Maioush

Clara fell in love with Seattle long before she ever set foot in it. She was nine years old, curled up on her mother’s couch in Southern California, her dark curls damp from her evening bath, her oversized pajamas swallowing her small frame. The TV flickered, illuminating the living room with a dreamy glow as Sleepless in Seattle played. She didn’t understand all of it—just that love, the real kind, the forever kind, was waiting somewhere in that city, wrapped in fog and fairy lights, hidden in the melody of ferry horns and the hum of rain against windowpanes.

She watched Meg Ryan’s character, Annie, chase a love she had never even touched, and she believed in it. She believed in magic, in fate, in something larger than life. The city, in all its cinematic wonder, felt like a love letter written just for her.

Years passed, and Clara found herself drawn back to Seattle in the most unexpected of ways—through a television screen once more. This time, it was Grey’s Anatomy. She was eighteen, sprawled across her bed, the glow of her laptop screen reflecting in her wide, brown eyes as she watched Derek Shepherd stand on the ferry dock, his hair tousled by the wind, the city skyline painting the background. He talked about the way the water made him feel, the peace it gave him, and Clara felt it, too.

Seattle wasn’t just a place. It was a feeling. A whisper in her bones. A dream that refused to fade.

She promised herself that one day, she would stand on that very dock. She would breathe in the crisp, rain-scented air. She would belong to the city the way she had always felt it belonged to her.

And then, years later, she did. But not in the way she had imagined.

It wasn’t fate or magic that brought her to Seattle. It was love—at least, she thought it was. A boy with stormy eyes and a voice that made her stomach flip. Alex. He was smart. And Clara had always liked smart men. She had always cared for the brain more than the looks, drawn to deep, long conversations, the kind that made her Google something after. Intelligence and wit went a long way with her, and Alex had both.

She met him in a coffee shop in Los Angeles, a place where love stories should begin. He was reading a book on astrophysics, and when she asked about it, he spent the next hour explaining black holes to her in a way that made her heart race. Not because of the topic itself, but because of the way his mind worked, the way his passion spilled into his words. She was hooked.

They fell hard, fast. The way only hopeless romantics do. When he asked her to marry him, to start a life together in the city she had always dreamed of, she didn’t hesitate. She packed her life into boxes, kissed her mother goodbye, and chased love into the unknown.

But Seattle, as it turned out, was the love story she had been waiting for all along.

The city welcomed her like an old friend. The rain kissed her skin like it had been waiting for her. The piers, the skyline, the hidden alleyways—each one became a part of her, like a heartbeat she hadn’t known she was missing. She walked through Pike Place Market, inhaling the mingling scents of coffee and saltwater, watching the street musicians play songs she didn’t recognize but somehow still felt like home. She stood at Kerry Park at dusk, watching the city light up like a pulse, and she knew. She knew she belonged here.

Alex was her world, and for a while, Seattle was their playground. They spent rainy Sundays in bookstores, sharing quiet moments between the pages of old novels. They spent nights in candlelit restaurants, engaging in conversations that stretched for hours, conversations that challenged her mind and fed her soul. She had never felt so intellectually alive, so connected to another person.

One autumn afternoon, they rode the ferry to Bainbridge Island, her head resting on his shoulder as the cold wind whipped around them. “This is perfect,” she whispered. He kissed her temple and held her tighter.

One winter night, they ran through downtown as snowflakes drifted from the sky, her laughter echoing against the buildings. He spun her in the middle of the street, under the glow of twinkling lights. “You’re my greatest adventure,” he told her.

But love—the kind that had brought her here—wasn’t as kind as the city.

She saw the cracks before she wanted to. The way his words became sharp, the way his presence felt more like a shadow than a warmth. He loved her, but not in the way she needed to be loved. Not in the way Seattle did.

She held on longer than she should have. Because she was a believer. Because she had given up everything for him. Because she thought that love, real love, was supposed to be fought for.

Until she realized she was fighting alone.

The day she left, it rained. Not a storm, not a downpour—just a steady, quiet drizzle. As if the city itself was telling her it understood. She packed up her things, her daughters’ tiny shoes and soft blankets, and she walked away. Not from Seattle. Just from him.

She built a life on her own. A life of ferry rides with her girls, of mornings spent wrapped in thick sweaters, watching the mist roll over the water. She found peace in the way the streets glistened after the rain, in the sound of seagulls calling over the Puget Sound, in the way the skyline stood unwavering against the changing seasons.

One evening, she found herself on Alki Beach, the salty breeze tangling in her dark hair. The waves shimmered under the city lights, the scent of salt and pine filling her lungs. Her daughters were asleep at home, safe, warm, loved. And she was here, alone, but not lonely. The city stretched before her, a sea of golden lights reflected in the water, a place that had once been just a dream in a little girl’s heart.

She had chased love to Seattle, only to realize that Seattle had been her love story all along.

And that was enough.

ما أكثر العشاق في هذا العالم، وما أقل الأوفياء! العشاق يملأون الطرقات، يتناثرون كأزهار الربيع، يهمسون بوعودٍ جميلة، يعقدون العهود فوق شرفات الغروب، ثم يذوب كثيرٌ منهم مع أول ريحٍ باردة، مع أول اختبارٍ للحب، مع أول خلافٍ يُشعل المسافات بينهم. أما الأوفياء، فهم نادرون كحبات المطر في صيفٍ قاحل، كقمرٍ لا يفقد ضوءه مهما أرهقته العتمة، كبحرٍ لا يخذل شواطئه مهما ابتعدت عنه السفن

نحن لا نحتاج إلى عيدٍ للعشاق، فالعشق كثير، لكنه هشٌّ كزجاج النوافذ في مواجهة الريح. نحن نحتاج إلى عيدٍ لأولئك الذين ظلّوا رغم كل شيء، الذين لم يغيّرهم الوقت، ولم تُطفئهم المسافات، ولم تهزمهم الأيام. نحتاج عيدًا لأولئك الذين آمنوا أن الحب ليس لحظة نشوةٍ تنطفئ، بل جذورٌ تضرب في الأرض وتمتد، مهما حاولت الرياح اقتلاعها

في زمنٍ باتت فيه المشاعر مُعلّبة، والعلاقات تُباع بأرخص الأثمان، والوعود تُقال على عجلٍ ثم تتناثر مع الريح، نحتاج عيدًا يُحتفى فيه بمن حملوا قلوبهم كالأمانات، بمن لم يتغيروا رغم تغيّر الأيام، بمن لم يجعلوا الحب صفحةً تُطوى في نهاية الرواية، بل جعلوه كتابًا مفتوحًا على الأبدية

أين عيدُ الذين لم يخذلونا؟ أين عيدُ من كانوا حضنًا دافئًا حين بردت الحياة، ومن كانوا عكازًا حين اشتدّت بنا العواصف، ومن ظلّت عيونهم نوافذ مضيئة في ليالي الغياب؟ أين عيدُ من لم يغلقوا الباب حين أغلقتها الدنيا في وجوهنا، ومن لم يلتفتوا إلى غيرنا رغم كثرة الإغراءات؟

الحبّ ليس مجرد نظراتٍ عابرة، وليس هدايا ملفوفة بورقٍ فاخر، ولا رسائل عذبة تنتهي بنقطة. الحبّ هو أن تكون هناك، دائمًا وأبدًا، رغم البعد، رغم المشكلات، رغم العثرات، رغم الحياة بكلّ ما فيها من جنون. الحبّ أن تبقى، ولو كان البقاء مُرهقًا، ولو كان الطريق طويلاً، ولو صار القلب مدينةً يسكنها التعب

فلا تحدّثوني عن عيدِ العشاق، بل حدّثوني عن عيدٍ للذين لم يتركوا أيدينا حين احتجنا إليهم، عن عيدٍ لمن كانوا نجمًا في سماء العمر، لا يرحلون حتى لو اختفت الشمس. حدّثوني عن عيدٍ لأولئك الذين لم يخذلوا، ولم يخونوا، ولم يتغيّروا، وبقوا كما هم، رغم كل شيء

تعلّموا الوفاء أولًا، ثم اصنعوا للحب عيدًا

For decades, the world has watched as Palestine has been stripped of its land, its history rewritten, its people displaced, imprisoned, and massacred. Politicians gather in lavish halls, speaking the language of diplomacy, but their words are nothing more than an elaborate smokescreen for betrayal. They do not negotiate peace—they orchestrate the theft of a homeland.

The latest meeting between Donald Trump and Benjamin Netanyahu was not a discussion between world leaders. It was an execution order. A declaration that Palestine is no longer a cause, but a commodity to be traded, its people nothing more than an obstacle to be removed. This was not politics. This was the public burial of Palestinian sovereignty, a reminder that colonialism did not die—it simply evolved.

Trump, the embodiment of Western arrogance, hosted Netanyahu not as a foreign leader, but as a partner in crime. This was not an alliance—it was an empire solidifying its grip over stolen land. Israel, emboldened by decades of impunity, was being reassured yet again: it can bomb, displace, and slaughter, and the world will look away. The White House doors were not opened for peace—they were opened to reaffirm Israel’s position as the untouchable enforcer of oppression.

Netanyahu, ever the warmonger, turned to Trump and spoke with the confidence of a man who knows there will be no consequences. If this is what you’ve done in two weeks, what will you do in four years? It was not a question. It was a challenge. A promise that the worst was yet to come.

And then, with the cold detachment of a man signing off on genocide, Trump delivered the pronouncement: The people of Gaza were just unlucky to be born there.

As if occupation were an accident.
As if ethnic cleansing were a misfortune rather than a calculated crime.
As if the children buried beneath rubble had merely drawn the wrong number in a cruel lottery of fate.

And then came the ultimate betrayal. The final solution, packaged as policy. Relocation. A polite word for forced exile, for erasing a people from their land. Palestinians, stripped of their homes, would be scattered, exiled, banished. Jordan and Egypt, they said, would take them in. A new life, they claimed, one without suffering. But the suffering does not come from the land—it comes from the occupier.

Gaza—the unbreakable heart of Palestine—would be no more. Its streets, once filled with the laughter of children before they became the targets of drones, would be emptied. Its homes, already burned by airstrikes, would be erased. The world would be asked to forget.

And who would fund this modern-day Nakba?
Not just the U.S. Not just Israel. But Arab regimes themselves.

The same nations that drape themselves in the Palestinian flag for the cameras, that claim solidarity in speeches, would be the ones to sign the check for their displacement. Saudi Arabia will pay. The UAE will pay. Others, silent for now, will pay. They will not fund liberation—they will fund exile. They will not protect Gaza—they will erase it.

The wealth that should have been a shield for Palestine will be turned into a weapon against it. The oil money that should have fueled resistance will instead be used to fuel dispossession. Because to these regimes, Palestine is not a homeland—it is a problem they want to make disappear.

Then, as if colonialism had never ended, the final insult was delivered: America will take Gaza and rebuild it.

Rebuild it? Rebuild what? The homes that were bombed by Israeli fighter jets? The hospitals reduced to rubble by Western-backed airstrikes? The graves of children who never lived long enough to see freedom?

Gaza does not need America’s reconstruction. Gaza does not need foreign investors to develop it. Gaza needs freedom. Gaza needs an end to the blockade that has strangled its people for years. Gaza needs the right to exist, not to be rebranded as real estate for the highest bidder.

Trump, ever the colonial overlord, dismissed an Afghan journalist with a wave of his hand. I don’t understand you. Good luck in life. Live in peace.

Peace? What peace?
The peace of the grave?
The peace of exile?
The peace of silence after the last Palestinian is forced from their land?

They speak of peace, but their hands are soaked in blood. They say the word as they bomb homes, as they destroy generations, as they turn Palestine into a bargaining chip on the global stage. They repeat it like a prayer, hoping it will drown out the sound of their crimes.

But where is peace?

Is it in the miles of refugees forced to march into the unknown, their journey paid for with Arab wealth?
Is it in the children of Gaza, growing up in foreign lands, never knowing the streets where their grandparents once walked?
Is it in the maps being redrawn by men who have never stepped foot in Palestine, deciding with a pen stroke who has the right to exist?

This was not a peace summit. It was a war council. The world is not witnessing negotiations—it is witnessing the systematic dismantling of Palestine, orchestrated not just by Israel and the West, but by the very leaders who should be its defenders.

They believe they have won. They shake hands. They sign their deals. They buy silence with oil money. They erase history with contracts and signatures.

But Palestine is not a deal to be negotiated in the shadows of betrayal. It is not a land that can be sold to the highest bidder.

Palestine is the key still clutched in the hands of the grandmother who was forced from her home.
Palestine is the name whispered in the dark by a father who refuses to let his children forget where they come from.
Palestine is the unyielding spirit of Gaza, where every bomb dropped only deepens the resolve to resist.

They may believe they are writing the final chapter.

But Palestine is not a story that ends.

Palestine is the fire that will never be extinguished.

لم يكن قرار التخلِّي وليد لحظة غضب، ولا نتيجة انفعال عابر، بل جاء كخاتمة هادئة لحكاية طويلة من الصبر والتغاضي والتماس الأعذار. جاء كإدراك مُفاجئ، كطلوع شمس في ليلٍ دامس، يكشف أمام عينيها حقيقة كانت تُنكرها طويلًا

عندما ترى الصورة من كل الزوايا، عندما تفهم أن التضحية ليست كافية لتُبقي أحدًا، وأن الاحتمال لا يعني التقدير، تُدرك أن الكفّة لم تكن يومًا متوازنة، وأنها لن تتوازن مهما انتظرت. كانت تعطي، تمنح، تصبر، تتغاضى، تُبرِّر، وتُطفئ الحرائق في قلبها كي لا يحترق الآخرون، لكن في المقابل؟ تهميشٌ بارد، قلة اهتمام، كأن وجودها أو عدمه لا يُحدث فرقًا

في لحظة الإدراك تلك، تتغيّر المشاعر كما لو أن قلبها كان واقفًا على حافة هاوية، وقرّرت فجأة أن تخطو للخلف بدلاً من السقوط. لم يعد هناك ذاك الحنين الذي كان يخنقها كلما حاولت الرحيل، لم يعد هناك التعلُّق الذي كان يجرّها رغم كل الأوجاع. الأمر ليس أنها كرهت، بل أنها أفاقت

وهذا هو الإدراك القاسي، أنه لا مجال للتراجع. أن المشاعر التي تموت بفعل الوعي لا تُبعث من جديد، لأنها لم تمت بفعل الغضب أو الحزن، بل ماتت لأنها استنفدت كل أسبابها. يصبح الرحيل عندها شفاءً، يصبح النجاة الوحيدة التي لم تكن تراها وهي غارقة في انتظار ما لن يأتي

وعندما تسير في طريقها، لن تلتفت. لن تبحث عن بقايا، لن تنتظر التفاتة أخيرة. ستدرك حينها أنها لم تترك أحدًا خلفها، بل تركت وهمًا كانت تحمله في قلبها، وأخيرًا، تحررت منه

كانت تظن نفسها قوية. ظنت أنها لا تحتاج إلى أحد، وأن الأيام صقلتها بما يكفي لتسير وحدها، لا تلتفت، لا تنتظر، لا تتكئ. تعلّمت كيف تكون رجل نفسها، كيف تقف في وجه الحياة حين تقسو، وكيف تربت على قلبها إن خانها الأمان. كانت تعرف أن لا أحد سيأتي لينتشلها إن غرقت، فتعلمت كيف تسبح ضد التيار، وكيف تخفي ارتجاف يديها حين يداهمها الحنين

لكن في أعماقها، كانت تعرف أنها تكذب على نفسها

كانت تتظاهر بالقوة، لكنها كانت تحلم بأن تغمض عينيها يومًا وتترك لأحدهم دفة القيادة. أن تسمح لشخص ما بأن يكون حضنها حين تشتد عليها الوحدة، ويدها حين يرهقها الطريق. لكنها لم تكن تريد أي رجل. لم تكن تحتاج إلى من يفرض نفسه وصيًا عليها، أو من يظن أن الأنوثة ضعفٌ يحتاج إلى حماية. كانت تحتاج إلى رجلٍ يجعلها ترغب في أن تكون ضعيفة معه، لا لأنها مجبرة، بل لأنها أخيرًا وجدت من يستحق أن تُسلمه قلبها دون خوف

وحين وجدته، اكتشفت حقيقتها لأول مرة

لم تكن تلك القوية كما ظنّت، لم تكن بحاجة إلى دروعها كما اعتادت. كانت امرأة، بكل هشاشتها الجميلة، بكل رقّتها التي أخفتها لسنوات، بكل أحلامها الصغيرة التي خبأتها خشية أن تسخر منها الأيام. وجدت نفسها أمامه كطفلة تروي له أسرارها، تبوح بمخاوفها، تغفو على صوته مطمئنةً كمن عاد إلى منزله بعد سنواتٍ من الضياع

معه، لم تعد بحاجة إلى التصنّع، إلى حساب خطواتها، إلى حمل كل شيء على عاتقها. معه، عرفت أن القوة ليست في القدرة على السير وحدها، بل في أن تجد يدًا تشد على يدها وتطمئنها أن بوسعها أن تستريح. أن هناك من سيكون بجانبها مهما اشتدت العواصف، وأنها ليست بحاجة إلى أن تكون بطلةً طوال الوقت

أغمضت عينيها أخيرًا، ولم تخف. لم تفكر في الغد، ولا في الاحتمالات. لم تخشَ أن تنهار، لأنها كانت تعرف أن هناك من سيحتويها إن فعلت. للمرة الأولى، لم تعد تقاوم، لم تعد تحارب، لم تعد تبحث عن مبررٍ لتكون كما هي

Life is a strange, beautiful thing. It starts with so many possibilities, as if every newborn carries within them countless versions of themselves. An artist, a scientist, a dreamer, a leader—the potential is endless. And yet, by the time we take our final breath, we’ve become just one person, a single version of all those possibilities, shaped by the choices we made, the fears we conquered, and the paths we dared to follow.

This idea—that anyone can achieve their fullest potential—isn’t about perfection or some lofty standard set by the world. It’s about recognizing that while parts of who we are might be written in our DNA or shaped by the circumstances we’re born into, the journey itself is ours to chart. Who we become is not about the cards we’re dealt but about how we play them.

It’s easy to feel limited by the idea that some things about us are predetermined. Maybe you weren’t born into wealth or privilege. Maybe you weren’t gifted with a prodigious talent or a sharp intellect. But these things don’t define your ceiling; they simply mark your starting point. You are not a prisoner of your circumstances. They are just the foundation, the soil from which you can grow.

The real magic lies in the power of choice. Every single day, you decide what kind of life you want to create. And yes, it’s terrifying. Fear has this way of creeping in, whispering doubts, convincing you to play it safe. It tells you your dreams are too big, your abilities too small, and the risk too great. Fear can be paralyzing, but it doesn’t have to be. Because here’s the truth: fear is nothing more than a test. It’s the universe asking, “How badly do you want this?”

Then there’s the weight of expectations—the ones placed on you by family, friends, and society. Maybe they want you to follow a path that feels safe, practical, or respectable. Maybe they don’t understand your dreams, or worse, they belittle them. But here’s the thing: you don’t owe anyone the life they think you should live. This is your story, not theirs. You get to decide what success looks like for you.

The journey to your fullest potential isn’t about avoiding fear or ignoring expectations; it’s about pushing through them. It’s about challenging the limits of what you think you’re capable of. Sure, destiny may feel fixed in the sense that we all meet the same end, but what we do between our first breath and our last—that’s where destiny becomes flexible. You can’t control how much time you’re given, but you can control what you do with it.

When you think about it, every step forward is a choice to become a little more of who you’re meant to be. Every time you face a fear, take a risk, or refuse to settle for less than what feels right, you’re shaping your potential. And when you stumble—and you will stumble—you get back up, not because it’s easy, but because the alternative is standing still.

At the end of the day, life is a paradox. We’re all born bursting with infinite possibilities, yet we only get to live one version of ourselves. The question is, will you let fear, doubt, or someone else’s expectations write that version for you? Or will you pick up the pen, challenge your limits, and create a life that feels true to who you are?

The choice is yours. Always yours. And that’s the most powerful thing of all.

If you ask most souls what they seek from life, the answer spills forth like a gentle breeze: happiness. A simple desire, yet as elusive as a fleeting shadow. But perhaps it’s this very longing—the relentless chase for bliss that dances just out of reach, a shimmering mirage that keeps us forever striving yet never arriving.

In our fervent pursuit, we try to will ourselves into joy, crafting smiles that sometimes feel like masks, like fragile glass hiding the tumult within. We become artists of our own lives, painting over our true selves in strokes of forced cheerfulness. Each day, we wear our smiles like armor, declaring our determination to be the joyful souls we envision in our dreams. Yet, in this ceaseless striving, we often lose sight of who we truly are, drowning in a sea of expectations that bubble up like foam on the surface, while the depths remain untouched.

But then, in quiet moments of reflection, it strikes us with a soft clarity: happiness has been there all along, nestled not in the grand ambitions or distant hopes, but in the gentle embrace of the familiar. It whispers in the laughter shared with friends, in the warmth of a sunset draping the sky in hues of gold, in the soft rustle of leaves on a breezy afternoon.

Happiness resides in the small things—those known comforts that feel like home, the scent of morning coffee brewing, the tender moments spent with loved ones. It lies in the simple pleasures, often overlooked in our quest for something more profound. It is found in the laughter that bursts forth unexpectedly, in the solace of a good book, or the quiet rhythm of our own heartbeat.

Maybe the secret to happiness isn’t in the chase, but in learning to be present, to cherish the now, and to recognize the beauty woven into the fabric of our everyday lives. In embracing the ordinary, we discover that happiness isn’t something to be sought after; it is the essence of our existence, waiting patiently for us to notice it.

So, let us slow down and breathe, allowing ourselves to revel in the small joys that surround us. In this dance of life, happiness is not the destination we race towards, but the gentle rhythm we can sway to, if only we allow ourselves to listen. As we open our hearts to the familiar, we find that true joy blossoms quietly, like flowers in a sunlit meadow, ready to be cherished, not chased.

Lies and betrayal are two of the most corrosive traits a person can possess. Together, they form a vicious cycle, feeding into each other like a two-way road where harm flows freely in both directions. If you find yourself in a relationship where your partner embraces these behaviors without remorse, you’re standing at a crossroads.

A partner who lies and betrays without guilt creates an atmosphere of distrust and emotional turmoil. Their actions are often accompanied by justifications, excuses, and a complete lack of accountability. They may dismiss your concerns or downplay the harm caused, while continuing their patterns as if nothing has happened. This cycle of deceit often deepens over time, and their behavior becomes more calculated, slipping through the cracks of confrontation with deflection and manipulation. What’s worse, they might even turn the tables on you, blaming you for their actions when you question or confront them.

In such a scenario, the choice to stay or leave becomes a deeply personal and often painful decision. If you decide to stay, it’s vital to recognize the risks involved. Staying without guarding against further deceit—or worse, convincing yourself that things will change without evidence—can lead to a deeper entanglement in the toxicity. Being aware of their actions, yet choosing to remain, places you in a position where the consequences of their behavior, and your decision to endure it, become intertwined. This doesn’t mean you’re to blame for their actions, but it does mean that your choice to stay ties you to the outcomes that follow.

To truly reclaim your power, it’s essential to break free from the mindset of being solely a victim. While their actions may have caused pain and upheaval, focusing solely on the harm done to you can prevent you from seeing the choices you have in front of you. By stepping out of this role, you can begin to navigate your path forward with clarity and purpose, whether that means working toward resolution or walking away.

There is no one-size-fits-all answer. Some will find strength in leaving, seeking freedom and healing outside the bounds of the relationship. Others may choose to stay, determined to work through the damage and rebuild trust—if their partner shows genuine effort and change. But either choice must be made with awareness, honesty, and self-respect. Do not let promises untethered to actions keep you trapped.

You deserve a life free from the constant weight of lies and betrayal. Whatever path you choose, let it be one where your sense of worth, peace, and dignity are front and center. Trust yourself to make the decision that aligns with your inner truth and leads you toward a brighter, healthier future.

When you wait for someone you love to fill your need and they don’t, a sudden wave of bitterness washes over you. Why? Because you’ve stripped yourself bare before them, laid your soul open, showing your most fragile moments. And instead of standing by you, they turn away, indifferent.

It’s no wonder you feel shattered—you handed them something priceless, and they couldn’t see its worth. To bare your heart to the one you love is perhaps the purest form of truth, yet it can be one of the cruelest. Why? Because when you reveal your need, your weakness, and they remain untouched, the hurt runs deeper than mere disappointment. It shatters the trust you placed in them, making you lose hope that they’ll ever be your “rock” again. The safety you once felt in their presence? It vanishes.

Waiting for them to ease your pain is like a heart patient who has lost hope in healing, living each day under the weight of an unspoken, immeasurable sorrow. What’s worse, when someone is hurting, it’s near impossible to put it into words. Their actions, their silence, speak louder than anything they could say, reflecting the depth of their suffering. You may see them still, yet their eyes, their voice, even the quiet between their words, betray the pain they carry.

In the end, we must pay attention to those we love, especially our teenagers, our spouses, our parents. These are the ones who need to hear tenderness in our words and feel the warmth of our support.

Don’t wait for them to fulfill your needs—be present, always. Know their hearts, their longings, even before they’ve spoken them aloud.

وبعد ما يمر وقت كافي، الواحد بيدرك إنه مش بحاجة لحد يدلّعه ويطلّعه ويجيبله هدايا ولا يحكي معه عَ التليفون. و احتياجه بالعلاقة، أو زي ما الشباب هلأ بسمّوها “الريليشنشيب جولز”، بيتلخّص بحدا لطيف قادر يستوعب سخافتك بعد الشغل، ويعرف لحاله عجزك قدام سؤال “شو بدك تاكلي؟” بدون ما تسألي، لأنه  مهتم و عارف

حدا يتقبّل حبك المجنون للكوميكس وأي شي آخره “ساركازم سوسايتي”

 حدا بيخلينا نتصالح مع الدنيا والمستقبل، وإحنا نصالحه مع ربنا والماضي. مش ضروري يشوفنا أحسن ناس بالعالم، بالعكس، شايف قرفنا عادي، ومش بالضرورة يقدر يحتويه كله، بس على الأقل بيحاول

حدا يعطينا المساحة نكون إحنا، وبوجوده الحنون واللطيف، نتعلم كيف نكون إحنا أصلاً