The Weight of the Last Goodbye:

It had been six months for the reason that crash, but Hamza nonetheless heard the sound of shattering glass each time he closed his eyes. The screech of tires. The very last scream. and then — silence.

He become the best one that made it out alive.

The coincidence had claimed three lives: his first-class friend Zayan, his cousin Areeba, and the driver. Hamza have been sitting within the again seat, half of-asleep, while the car veered off the motorway close to Hyderabad. He woke up in a health center bed with a fractured arm and a heart complete of questions.

The Guilt starts

All people called him lucky. “Allah saved you,” they said. “You had been intended to live.” but Hamza didn’t sense lucky. He felt cursed.

Why him? Why no longer Zayan, who had just gotten engaged? Why no longer Areeba, who had desires of becoming a journalist?

He replayed the night time time and again. Had he distracted the driver? must he have insisted they stop for tea? should he have changed some thing — some thing?

The Silence at domestic

Again in Karachi, his home felt less warm. His dad and mom tried to comfort him, but their words floated past him like smoke. He stopped going out. Stopped answering calls. His room became a shrine of silence.

Zayan’s mother visited once. She hugged Hamza tightly, sobbing into his shoulder. “You had been like a son to me,” she whispered. “Now you’re all i have left.”

Hamza couldn’t reply. He wanted to scream, “I’m now not sufficient!” however the words stayed buried.

The magazine

One night time, whilst rummaging thru his drawer, Hamza located an antique magazine — a gift from Areeba. inner have been blank pages and a be aware: “Write what you could’t say.”

He commenced writing. Slowly. Painfully. He wrote about the crash. about the guilt. about the goals he had in which Zayan stood at the edge of a cliff, calling his call. approximately the manner Areeba’s laughter echoed in his ears like a ghost.

The journal became his lifeline.

The Turning point

Hamza’s therapist recommended some thing radical: go to the crash website online.

He resisted in the beginning. however one foggy morning, he drove to the toll road stretch wherein it passed off. the road turned into quiet. The timber still bent slightly from the wind. He stood there, respiratory in the air, watching for something — a sign, a launch.

alternatively, he located a small bouquet of dried flowers tucked below a stone. a person have been there. a person else remembered.

He sat down and wrote inside the journal: “I survived. however I convey them with me.”

The communique that modified the entirety

Weeks later, Hamza met Zayan’s fiancée, Mina, at a own family collecting. She appeared fragile, like a painting overlooked inside the rain. but while she saw Hamza, she smiled.

“I used to hate you,” she said quietly. “For living.”

Hamza nodded. “I hated me too.”

“but then I realized,” she persevered, “you’re the simplest one that recalls them the manner I do. That makes you precious.” Her words cracked some thing open. For the first time, Hamza cried — not out of guilt, however out of grief.

The recovery begins

Hamza started sharing his magazine entries on-line. anonymous in the beginning. tales of survivor’s guilt, of memory, of recuperation. To his wonder, human beings answered. Strangers shared their personal losses. Their personal guilt. Their personal silence.

He wasn’t by myself.

He started volunteering at a trauma support group. no longer as a counselor, but as a listener. He informed his story. And in doing so, he helped others inform theirs.

The final entry

At the anniversary of the crash, Hamza again to the web site. This time, he added clean plant life. He located them lightly, whispered a prayer, and opened his journal.

His final access read: “I lived. not as opposed to them — however due to them.”

He closed the magazine, stood up, and walked away. no longer from the reminiscence, however from the burden of the remaining good-bye.