When I first heard that interview between Andrew Garfield and Elmo, it felt like my heart just cracked open. Andrew talked about missing someone as if it were this bittersweet gift — a kind of sadness that makes you feel alive because it reminds you of how deeply you’ve loved. And as soon as I heard him say that, I thought of you, Mami. It’s been four years, but I miss you just as much as I did the day you left. You were the one person in this world who could hear my unspoken words, who just knew how to pull my thoughts out of the shadows. You were my safe place, my translator for all the noise in my head. Now, with you gone, it’s so hard to speak what’s on my mind. I feel like I’ve lost my voice without you.
I wish you were here right now. I wish I could tell you about how my heart is breaking cause i was fall in love too deeply, too genuinely. You’d listen, wouldn’t you? You’d listen with those warm, kind eyes that held so much understanding. You’d say it would be okay, that all this pain would pass, and somehow I’d believe you. You’d give me the warmest smile, pull me in for the tightest hug, and I’d feel safe again, just for a little while. Then, you’d head to the kitchen to make my favorite roti canai or nasi kebuli, and I’d sit there, knowing I couldn’t leave a single bite unfinished because it was made with your love. And I miss that too. I miss your cooking, Mami, the way it tasted like home, like comfort, like everything I needed but didn’t even know how to ask for.
I miss how your room always smelled like sweet vanilla. It felt like a world apart, a place where everything softened, where my worries felt smaller. I miss having someone who understood me so completely, someone who could see my tears without me having to explain them. I miss you, Mami, in all the ways I never thought I’d have to.
People who meet me today are always surprised that I pray five times a day. They don’t know the story behind it. They don’t know that before you leave this earth, you’d always remind me, “If you can’t talk to me, talk to Allah. I’ll hear you that way.” I listened, Mami. You taught me to talk to Allah about everything, and it’s become my lifeline. When I feel like I can’t go on, I talk to Him, and I feel close to you again. It’s strange, but in a way, those prayers keep me grounded. They keep me away from things I know you wouldn’t want for me. I don’t go out all night like I used to. I don’t drink. I don’t smoke. I sleep early now, sometimes as early as 8 p.m., and I know you’d be proud of that.
But Mami, I’m still that kid who feels lost without you. The one who longs for a safe space to be understood. When I feel like I’m breaking, I close my eyes and imagine you’re beside me, with that smile, that warmth, that vanilla scent, and I hold onto that memory.
In my prayers, I tell Allah everything — about my fears, my dreams, my regrets — and I hope that, somehow, my words reach you. Maybe you’re listening; maybe you’re still helping me through all this, even from where you are. And even though I can’t see you, feel you, or hear you, I find myself celebrating the memories of you every day, wrapped in that familiar sadness, like a gentle reminder of how much you mean to me. I carry you with me, Mami. I miss you more than words can say.
Al- Fatihah.
The interview : https://vt.tiktok.com/ZSjFMt8fp/
