Assalamualaikum. Lately, there’s been a heavy feeling lingering in my chest—a fear I’ve known all too well, one I wish I could shake off, but it keeps following me.

Earlier this year, I lost two little souls that meant the world to me—my cats, Boba and Cengkih. They weren’t just pets. They were my companions, my source of comfort, and part of my daily life. I remember how much I loved them, how much I feared losing them even while they were still here. Every time they went missing for a few hours, my heart would sink. I would imagine the worst, terrified they might run away and never come home.

But the real pain came when I lost them both to parvo. It was sudden, cruel, and left a scar in my heart that hasn’t healed. That fear I once had—of losing them—it became real. And it haunts me until today. Sometimes, I find myself crying, wishing I could hug them again, feel their warmth, kiss their tiny heads, and hear their purring. But that day will never come. They’re gone, and I am left with memories—both beautiful and painful.

And now, that fear has taken a new form.

I am scared of losing my mom.

Our relationship hasn’t always been smooth. We’ve had our clashes, our misunderstandings, our silences. But no matter how bad things got, she’s always been there when I needed her the most. Quietly, patiently, and without asking anything in return. Her love is the kind that doesn’t need to be spoken to be felt.

I’m not ready to lose her. I haven’t become anything yet. I haven’t done enough. I haven’t given back even a fraction of what she’s given me. I want to. I really do. I want to see her happy. I want to spoil her, care for her, be the reason she smiles. I want to repay her in any way I can, even though I know I never truly can—because a mother’s love is unconditional, priceless, infinite.

So I pray.

I pray that Allah gives me time—more time with her. I pray that He keeps her healthy, strong, and by my side. I pray that I become someone she can be proud of. And until that day comes, I hope I never take a moment with her for granted.

Because I’ve learned…

The fear of losing someone you love never really goes away.

But loving them fully, while you still can—maybe that’s how we make peace with it.

Sincerely, 
Nadiera Hashim
12:33 a.m.
Kedah. 

Life’s been kind of a mess lately.

I don’t even know where to start. Everything feels heavy. Some days, it feels like the only way to stop feeling like a failure is to just stop feeling altogether. That thought has been sitting in my chest more often than I’d like to admit.

My hormones are completely out of whack. I’ve tried so many supplements, but nothing seems to work. And it’s showing—especially on my skin. My face is full of acne and scars. Painful ones. Small, stubborn breakouts that keep attacking my jawline, my chin, my forehead… like they’re never going to stop. I hate my skin. I hate how it makes me feel—like I’m constantly trapped in this body that doesn’t even feel like mine anymore.

And then there’s everything else.

Kaklong said she wants to move to a new house—somewhere in Kampung Jalan Panchor Kulim. She plans to rent a place there. I don't want follow her. I mean I cannot be with her. But at Kedai she asked me either I will follow her or not. So... Maybe I’ll follow her. I mean, if I don’t, how else am I going to help her with Kedai, right?

But honestly… I’ve been feeling so annoyed with her lately. One thing about my sister is she can be really self-absorbed. It’s like everything has to be about her—her stories, her struggles, her achievements. And in arguments, she always flips it to make herself look good and me feel like shit. She never apologizes, never admits when she’s wrong. It’s exhausting. I feel like I’m losing myself around her.

Part of me wants to run away. I don’t even want to work with her anymore. That’s when everything started to spiral. I’ve been trying to look for a new job—searching on Facebook groups, asking around. But nothing. No leads. No idea what’s next. What am I even doing with my life?

And then I start comparing myself with others—my friends, my batchmates. They’re achieving things. Moving forward. Living. And me? I feel stuck. So, so far behind. Too far to catch up.

That’s when the thoughts creep in again—that maybe if I just disappeared, maybe if it all just stopped, I wouldn’t have to feel this failure anymore. I wouldn’t have to keep pretending. I wouldn’t have to keep hurting.

I know this post is messy. It’s not inspirational. It’s not pretty. But it’s honest. And maybe that’s all I have to offer right now.

Last Wednesday was one of those days that felt like a warm hug from the past — a rare and much-needed catch-up session with my best friend, Najihah. We’ve been inseparable since high school, like two peas in a pod. But as we grew older, life naturally took us on different paths. Work, responsibilities, and adulting, in general, kept us busy. Despite everything, we always make it a point to see each other at least once a month. It’s our little promise — to pause our hectic lives and just be in the moment together.

Whenever we meet, it’s like unloading a month’s worth of tea, problems, funny stories, and updates. Nothing is ever off-limits. It’s raw, real, and always full of laughter and sometimes even tears. That’s the beauty of our friendship.

For this month’s meet-up, we kept things simple and close to home. We went to Kulim Central, which is honestly just around the corner from where we live — but hey, it's not always about the destination, right? It’s the company that matters most.

We kicked off our little date with lunch at Myeondong Tteokbokki. Najihah was craving their Seondubu Jjigae like crazy, and of course, I had to be the supportive best friend. Now, let me be real with you — I’m not exactly the biggest fan of Korean food. It’s just not my thing. But seeing Najihah so excited about it made it all worth it. I settled for a simple chicken porridge and we sat down to enjoy our food, pouring out stories from our past few weeks. The laughter, the side glances, the "remember that one time..." — it felt like high school all over again.

After lunch, we made our way to Llaollao, our all-time favorite frozen yogurt spot. I have to say, I think I’ve found the perfect combo — pistachio yogurt with white granola and Chips Ahoy. It was so damn good, I can’t stop thinking about it. We decided to share a medium tube (because we’re those besties who always share everything, even froyo), and savored every spoonful like it was the last one on earth.

But the highlight of the day? Definitely watching Blood Brother at the cinema. Let me just say this — it was worth every cent. I initially bought the tickets because, well… Syafiq Kyle. Enough said, right? But the movie turned out to be more than just good looks on screen. The plot twist had us gasping and clutching our seats — it was that intense. I haven’t felt that invested in a movie in a long time. It brought back memories of the last time we watched a movie together — Highland Tower, back in our high school days. Crazy how time flies.

Before heading home, we made a quick stop at CU Mart to grab some snacks — because why not? We weren’t done talking, obviously. More stories, more emotional unloading, more laughter. As our little hangout came to an end, we grabbed some Ai Cha for our families, a small gesture that wrapped up the day on a sweet note.

Spending time with Najihah is always grounding. In the middle of our busy lives, it's moments like these that remind me of the importance of friendship — the kind that stays strong no matter how many years pass or how many things change. Just two best friends, a simple day out, and hearts a little lighter by the end of it.

Here’s to many more spontaneous meet-ups, deep conversations, and of course, more pistachio Llaollao.

Lots of love, 
Nadiera Hashim
1:15 p.m.
Kedah, Malaysia. 

                               

Yet, here I am, forced to suppress these feelings because I know you are already devoted to someone else.

I hate being this person, the one who silently admires from afar, who smiles at your jokes but never lets you see the deeper emotions behind the laughter. I have so much love to give, yet I don’t know where to place it. It feels heavy, like a weight pressing against my heart, suffocating me with its presence. 

I watch you from a distance, not in a way that is obvious or intrusive, but in the way someone observes something precious that they can never claim. I admire you in ways I can never express. I am not someone who confesses easily. Maybe it’s fear, or maybe it’s the knowledge that some things are meant to remain as they are. So I stay in the shadows of my own emotions, hoping that with time, these feelings will fade.

But the truth is, I don’t know how long it will take. Love is not something that disappears overnight. It lingers, even when I try to push it away. Perhaps one day, I will wake up and no longer feel this ache in my heart. Maybe one day, my feelings will dissolve into nothingness, leaving behind only a faint memory of what once was. Until then, I will continue to admire you from afar, keeping my emotions locked away where they cannot harm anyone, especially myself.

From my youth, I absorbed the unspoken rule that speaking up was synonymous with rebellion — especially at home. I learned to suppress my thoughts and feelings, fearing rejection or punishment if I dared to express myself. This silence became my shield, protecting me from the discomfort of confrontation. In silence, I am safe.

As I grew older, the silence only grew louder. I watched as others confidently voiced their opinions and asserted themselves while I remained on the sidelines, afraid to draw attention to myself. The fear of judgment and rejection kept me firmly rooted in silence and invisible in a world that seemed to value only those who spoke up.

But the consequences of my silence were profound. I struggled to form meaningful connections. I am trapped in a cycle of passivity and insecurity. Opportunities passed me by, as I lacked the confidence to pursue my dreams. Silence became a barrier to my own growth and happiness.

It hinders me to let my emotions out. I’m not very good at telling people how I feel. I’m used to keeping it to myself. Even when I’m hurting, I remain silent. I deal with my feelings alone.

Nobody will even dare to listen to me, so I just don’t talk.

That’s when I realized that the loudest scream is the one that remains unheard. What’s seen or heard doesn’t always show the whole picture of someone’s struggles; the most intense pain can be kept hidden silently, where silence speaks the loudest.

It’s unfortunate — I mastered the art of being silent even when there’s a lot to be said.