday, and I would spend weeks thinking of ways to make it special. She loved celebrating her birthday—there was always laughter, anticipation, and, of course, her demand for a gift. With her birthday now just around the corner, I feel a hollow ache in my stomach. My heart wrings with pain at the thought of celebrating without her. These days, life feels mechanical. I go to work, come home, and my thoughts inevitably drift to Sana. With all her ups and downs before, I always carried hope—hope that she would find her way through, hope that she would be with me, hope that the future held something brighter. Now I know she isn’t coming back. And that reality—so permanent, so unchangeable—feels strange and heavy. Everything in life seems temporary, fleeting, without joy. Today, Idris and I went to the bank to take out some jewelry for Serena as she prepares for her wedding ceremony. As I looked at all my pieces, memories of Sana came flooding back. She had such an eye for beauty and had already claimed her favorites. She would tell me, without hesitation, which pieces were hers and that they should come to her first. I wish I had given them to her then—just so she could have worn them, felt beautiful, and felt joy. In my heart, I had always imagined giving them to her when she got married. But life didn’t unfold that way. Her absence has broken Idris and me in ways that words can never capture. The weight of what could have been lingers with every memory. October, once a month of celebration, now carries only silence and longing.