echos of what I miss

In the midst of chaos, somewhere between headache and heartache, I find myself whispering—in a voice barely heard by my own soul:

"I miss my ex-bestfriend."

The voice vanishes before I realize it's even there. Truth is, I don't miss her person, not after how things ended. Perhaps I miss the routine: our mutual understanding over coffee and ginger lattes, her burning through a pack of Camels like there's no tomorrow. Both of us laying our burdens on the coffee shop table, not seeking solutions—just the comfort of being heard.

But more than that, I miss her mom. That woman whose single hug showed me what a mother's love truly feels like. Even now, the memory brings tears. She treated me like her own, sharing coffee while I perched on her kitchen counter, talking about everything and nothing.

I never really had that. Despite having two mothers in a sense—one who left, and one who loved my brother so completely she forgot I existed. Yet she never forgot to criticize every aspect of my being, planting seeds of doubt that bloomed into an ED, nurturing its relapse with her words. Ages 7 through 21, I was like a sofa cushion: present in the background of photos, but nothing more.

Now, after all those years, she decides to be part of my life. I try to soften my edges, to be forgiving, but my heart remains a closed door.

If I could sit at that same coffee shop table now, speaking to the echo of what was, I'd say: "I'm being stretched thin—both metaphorically and literally. Life throws obstacles in my path while my body wastes away. Ensure is my new favorite meal, served with a daily dose of stress."

I'd pause, tear up a little, then continue: "I'm drowning in stress. Yes, exams will pass, but it's more than that. Between a pervert professor and earth-shattering pressure..."

Taking a sip of ginger latte: "I hinted that I might just get my bachelor's degree and stop there, and my aunt acted like I'd announced the apocalypse."

So here I am, waiting for the security check, when Amr Diab starts singing "shokran keda lel sabna." A sign, maybe?

I just miss the unfiltered conversations.

And honestly...

I just miss feeling like a mother's daughter.