Oye Mere Farooq Sheikh
Some days I feel like I’m healing, and then a song plays and suddenly I’m right back where it all began.
Today I made a playlist — not for him, but for the version of me that still misses him more than she can admit out loud.
These are old songs, the kind that smell like memories you can’t wash off.
Kiska Rasta Dekhe.
Ranjish Hi Sahi.
Mera Kuch Samaan.
Kahan Ho Tum.
Each one carrying a piece of us, like little paper boats drifting on a river that no longer leads home.
I didn’t make this playlist because I’m dramatic.
I made it because I’m tired.
Tired of pretending I’m strong.
Tired of waking up and checking my phone like a fool.
Tired of telling my mother I’m fine when I’m breaking in all the quiet corners.
Tired of thinking I should “move on” while every part of my body still remembers the way he hugged me from behind.
And if I’m being honest — brutally, embarrassingly honest — I made the playlist because it made me feel closer to him.
For a few minutes, the ache softens.
For a few minutes, the bed doesn’t feel so big.
For a few minutes, I’m not alone.
But closeness isn’t healing.
It’s just survival.
Because even now, I cannot remember the bad as clearly as I remember the good.
I have to force myself to recall the cheating, the lies, the moments he hit me, the times he tore me down with his words.
My mind doesn’t hold those memories naturally.
What it remembers effortlessly is the softness — the Bollywood songs, the laughter, the way I felt safe in his chest.
It’s strange, isn’t it?
How the heart keeps a selective archive.
Some people say it’s because I’m the “elder daughter.”
The caretaker.
The fixer.
The one who swallows the hurt because everyone else needs me to be strong.
Maybe that’s true.
Maybe that’s why I still blame myself for everything — the lies I told, the nights I wasn’t proud of, the mistakes I made while we were on a break.
Yes, I hurt him more than once.
Yes, he reacted with his own kind of violence — emotional, verbal, and physical.
And yes, we both drowned.
But does that mean I deserved to be loved less?
Sometimes I wonder.
Especially now, when I see his brother’s wedding posts.
His fiancée glowing in every frame.
Everyone celebrating.
And I catch myself scanning the crowd instinctively, searching for him.
N.
The man who said he pictured me getting married while he stood outside the room like an outsider, watching.
Today I realized something painful:
Maybe I’m already living that moment.
Watching his life move forward from outside the window.
And it hurts.
It hurts in a way no language can fully capture.
I thought I was strong because I survived everything alone — the hospital visits, the abortion, the nights I cried without him checking in, the breakdowns mid-flight, the silent tearing apart of a future I once believed in.
But the truth is:
I’m tired of being strong.
I want to be held.
I want someone to hug me so tightly that my shaking stops.
I want a forehead kiss that tells me I’m not too much.
I want to feel safe again — not responsible, not guilty, not alone.
Sometimes the loneliness gets so heavy that even touching myself brings back memories of him, and then instead of pleasure I end up crying.
I stop midway because my heart feels like it’s betraying me.
And yet…
here I am, still choosing songs that remember him.
Maybe this playlist isn’t about him at all.
Maybe it’s about me.
About the part of me that loved so fiercely she’s still recovering from the impact.
About the part that still wants softness.
About the part that isn’t done grieving.
Maybe one day these songs will mean something else.
Maybe one day they’ll stop hurting.
But today, they are my truth.
And maybe that’s enough.
Some of the songs from the Playlist
Something i ask myself everytime i refresh my mail
Umeed ke aakhri shammein bhujane ko aana
The emails i keep on refreshing
Tum kehte ho Ki aise pyaar ko bhool jaon?
Reminds me of our cuddles when you held me tight
Ae Muhabbat teri anjaam pe rona aaya
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