A knot in my heart

A Knot in My Heart I woke up this morning with a heaviness I couldn’t quite explain. Not a thought. Not a memory. Just a feeling—a quiet, persistent knot in my heart. It stayed with me as the day began. In the stillness. In the in-between moments. And then, slowly, I understood it. I was missing you, Sanu. Not in a loud, overwhelming way. Not with tears right away. Just a deep, aching presence. The kind that sits gently but firmly, reminding me that you are not here in the way you used to be. And then, as if the universe was echoing what I was already feeling, you appeared. A memory. A post. A moment from another time—my living Sana. It felt like déjà vu. Like time folding in on itself. Like being pulled back into a space where you were right there, just a breath away. You didn’t always express yourself openly. You held a lot inside, quietly, carefully. But when you did speak from your heart, it was real. Unfiltered. Honest in a way that stayed with me long after. There was something so pure about that. No performance. No pretense. Just you. And I think that’s what I felt this morning before I even knew it—your presence, your truth, your absence, all wrapped into one. Grief doesn’t always arrive with clarity. Sometimes it shows up as a feeling you can’t name right away. A heaviness. A pause. A shift in the air. And then it becomes clear. It’s love. Still there. Still searching for somewhere to go. I miss you in ways that words still struggle to hold. But in these moments—in the unexpected memories, in the quiet returns—you remind me that love doesn’t disappear. It changes form. It moves through time. It finds its way back. Even if just for a moment. And today, that moment was enough to feel you close again. My Sanu. Always.

She Stood There Like Light

She Stood There Like Light There are some moments that don’t ask for attention—they simply *hold it A quiet stillness, a soft confidence, a smile that doesn’t try too hard, yet somehow says everything. She stands against a wall of worn brick, the kind that has seen years pass by without complaint. Solid. Unchanging. Almost indifferent. And yet, beside it, she becomes the contrast—alive, radiant, effortlessly present. Her smile isn’t just a smile. It feels like a memory. Like laughter echoing in a room long after everyone has left. Like sunlight slipping through a window you didn’t know was open. There is something about the way she carries herself—light, but grounded. As if she has known both joy and ache, and chose, still, to smile. And maybe that’s what makes it beautiful. Not perfection. But presence.