Zaina,
There are still moments when I miss you without warning — the softness of your skin, your immaculate fart onomatopoeia, or the way you'd turn a story about a stranger into a scene straight out of a film.
I still chuckle thinking about you imitating that NPC scented leaf guy, or narrating a scandalous monologue about some fat-ass endocrinology patient.
What I'm saying is: I still notice the spaces where you used to be. And I've also come to notice what those spaces gave me.
The way you see the world — full of feeling, humor, and curiosity — cracked something open in me. I talk about politics now with a patriotic fire you probably lit. I notice the small things because I remember how you would. And sometimes I hear a joke, and I pause, just long enough to imagine how you'd say it — louder, sillier, better.
You've always had that gift: you make connection feel effortless. A story, a drink, a glance — you give it weight. You could hand someone a latte and somehow also hand them part of your heart. You make matcha taste like comfort, espresso feel like an event, and even a moldy container become a punchline.
But it's more than that.
You care. Not for show. Not for applause. You just do.
And I know that's not always easy. I know you've held some of the heaviest questions — about womanhood, about religion, about freedom and modesty and friendship and what it means to feel alone in a loud world.
And yet, somehow, you keep moving with grace.
You carry contradictions in one hand, and kindness in the other. You say it's to protect — but I think it's to understand. To connect.
And that's what makes you a gift.
I've sat in rooms where people boast about their lives and insights, their big plans and accomplishments — and all I can think is: "If only you knew her."
Because if they did, they'd understand what it means to be thoughtful without being self-important. To be brave without being loud. To be humble without dimming your own light.
So while you're stepping into another year, I hope you remember that. That you are a gift — not just to others, but to yourself, too.
I hope you write poems, even the ones you never show anyone.
I hope you keep making drinks just to experiment. I hope you dance. I hope your fingers find their way back to the piano. And I hope joy finds you — even in the quietest corners.
You give so much. Let yourself receive some of that back.
Live like someone who knows they are deeply loved by the world. Because you are.
With the best of wishes, care, and the kind of faith I only ever learned from you,
Naeem
