My past is a story of fragrances—ones I can sense but never touch. Even the memories are slipping away, fading into the folds of yesterday. He left me on a Tuesday. And somehow, every time life becomes unbearably difficult, it’s a Tuesday again.
The rustle of dry autumn leaves and the feeling of his nearness—they’re so alike. In every rain-soaked evening, at every creak of the windowpane, I wonder, maybe it’s him? But no. Those who walk away never return. In the dark silence of the last hours of the night, I sometimes awaken, and the sleeping girl inside me stirs again. I start to believe that maybe tomorrow’s sun will bring a new day, a new year, and new hopes. That maybe my loneliness will die away. But no—it never happens like that.
What does happen is that my loneliness clings to me, sobbing softly. The morning sunbeams peep in through the curtains and ask again, “Where is that doll-like girl who used to live in this room with you?”
Now I just sit in silence, in the same room, waiting for time to shift. I wonder if you’ll remember something—my voice, my words, those vows where I promised I’d forget every moment we spent together. I once swore I would forget you. And now, I’ve even forgotten those promises.
I used to be a stubborn girl—wild as the sea breeze, building castles out of sand on the shore, my hair tangled by the wind. That version of me was beautiful in the eyes of strangers. Wherever I went, people would ask me to talk to them, like I had wings or something magical about me. Maybe that’s why I rarely left home.
Then one day, Aunt Margaret came to visit. She hugged everyone with joy, then turned to me and said, “You’re like my own daughter.” I remember the happiness those words brought me. I told everyone, proudly, “Aunt Margaret says I’m her daughter.” I adored her more than words could express.
My heart felt attached to her children. I’d visit them every year, especially because I liked her eldest daughter, Lena, so much. And Ethan, her son—playful, spirited, full of energy—he eventually made his way into my heart, too.
Whenever I visited with Mom, Aunt Margaret would hug me and say, “Stay a few days, please, Sophie!” And I’d reply, “But how can I, Auntie? I have school.” I loved studying. I dreamed of learning so much that I could one day teach others. I used to write poems in my friends’ notebooks. My teachers would say, “Sophie, you're not only beautiful, but you write beautiful poetry, too.”
Aunt Margaret had three sons and three daughters. At Lena’s wedding, I saw how love could be mischievous and full of teasing. Ethan, for some reason, seemed to care for me deeply. He was always teasing me, joking around. I never understood why he was so concerned about me. He seemed happiest when he sat near me. But I spent most of my time with Lena—we were inseparable, like soul sisters, ready to die for each other.
I was in eighth grade back then. Ethan would say, “You’re always so busy, Sophie! You never talk to anyone.” And I’d snap back, “What is it about me that makes you always want to talk to me?” I didn’t know what he truly wanted. Even when I visited our other aunt next door, somehow, he’d show up there, too.
Around that time, things took a turn at home. My father passed away. We were six siblings, all so young, and life became incredibly hard. Grandma moved in and eventually took us to live with our uncle. Grandpa would send us money for expenses. But nothing was the same anymore.
I was very close to Dad. I spent most of my time with him. I’d never been apart from him. If someone asked, I’d say proudly, “Yes, I love my dad a lot.” I’d joke with him, talk endlessly. And then, suddenly, he was gone—forever.
After he died, I fell seriously ill. My skin turned pale. I couldn’t focus on school. The sorrow grew heavier with each passing day. So, Mom sent me to Aunt Margaret’s house, hoping the change would lift my spirits.
Sometimes in life, there are moments so precious, so full of emotion, that they leave an imprint on your soul. You never forget them. They stay with you, like the fragrance of a blooming rose—sweet, heady, unforgettable.
These memories—this priceless treasure—aren’t granted to everyone. Everyone carries memories, yes, but some are heavy with tears, others light as fragrant blossoms. And sometimes, even the most beautiful memories become painful—like walking barefoot through a field of thorns. Still, we hold them close, because they belong to someone we once loved deeply.
It was a beautiful day. Clouds were drifting in from every direction, and a cool breeze filled the garden. A delicate little bud swayed restlessly on a fragile branch—sometimes brushing against one flower, then another. It would lean toward the ground and then stand tall again. Even this little bud had a heart. It longed to bloom, just as Daniel, my cousin, longed for me to talk to him and be the center of his world.
He was always eager to say something to me. Eventually, the bud began to open and transform into a beautiful flower. It had become the object of admiration. Deep down, it was happy, and that happiness made it bloom even more vibrantly. But one hope lived in its heart—it wished not to be thrown away like trash but to be held close to someone’s heart.
Then one day, Daniel finally confessed:
“Elena, I love you.”
I smiled and replied, “Why not? Brothers are meant to love their sisters.”
He shook his head, “No, I mean real friendship—one that lasts a lifetime.”
Daniel was trying to get closer to me.
I said, “You've always been close, Daniel, and you always will be. But don’t ever treat me like a flower you can pluck and discard. I’m not that kind of girl.”
I didn’t hide anything from Letty. Whatever Daniel said to me, I would tell her. This went on for a year. He couldn’t eat without seeing me and would come home early every evening, always thoughtful and caring toward me.
One day, my aunt asked,
“Why is Daniel so attentive toward you, Elena? What’s going on?”
I replied, “I really don’t know.”
She continued, “He’s no longer focused on work, and he stays home all the time.”
I was worried she might think I was distracting Daniel and making him irresponsible. He once said,
“I want to give you something.”
“What is it?” I asked.
“A necklace. I want to place it around your neck myself.”
I said gently, “Daniel, it’s not the right time yet. Focus on your work. When you succeed, I’ll gladly accept a gift from you.”
Lately, I had been feeling tired, often lying down or sitting without energy. People said I looked lovesick, but I didn’t have the words to explain—because even I didn’t know what I was feeling.
Daniel spent more time with his friends. I wanted to guide him toward the right path—the one every well-wisher hopes for—and I did. He began working with his father and became responsible for his household. Yet people misunderstood, saying I was doing all this for my own gain.
That day, it was Sophia’s wedding—my older sister.
She looked radiant in her bridal dress. Joy echoed all around us. Our parents sent her off with prayers and tears. Draped in a red veil, she left for her husband’s home.
Asad, her husband, kept her happy for four years. But when their home remained childless, his mother insisted he marry again. She longed for grandchildren, and Asad was her only son.
Sophia began noticing Asad growing distant. One day, he confessed:
“Sophia, my mother wants me to marry again. What do you think? I want your blessing.”
She was stunned.
“What about all those promises of love and loyalty?”
“It’s only for the sake of children,” he explained.
“Alright,” she said with quiet heartbreak. “If that’s what you want, I won’t stop you.”
Asad was surprised.
“You agreed so easily?”
Sophia looked at him sadly.
“But I have one condition. You must always stay close to me. Never leave me.”
He nodded,
“I’ll love you more than ever before.”
But Sophia wasn’t convinced.
“If you truly loved me, you wouldn’t ask me to share you. I can’t give my home and happiness to someone else.”
And with that, she returned to our family home. We were all heartbroken.
Sophia began working at a school. She was still young and beautiful. Suitors came, but she refused them all.
One day, Daniel visited our house. Sophia was sitting quietly, lost in thought. He couldn’t stop staring at her. I didn’t know if he had started to like her.
I talked to my aunt privately.
“Aunt, you once said if I liked someone, I should tell you. I like Daniel.”
She smiled.
“Stay quiet for now. Let me speak to my son first.”
Later, she asked Daniel:
“Would you like to marry Elena?”
But he replied,
“I don’t like Elena.”
My aunt was furious.
“Do you think we’re desperate? Elena has better proposals than yours. We only asked because we thought you liked her!”
Then Daniel said,
“But Elena herself said she doesn’t like me.”
I was shocked.
“When did I ever say that?”
I pleaded with my aunt,
“I swear on the Quran, I never said such a thing.”
She went silent, but the damage had been done. Seasons changed, and so did hearts.
I cried constantly. Between my sister’s heartbreak and my own, I fell ill. Eventually, Daniel’s mother came with a proposal—not for me, but for Sophia. My mother’s tears silenced me.
And once again, Sophia became a bride.
Whose bride? Daniel’s.
Some time later, Daniel moved to America for business and took Sophia with him. He gave her so much love that she forgot all her past pain. They were happy together. Five years passed, and when they returned, they had three children.
One day, while shopping for the kids, someone called out from behind them. It was Asad.
“I wish we had children too,” he said, with sorrow in his voice.
Sophia stepped away quickly and walked out toward the car where Daniel waited for her. Asad’s second wife had also been unable to have children—the same fate for which he had cast Sophia aside.
After that, my mother suggested marriage proposals for me too. But I never gave an answer.
Because I had given up on the beautiful dream of love.
I kept wondering—why do people deceive others? When someone finally begins to trust with their whole heart, that’s when they betray them. When someone’s mind becomes barren, so does their soul. Life can be shattered in an instant.
But those who deceive... they never find peace either.
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