Letters to the Self

is not a novel in the usual sense.
It is a quiet unfolding.
A gentle act of remembering.
Between motherhood and the weight of what the world expects,
between the silence of lost names
and the echo of a voice once her own,
a woman begins to write.
She writes not to be heard—
but to listen.
To reach that version of herself
left behind in the noise.
Each letter,
each imagined dialogue,
each breath of inner monologue
is a step inward.
A mosaic of female voices takes shape—
tender, fierce, uncertain, proud.
Not all speak at once.
Some whisper.
Some wait.
But all are real.
This book is a meditation—
on identity,
on womanhood,
on the quiet strength found
only when we dare to meet ourselves
in stillness.
It is for those who read with their skin,
for those who feel the words
before they understand them,
for those who know
that the most intimate stories
are sometimes the ones we write
to no one but ourselves.

Her name was Subina.
Not a coincidence scribbled by a clerk on a birth certificate,
not a neat row of letters called out in morning lines at school.
No—her name was a deep melody,
a rhythm her soul hummed whenever absence brushed against her.
It was the music beneath her steps
since the very first time she stood at life’s wide platform.
She loved her name
the way a mother loves her firstborn—
with the thrill of discovery,
the quiet ache of possible loss,
and the rooted peace of belonging.
She saw in it a shadow of herself,
a symbol like no other,
a window through which she whispered to the world,
with a smile only the self recognizes:
“Here I am.”
And when she married,
when she felt the faint stir of life within—
the world widened.
Her dreams fluttered,
like wings that had forgotten how to fly.
Then came her daughter.
And when her trembling fingers touched that warm, tiny hand,
one thought bloomed clear and sudden in her chest:
“This little one will carry something of me…
a shadow of my name…
an echo of my heartbeat.”
From that moment,
she began searching—not blindly,
but like a poet in search of the line
that matches the rhythm inside.
She turned names in her palms like smooth stones,
measured each against her feeling,
and asked softly:
“Does it carry my shape?
Does it honor my shadow?”
And then she found it.
A name that didn’t feel chosen—
it felt born from her own:
Solina.
Another note, from the same song.
She smiled,
and whispered to herself:
“Subina… and Solina…
two melodies in the same chord.”
But as time passed,
an old voice returned.
A voice she thought she had forgotten—
the voice of a woman nearly lost between roles not her own,
between plates arranged, eyes watching,
and a husband who moved through her life
as if she were something he owned.
On long evenings of quiet,
she would sit before the mirror,
staring for minutes,
hours maybe—
and see a stranger who looked like her…
but wasn’t.

She stared at her own reflection
and asked softly,
“Where did you go?
When did you become a shadow without a voice?”
Between one night and the next,
a silent scream rose inside her—
no one heard it,
but it was loud enough
to carry her to the doorstep of divorce.
She wasn’t chasing rebellion.
Not the kind that echoes hollow in empty rooms.
Nor did she want a fragile kind of freedom
that crumbles at the first storm.
What she longed for was simpler
than all the slogans ever carved into the sky:
She wanted someone to listen.
To believe her tears before her words.
To see her womanhood
not as a risk or a commodity,
but as a living thing—aching and real,
looking only for a safe place to breathe.
Subina—
the one still inside her—
was not reaching for escape,
not for a door out of her skin.
All she ever longed for
was to hear one man say, one evening:
“I see you.”
To be seen
while writing letters in the dark,
not meant to be read,
but written so that something in her would not be lost.
To be understood—
that her gaze in the mirror
wasn’t vanity,
but a quiet, trembling search
for the woman she used to be.

And so, her first letter to herself began.
On an evening with no occasion—
no birthday, no anniversary,
just the hush of a quiet room and a heart needing to speak—
she opened a private dialogue
with the one who lived inside her skin.
She wrote:
“Who is the woman?
Is she a body, longed for and looked at?
Or a soul, listening for someone who understands?
Is she the small fears we hide behind carefully painted beauty?
Or is she… me?”
She let the question settle,
its echo soft but steady.
Then, at the top of her journal,
she wrote the title in calm, deliberate strokes:
Letters to the Self
“Who is the Woman?”

In a quiet corner of a small heart, seven women gathered inside her—
not bound by age, nor place,
but by the questions that never sleep,
and the voices that echo inside them
like letters still waiting to be written.
Sarah exchanged glances with her companions,
then leaned in gently, her voice a soft ripple of wonder and doubt:
“Who is the woman?
Is she a body walking through the crowd?
Or a soul hiding in the shade of a melody,
breathing in the sky’s colors,
rising like the sun in the skies of feeling?”
Silence settled for a heartbeat—
as if the words themselves had paused, listening before they dared be spoken.
Then Maryam lifted her head,
her tone calm and thoughtful, shaped by the weight of years:
“The woman is not a word in the dictionary of bodies.
She is a poem written in the ink of life—
she pulses with every heartbeat,
burns sometimes,
and other times, touches the sky.”
Ruqayya, sitting nearby, lowered her gaze,
then raised her eyes, gentle and quiet—
the kind of quiet only life can teach:
“She is a flower that opens in silence,
that stands against the wind,
carrying in her eyes stories not yet told…
And in every silver strand of her hair,
a tale of both light and shadow.”
In the corner, Layla scratched her head and shrugged,
as if trying to shake free a voice that had been whispering inside her for too long:
“She is the mother who rises from the cloth of exhaustion,
the daughter who feeds the morning with her smile,
the woman who fights, quietly,
in arenas that never called her by name.”
Hadeel laughed lightly, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead:
“Let no one mistake her for weak!
She births hope,
cradles tenderness in every glance,
and builds bridges across rivers of fear.”
And Samira, holding her teacup as if it were the warmth of a lost heart,
whispered—
a note of longing lingering in her voice…
In a circle of quiet light, seven voices gathered like soft threads in the fabric of one soul — women not united by age or place, but by a question that kept returning, like a wind knocking gently at a familiar door.
A hush passed between them before one of them, with a calm yet resolute voice, began:
“Then who is she — the woman? She is you, and me, and every woman who digs through life for its pulse. She loves, and fights, and creates, and lights the forehead of the world with her own fire.”
Reem lowered her gaze for a moment, then turned toward Samira, her eyes bright with a quiet question:
“Is it enough to define her in words? Or is womanhood written in the doing — in the resolve, in the staying?”
Nuha reached over, her fingers brushing Reem’s hand with the gentleness of water meeting shore.
“She is more than phrases,” she said softly. “She is breath we live in, a feeling we carry. Even in weakness — she is there… resisting in silence.”
Zainab nodded slowly, her voice deep with belief.
“And she is also spirit — radiant with faith, drawing strength from God, bending the world’s noise into seeds of kindness for others.”
Leila looked up at the ceiling, her thoughts brushing the skyline of a city she loved and feared.
“In the rush of the real, between the weight of politics and pressure, does the woman stay herself — or does she change?”
From across distance and static, Durrah’s voice rang through the speaker, steady and full like a river refusing to dry.
“Even in the harshest conditions, she remains a wellspring of warmth and steadiness.”
Hasna, always leaning into clarity, added:
“Each of us carries a woman who resembles her own path. There is no single shape for perfection.”
Yasmin smiled, the kind of smile that returns lost pieces to the heart.
“And friendship — sometimes it gives us back the parts of ourselves we forgot how to hold.”
Mariam laughed gently, sweeping her hand toward the others with affection:
“The woman is the ‘other’ in each of us — the neighbor, the sister, the friend who struggles simply to be herself.”
Then Sarah, with a sigh like the beginning of rain, asked the final question — one that lingered, rippling beneath them all:
“So does womanhood begin from within? Or is it the world that draws her outline?”
Ruqayya smiled, a calm light resting on her face, and said,
“Both. She is shaped by the grace of her own self — and by the trials the world casts around her. Woman is a layered being… a spring that never ceases to give life.”
And so, in that soft-lit evening gathering, no one claimed to have found a final answer. But they knew something more valuable:
That woman is not a question to be solved,
but a life to be lived —
written day by day,
on pages that must never be closed.
Later that night, as the voices settled into memory and the room grew still, she gathered what had been spoken — the glimpses, the truths, the sparks between silences — and placed them, tenderly, into what would become her first letter in the collection titled “Letters to the Self”.

“Who is she?”
The question lingered in the room like the fading light of day, soft and open.
“Is she a body walking among people, or a soul pulsing with life?” someone whispered.
“A spirit that lives in colors, and rises like sunlight in the skies of feeling?”
No one answered right away.
They didn’t need to.
Because she was not just a word.
She was a poem, written across the pages of time.
She was dream and promise,
a quiet strength that could not be seen,
but was felt in every heartbeat.
“She is a flower that blooms in silence,” another voice added,
“weathering the storm,
carrying stories in her eyes that have not yet been told—
tales shaped of light and shadow.”
“She is the mother who gives without limit,
the daughter who embraces the morning with a smile,
the friend who lights your way when the world goes dark.”
The room breathed with warmth.
She was not a fragile being, as some still believed.
She was the strength that gives birth to hope,
the tenderness that melts ice,
the will that builds bridges between the impossible and the real.
“So who is she, truly?”
“She is you,” someone said softly.
“She is me.
She is every woman who rises for herself,
who loves, who gives, who creates.”
“She is life in all its colors.
She is the secret of being,
the joy that makes the universe sing.”

It was one of those gentle evenings that arrives like a whispered promise—
soft light leaning through the windows,
the air still, as if listening.
A group of women had gathered in a warm literary salon, broadcast quietly on a television channel,
but more truly streamed through the currents of soul before signal—
where spirits met before words,
and stories were exchanged before their meanings were measured.
The walls seemed to murmur with secrets,
the scent of cardamom rose with the steam of the tea,
and breaths danced lightly, as if in rhythm with something ancient.
Sarah stepped forward, her eyes gleaming with the hunger of knowing.
” What does freedom mean to a woman?
Is it an idea we summon on sleepless nights,
or is it a pulse that lives deep within us? ”
Maryam replied, her voice seasoned by years of quiet fire.
” Freedom for a woman is the power to choose her own path—
to become what she dreams,
unshackled by anything that dims her spirit. ”
Ruqayya lifted her chin, pride shimmering in her gaze.
” Dignity for a woman means guarding her soul from being broken,
walking her road with confidence,
and refusing anything that insults her light. ”
Hadil smiled, her words warm as a woolen shawl in winter.
” Emotion is not weakness for a woman—
it is strength that lives in the heart,
allowing her to love, to give,
and to brighten the lives of those around her. ”
Then Samira spoke, her tone echoing the weight of lived stories.
” Honor for a woman is holding her head high in the face of storms,
being strong even in her moments of softness,
and moving forward without fear. ”
The women exchanged glances—
each saw a reflection of herself in the other,
and understood:
freedom, dignity, emotion, and honor
were not just ideas to discuss,
but lives to live,
and legacies to tell.
In that salon, words were not simply letters—
they were heartbeats,
telling the story of the woman
in her quiet and radiant journey toward herself,
in a world that shifts,
but in which she remains
the light that does not go out.

In a quiet, lamp-lit room tucked between the pages of a forgotten book, a group of friends gathered around a table scattered with coffee cups and memory-stained notebooks. The lighting was gentle—enough to let the letters whisper and the faces bloom.
The conversation turned, almost naturally, toward women.
Iyad spoke first, his voice low and steady:
“She is light—not the passing gleam of day, but the kind that grows inward, from places the eye cannot reach. Light that analysis cannot touch.”
Lujain leaned forward, curiosity flickering in her gaze.
“You mean… the light in her isn’t something we see, but something we feel?”
He nodded, then added,
“In her eyes lives a spark, and in her chest burns a lantern that never dims. If she walks into darkness, she lights not just the path—but the people beside her, behind her… perhaps even the memory of time itself.”
Salma traced a slow circle along the rim of her cup.
“It’s like you’re bringing us back to some first moment… when light itself was born a woman.”
Maysaa smiled gently.
“She doesn’t shine because she knows how to smile—she shines because within her, there’s a garden that never dries. She shelters travelers in her shade, and stores light for those who’ve lost theirs.”
A ripple of quiet awe moved through the room. Then Iyad, after a pause, continued:
“Her light isn’t a color. It’s a quality, a presence, a way of being. She is light when she cradles a child, when she stays up for a dream, when she understands without being asked, when she forgives without being begged.”
From the far end of the table, Nada spoke, her voice measured:
“Nothing lights the world like a woman’s spirit.”
Rami, sitting beside her, whispered:
“And no night can resist her gaze.”
She turned to him and said:
“When she says, ‘I’m here,’ the dark splits open into a path the heart can’t help but follow.”
There was a soft murmur of agreement, then Yumna raised her hand with quiet intent.
“But does she always shine? Don’t we sometimes see her fade?”
The room fell silent, as if breathing her question.
Iyad replied, almost to himself:
“She dims when she’s wounded. But she never goes out.”
Before he could say more, Ruba suggested:
“Let’s each speak of a woman whose light touched our lives. A mother, a sister, a friend, a love… someone who became a home, or a compass.”
Some of the lights were turned down. A hush settled. Even the walls seemed to listen as a gentle rhythm of stories unfolded.
When the first round of voices softened, all eyes were drawn to Maysaa. Something had shifted in her—her gaze distant, resting beyond the windowpane, as if summoning an old warmth.
She spoke in a hush:
“When a woman loves, she holds the whole universe in her arms. She becomes shelter. Her embrace turns into a home. Her patience becomes a quilt that wraps you on cold evenings.”
The others nodded, as though something in her voice reminded them of their mothers.
Then Lujain added, her tone shaped by lived knowing:
“Even when she’s breaking, she holds others together. She hides her cracks behind a quiet smile and says, ‘I’m fine,’ just so no one else will worry.”
Iyad looked down into his cup.
“But she isn’t always fine. And sometimes we forget—she, too, needs someone to hold her.”
Nada spoke softly, nostalgia resting in her tone:
“I remember my mother. I never once heard her complain. Even when we were the ones at fault, she pulled us close, as if forgiveness was already waiting for us in her arms.”
Rami nodded, a quiet affirmation glowing in his eyes.
“She doesn’t love in half-measures,” he said. “When she loves, she gives everything. Without scales, without doubt, without drifting in and out.”
Ruba leaned in, her voice calm but firm.
“Her way of holding you isn’t weakness. It’s the strength of someone who calms storms with an embrace, not an argument.”
Yumna chuckled, the sound soft as a memory.
“She doesn’t need you to explain. One look is enough. And maybe—without a word—she’ll bring you a cup of tea and say, ‘Here… I thought you might need this.’”
Iyad whispered, more to the porcelain cup in his hands than to the room,
“How does she master this art? This melody of mind and heart… without ever striking a wrong note?”
Salma responded, her voice like the hush before dawn.
“Because she was made to a different rhythm. She hears what isn’t spoken. And rests her hand on the wound without pretending it isn’t there.”
Their glances met, not hurried, not rehearsed—each one awakened to something they hadn’t quite seen in themselves, or perhaps had forgotten to honor.
Then Maysaa, her words brushing against silence like a final page turning, spoke:
“She holds you when you’re lost, shelters you when you’re afraid, forgives you when you fall short… And if she goes quiet, it’s only because she’s already wrapped you in her silence.”
For a moment, time bowed its head.
And perhaps—just perhaps—they all realized: they had once passed by such love without naming it.
And only now, from this distance, could they feel its full light.

Confusion
A woman in love never walks a straight line.
She is a heart running through fields of hesitation,
clutching longing in one hand, fear in the other.
And in silence, she asks herself:
“Is it possible to love this deeply?
And if I keep something for myself… is that unforgivable?”
She doesn’t falter because she’s weak,
but because she feels things too deeply to pretend.
She knows—if love pours out too fast, too fierce—it might drown the one she loves, instead of quenching him.
Her emotional confusion is not a flaw in her feeling.
It’s a sign of her clarity.
She doesn’t know how to act with masks,
nor can she fake one face while hiding another.
She wants to give her all,
precisely because she fears being emptied.
So she walks the edge of her emotions,
stumbling as she hides her yearning,
smiling through the ache of absence.
Yes, she loves—
but within her hesitation,
she protects what remains of herself.
She guards the fragile line between giving and self-worth,
hoping to find arms that understand silence,
a hand that doesn’t ask her to always be sure,
but says instead:
“Stumble all you need. I’m here.
I’m not afraid of your depths,
or the trembling of your heart.”

Silence
A woman’s silence is never emptiness,
nor is her quiet absence.
Most often, it is an overflow of feeling
that has no shape matching its truth.
When she falls silent,
she hides a storm she does not want to hurt with,
carefully arranging words inside that, if spoken,
might break, distort, or wound the one she loves.
She does not stay quiet because she cannot speak,
but because she has mastered listening—first to herself.
She honors pain with its due respect,
sets limits on blame,
and grants fear the right to be spoken softly—or left unsaid.
Her emotional silence is no retreat—
it is protection.
Protecting love from the chaos of raw emotion,
guarding dignity from suspicion,
preserving the space between two hearts
from shrinking in moments of exhaustion.
Sometimes she keeps quiet
because she has learned—again and again—
that some confessions are heard in ways that hurt,
and that honesty, when it finds no gentle ear,
becomes a wound counted against the speaker, not the listener.
So when a woman grows silent in love,
do not overlook her quietness.
Approach it as a secret,
read her eyes—
for in the silence of a lover,
there are thousands of unwritten books,
and thousands of unspoken sentences…
all meant only for those who listen to the heartbeat, not the words.

Loss
“Loss for a woman is never just a moment cut from time.
It is a hidden current that keeps flowing deep inside every time she smiles.”
“A woman does not lose like others do—
she does not settle for tears or forgetting.
She keeps the details of loss
in places light cannot reach:
the tone of a voice,
the scent of a shirt,
a shadow of farewell lingering by the door.”
“Her feeling in loss is not weakness—
it is a painful loyalty.
A loyalty that sneaks into her sleep,
her silence,
her kindness to others—
without them knowing that the tenderness she gives
is part of an old tenderness
she no longer knows whom to give.”
“She tends to her grief like a flower on a windowsill—
watering it, talking to it,
then hiding it from eyes so it won’t be hurt.”
“She may love again after loss,
but a part of her stays there—
stuck in a moment unfinished,
in words left unsaid,
in an embrace that fell before it closed.”
“A woman in loss does not master forgetting,
but she learns to live,
to smile cautiously,
to love slowly,
and to protect herself when the ground shakes once more.”
“Loss has taught her that distance is not measured in miles,
and that true departure is the absence of someone
still alive in memory.”

The Silence of Emotion
“A woman does not always speak what’s in her heart…
not because she cannot express it,
but because she knows how to protect it.”
“Inside her, feelings walk lightly on the edges of words—
trembling, fragile, yet never falling.”
“Her love does not call out by name,
nor hang on walls like a picture.
It lives in the fold of a glance,
in the quiver of a hand,
in the slow way she prepares a cup of coffee,
in the silent prayer whispered before sleep.”
“A woman does not fake her feelings.
She either loves with all she has,
or she retreats into her silence.
And that silence… is no drought,
but a hidden water that nourishes you without your knowing,
a tenderness unsaid,
because speaking it would weaken it.”
“You might pass her by, thinking she is cold,
but if you come closer…
if you listen to her quiet,
you will see how many hearts beat inside her,
how much warmth of waiting she hides beneath her pillow.”
“A woman’s silent love
is not a lack of feeling,
but a higher kind of love.”
“She loves you without confusing you,
misses you without tying you down,
and believes that honesty
does not always need a voice.”

The Delayed Confession
“A woman does not always reveal her feelings right away,
nor does she rush to speak, as those who do not know her long breath might think.”
“She stores her words deep in her heart
like a perfume kept in a bottle—
opened only at the moment it truly deserves.”
“Her confession is never meant to fill an empty space,
but to give itself to a safe place,
to an ear that does not judge,
to a heart that never betrays.”
“She knows well what she feels,
yet she speaks only when she is sure
that no word will be wasted,
no feeling reduced,
no heart belittled by those who do not know how to listen.”
“A woman delays her confession, not out of fear,
but because she honors the worth of her emotions.”
“When she loves, she loves deeply—
not spoken in the first moment.”
“When she misses, she misses silently—
not uttered in haste.”
“Her delayed confession
is not hesitation,
but reverence for her feelings,
a perfect timing of her pulse,
a pure wish that her words be a gift, not a confession,
that her voice be met by a heart, not an echo.”
“She falls silent, then writes, then tears what she wrote,
then settles for a glance, or a fleeting touch on the edge of a word.”
“And so she confesses… without speaking,
loves… without confusing,
waits… without burdening.”

Intuition
“A woman does not wait for the truth to understand it.
She feels it before it falls, reads the intentions before they are spoken,
and senses the change in a voice, in a glance, in the absence of small details.”
“Inside her is something like an old radar—
invisible, yet always working.”
“It is intuition, born with her, never trained.”
“She senses it when feelings twist,
when the hidden rhythm of meaning shifts,
when presence fades despite staying.”
“A woman’s intuition is not imagination, but certain without proof.”
“It wakes her at night without reason,
makes her pick up the phone just as the message is on its way.”
“It lets her know you are not okay—
even if you tell her everything is fine.”
“When a woman searches eyes for long,
she hears what lies behind them,
feels what is left unsaid.”
“And when something trembles in her heart,
she listens to that quiver, trusts it,
then smiles… as if she always knew.”
“Intuition is no magic,
but the wisdom of a pure heart.
A woman’s intuition…”
“is that faint light that does not brighten the room,
but lights up the inside.”
“By the truth of her intuition,
she loves before loving,
forgives before being hurt,
and leaves… before being told to go.”

Longing
“A woman is like a river that never runs dry,
carrying deep within it memories of those she loved,
tales of days gone by,
and footprints that leave marks never erased.”
“Longing for her is not a passing moment,
but a long journey through time,
filling her when the sun sets,
and resting within her when voices fade away.”
“She longs silently—
for all that was,
for moments that held her close,
for words left unspoken,
for tears cried by eyes that lips never wept.”
“In a woman’s heart, longing cannot be quenched by distance,
nor softened by the departure of faces.”
“It is the soul’s yearning,
for a memory burning inside,
traveling its shadows whenever she sleeps,
returning to the first meeting, the first laugh, the first whisper.”
“She carries that long longing as a sacred trust,
renewing it every morning,
sending it with the night breeze,
as if to say to life:”
“”I am here, with this longing that shapes me.””
“Longing is not weakness, but a strength that lights a fire of hope within her,
shielding her from the coldness of forgetting.”
“It is the pulse that teaches her how to love,
and how to keep her promise,
even when time slips through her fingers.”

Absence
“There is an absence you cannot see,
not measured by distance or by hours,
an absence that lives inside a woman—
like a shadow that never leaves her,
like an echo that returns without end.”
“It is an absence both sweet and bitter,
the absence of one who never really left,
lost in a place nearby yet so far away,
hovering silently over the corners of her heart,
filling a space no sound can reach,
leaving a trace no hand can erase.”
“A woman feels this absence as she feels the air—
invisible, yet reflected in the darkness of her eyes,
touched in the silence between words,
known deeply in the lonely moments no one else sees.”
“This absence teaches her patience,
plants a seed of hope in her heart,
but also weighs on her with quiet sorrow,
forcing a smile when tears want to spill.”
“Absence is a daily test—
the surprise of solitude in a crowd,
the lesson of strength when no one listens,
or sees what remains unspoken.”
“And yet, a woman keeps her presence,
hides that absence deep within,
nurtures the seed of patience,
and waits for the moment when the presence of the absent one shines,
to fill the void, and break the silence.”

The Longing for Protection
“A woman is not just a symbol of strength and resilience.
She is also a flower that dreams of a gentle touch,
a heart that holds her when fierce winds blow,
a shadow that shelters her from the heat of days and the burning sun.”
“Inside her lives a silent longing—
a melody of safety beating deep within,
a quiet voice asking for help without hiding its power.
This longing for protection is not weakness,
but a natural desire to share her journey,
to find someone who lights her path when darkness falls.”
“When the tree of pride trembles inside her,
she hopes for a hand beside her to comfort,
a voice to soothe,
an embrace that plants calm even amid the storms.”
“A woman who does not long for protection knows how to fight,
but she also knows when to surrender to love—
when the lover’s hand is a refuge, not a chain,
when his embrace is a home, not a prison.”
“She is the dream yearning for the safety of a heart that cares,
the eyes that watch over her peace,
the word that lifts her up instead of breaking her down,
and the silence that turns into a cloak of unseen tenderness.”
“In this longing lies her femininity—
a strength not measured by might,
but by the honest need for someone
to protect her from herself,
and to settle her heart in the calm it deserves.”

Wonder
“A woman is that spark shining in her eyes
when life reveals itself for the very first time—
when closed doors open before her,
and she sees the world through the eyes of a child
carrying the sky’s endless curiosity,
asking, marveling, amazed.”
“The first wonder is not just a moment,
but an inner explosion awakening her soul,
igniting the fires of dreams in her heart,
filling her with a pure desire
to understand all around her.”
“It is the moment that reminds her she is new,
untouched by judgment or past,
the moment she feels love’s hand for the first time,
hears the music of life in fresh notes,
feels the world calling her name,
and she soars on wings unknowing of doubt.”
“Wonder turns a woman into a being
alive with a different rhythm—
singing with the morning breeze,
dancing with the moonlight,
dreaming what words cannot speak.”
“In that wonder, she finds herself,
begins her journey of self and world,
embraced gently,
doors of hope opening wide—
the start of every strength,
every softness,
every new dream.”

Silent Struggle
“A woman fights battles unseen,
internal wars waged within the halls of heart and soul—
battles she never announces,
no loud voice to mark their presence.
These are wars of silence,
not fought with swords,
but with words quietly woven inside her being.”
“In her silence, she rearranges her thoughts,
wrestles with fears and griefs,
battles her own demons,
drawing new boundaries for her strength and self.”
“Silent struggle is no weakness,
but the purest form of power—
where she holds her pain without showing it,
stifles the lump in her throat,
eases her burdens with unseen tenderness,
and keeps a steady smile upon her face.”
“It is a cry unheard by ears,
yet echoing deep in the soul—
proof that she resists,
refines herself in quiet,
and conquers all that sought to break her.”
“From this silent fight,
she is reborn—
strong, enduring, free—
declaring without words
that her power lies not in noise,
but in silence that speaks the fiercest defiance.”

The Mirror
“The mirror is not just a piece of glass reflecting an image,
it is a window through which a woman glimpses herself,
confronting what she sees and what she hides deep within.”
“When she looks into the mirror,
she does not see only the features of a face,
but meets the pulse of her soul,
her reflection questioning untold stories,
dreams and secrets woven through the threads of time.”
“The mirror reveals a hidden strength,
shows her vulnerabilities without shame—
she sees sadness and joy,
doubt and certainty,
lostness and return.”
“It is the mirror of truth that hides nothing,
it urges her to accept, to love,
to discover herself beyond masks and pretenses.”
“With every glance at the mirror,
she rearranges her chapters,
rewrites the story of herself,
and renews the faith that true beauty lies not in appearance,
but in peace with the soul.”

Fear
“Fear lives deep within a woman—not as weakness,
but as a pulse that warns,
a friend guarding the gate of her soul,
shielding her from wounds yet to heal,
planting a watchfulness in her heart.”
“She carries her fear quietly,
never letting it force her to break,
instead using it as fuel
to turn fragility into strength,
doubt into certainty,
and hesitation into choice.”
“In fear’s shadow, she learns caution,
how to protect her space,
to know who deserves love, and who does not.”
“But fear also teaches her courage,
how to take a step despite trembling,
how to build a bridge of bravery
to reach beyond the shadows of worry.”
“It is the friend she never chose,
yet one she masters,
speaks with,
lives alongside,
until she becomes a legend of light,
silently defying every fear.”

Burning
“A woman sometimes burns like a candle in the dark,
silent in her flame,
never letting her light fade.”
“She melts within herself,
giving until her last breath,
until she becomes ash—fragrant and alive.”
“Her burning is unseen,
yet it kindles fires inside—
fires of giving, love, and loyalty.”
“She sacrifices everything,
but never loses her soul to the blaze.”
“Burning for her is the struggle
between pain and pride,
between fading out and shining bright,
between surrender and holding on to hope.”
“It is the moment she loses a part of herself,
only to be born again—
stronger, purer, deeper.”
“Each burn writes a story in lines of pain,
yet it is also a story of light—
the light made by a heart on fire,
guiding the world around her,
even when she burns alone.”

Memory of Feeling
“A woman’s feeling is not a fleeting moment,
but a living memory that keeps every whisper,
every smile, every tear shed in silence.”
“This memory dwells in the corners of her soul,
a precious treasure.”
“Memory of feeling brings back the colors of days gone by,
awakens the scent of the past,
and sketches the faces of those she loved,
those she lost,
and those she still waits for.”
“She carries this memory like a vivid painting,
holding the pain of loss,
the ache of reunion,
the passion of love,
and the calm of a heart
when storms grow quiet.”
“This memory never fades—
it turns into a guiding light,
teaching her how to love deeply,
to endure quietly,
and to build bridges from the ruins of yesterday toward tomorrow.”
“In the memory of feeling lives the woman’s soul—
an immortal spirit,
loving, aching, healing,
renewing every day,
writing the story of her existence
on the page of time.”

The Glow of the Heart
“The first tremor is not just a heartbeat—
it is an expectation that fills the chest,
a hidden pulse revealing the birth of new feelings,
the start of a journey unseen by eyes,
yet deeply felt in the heart.”
“She holds this sacred spark,
a secret that whispers: something has changed,
a feeling gently knocking at her door,
filling her with hesitation and wonder,
with a silent hope.”
“In that moment, emotions twist and blend—
fear and joy,
anticipation and worry.”
“The woman begins to explore herself anew,
redrawing the borders of her inner world.”
“The first glow is a gentle pulse,
a signature of the moment she steps into the realm of feeling,
a new world that redefines her being,
bringing her closer to her true self.”

Shyness
“Shyness in a woman is not weakness,
but a quiet language she uses to show her tenderness,
her wish to protect herself,
and her caution toward worlds that might hurt her.”
“It is the feeling that wraps around her words,
trembles in her eyes,
hides in the bashfulness of her smile,
and stirs the beats of her heart
when she nears what cannot be spoken.”
“In shyness, she keeps her private world safe,
weighing what deserves to be shown,
and what should stay cloaked in shadows of care.”
“But shyness does not stop her from being strong—
behind that delicate veil,
great courage waits,
ready to reveal itself
in a clear, steady voice.”
“Shyness is the other side of innocence,
a key to understanding a woman’s depth.
When she finally speaks,
silence has already said so much,
and the door to true connection opens wide.”

Who is this woman?
She now appears
at the “window of blue light.”
The city’s night is gentle—
cold but not harsh,
heavy yet almost unbearable.
Sobina sits on the edge of her bed,
as if ready to run away—not from a place,
but from an unseen prison.
Its thin thread stretches from her husband’s cold glance
to her mother’s voice, like shattered mirrors, calling:
“Sobina! Get up, serve him.”
In that moment, Sobina becomes someone else—
not the girl she wrote about in her high school journals,
not the one who still hides that notebook
inside a bag, inside a closet no one opens.
Her phone screen flickers.
Blue light reflects on her cheek.
This moment is part of a nightly ritual she never breaks.
When the house sleeps, when orders fade,
her journey begins—the “search for the other.”
Not a “man” in the empty sense,
but a partner who listens,
believes her,
asks questions with her,
gives her back her name—
reading it in messages without the usual “so-and-so’s mother.”
Her trembling hand doesn’t know which doors will open.
It only feels, with a woman’s instinct,
those hidden corners in men who write:
“I love a smart woman.”
“I seek honest conversation.”
“I hate shallow relationships.”
Words that may seem repeated,
but mean everything to someone never spoken to in a true language.
She writes her first message and deletes it.
Rewrites.
Deletes again.
At last, she types:
“Good evening… do you think a woman like a shadow can be loved?”
She stares at the screen, waiting for a miracle.
And she imagines:
What if the voice on the other side is sincere?
What if he reads her words
like she wrote them in those high school pages?
What if he sees her as a woman,
not a job, not a pillow, not a missing rib?

In the far corner of her bedroom, where the light was soft—neither revealing everything nor hiding it—Sobina stood before her mirror, as if facing an opponent who shows no mercy.
The same face.
The same hair.
Full cheeks, once praised by her mother as the secret of her beauty, now reflecting a tiredness that no makeup could hide.
Her eyes lowered with hesitation, as if afraid to meet the rest of her body.
Shoulders slightly slumped, as though weary of carrying the world.
Breasts losing their roundness beneath the weight of nursing and neglect.
A belly no longer tight, marked by thin lines—like the map of a place she no longer recognized.
Her hips remained as she remembered, yet something about them felt strange, as if gravity now pulled not only toward the earth but toward a faraway age.
Her hand reached for her thigh, tracing skin no longer taut like in photos, as if whispering, “This is me, and time has passed here.”
She whispered to herself, silent:
“Am I still me? Or has the mirror become the mirror of another woman… calmer? Or faded?”
But despite everything, her eyes resisted breaking.
They held the light of one who knows the way even when lost, who understands that a woman, in her deepest moments, is not measured by a tight belly or smooth skin, but by the courage to stand before the mirror—and not run away.
Long nights.
She stared into her own gaze.
Is this really her?
The one who smiles in old wedding photos and hides a notebook full of words no one else knows?
The one who once wrote:
“I am a woman… not a vessel, not a body, not obedience.”
She stepped closer to the mirror.
Whispered, barely audible:
“Why don’t you see me?”
But the mirror was honest—more honest than she wished.
It showed fine lines around her eyes, and the fading on lips that hadn’t said “I love” in a long time.
That night, she wore no makeup—no kohl, no lipstick—she just wanted to see herself bare, stripped of all adornment and pretense.
“Where did you go?”
She asked, still silent.
She was asking the girl who wrote love letters to the unknown in school notebooks, who believed the world would widen to her womanhood, that life would bow if she walked confidently through the corridors of dreams.
But “life” had grabbed her small hand, placing her in a windowless house, save for one small window called “the mirror,” revealing but not saving, truthful but not answering.
She lifted her hand and ran her fingers over her cheek as if feeling another woman.
And finally said, in a voice barely heard:
“If you come back… if you are still here… give me a sign.”
A tear fell.
The mirror did not wipe it away.
No sooner had Sobina spoken her question to the mirror than a soft voice, like a thread of dew, whispered:
“Mom… what are you doing?”
She turned quickly, as if caught stealing a secret moment—though she was stealing nothing but a true moment with herself.
There stood little Reem, her youngest daughter, in a pink nightgown, clutching a doll with its head tilted as if it had slept too long.
Sobina smiled—a half smile—and said gently,
“Nothing, Mom… I was just taking something out of the closet.”
Reem stepped closer, standing between her mother and the mirror.
She looked at the mirror, then at her mother’s face, then mumbled drowsily,
“Mom… why are you sad?”
Sobina gasped inside.
She hadn’t expected her feelings to show so clearly.
She tried to laugh, to change the subject, but the little girl was faster:
“I heard you talking but saw no one… were you talking to yourself?”
The mother knelt before her daughter, looking into her wide eyes, seeing herself in a small face still untouched by life.
She placed her hand gently on the child’s cheek and whispered,
“Yes, Mom… sometimes grown-ups talk to themselves when there’s no one else to listen.”
“I hear you, Mom…”
Reem said, reaching out her small hand, touching her mother’s cheek, wiping away a tear as if she understood.
At that moment, Sobina felt that what she needed was not a man to listen, but an ear that did not judge, and a small heart that knew no lies.
Yet she also knew… the child would soon fall asleep, and she would be alone—left with a mirror that gave no answers, and a life waiting for a decision she could no longer delay.
As Reem turned to leave the room, she asked,
“Will you sleep next to me tonight?”
Without hesitation, Sobina replied,
“Yes, my love… I will sleep beside you.”
She switched off the mirror’s light, leaving it there… to think alone.

Late at night, after everyone had fallen asleep — mother-in-law in her room, her husband always absent in his bed, and the children lost in small dreams untouched by pain — Sobina sat in the same corner. But this time, not before the mirror; she lay near the soft glow of her phone’s screen.
Her hand trembled slightly, and her heart fluttered like a bird ready to take flight.
She opened Facebook under a borrowed name, only the first letter of her own.
She had created it two months ago but never dared to use it until now.
As she scrolled, a post caught her eye — from a man she had never seen before, a friend of a friend.
His profile picture was not of a “handsome, posed” man, but a smile in wide eyes filled with gentle sorrow.
His public page held no mockery or cheap entertainment… only words.
Words that made something inside her stir.
She read:
“Children do not need shouting to understand, but a hug that knows what is left unspoken.”
Then:
“There is no shame in being simple… only in being forced to pretend to please a blind system of traditions.”
She paused long before a line posted days ago:
“A man does not seek a beautiful woman, but a woman who understands that beauty begins with an honest bond between mind and heart.”
Something trembled deep in her chest.
As if someone had written this just for her.
As if finally someone heard that ancient call inside her — not the call of the body, but the one that says:
“Look at me… I am here… a whole woman, made of flesh, thoughts, and dreams.”
She spent more than an hour reading his posts…
About modern parenting, existential philosophy, a society that suffocates love in the name of “shame,” and women buried alive in elegant homes.
When she closed the phone, Sobina was not the same as she had been an hour before.
Something had changed.
Something quiet but alive.
As if the blue light from the screen had planted a rose in her chest… waiting for someone to water it.

The clock read two past midnight.
The house was still, windows shut tight, yet Sobina’s real window to the world was the soft glow of her small phone screen.
She scrolled through the profile one last time — checking photos, posts, friends list — and then paused at a tiny button at the top of the page:
“Add Friend.”
She stared at it for a long moment.
The button was quiet gray — no shine, no shout — but to her, it felt like a slightly open door to something unknown…
an adventure that might free her… or break her.
She closed her eyes.
Images tangled in her mind:
her husband’s shouting,
her little son laughing as she combed his hair,
her mother on her wedding day, silently weeping,
then… herself, in white,
a dream shattered before it could hear “Yes.”
Her eyes opened.
Her finger pressed the button.
“Friend request sent.”
Nothing happened. No explosion, no earthquake.
But her heart felt like it had jumped off a cliff, not knowing if it would fly or fall.
She swallowed hard.
She closed the phone suddenly, as if afraid this act might leak through the air into the rooms, into her sleeping husband, into her mother-in-law, the master spy.
Yet, for the first time in years, she felt something like… freedom.
As if she had torn herself free from a small chain, from a soft but suffocating shroud.
She hugged her pillow, unsure if she was afraid or excited.
All she knew was she was no longer the woman she had been before pressing that button.
At dawn’s first light, when shy beams slipped softly through the heavy curtains, Sobina woke up—not as usual.
It wasn’t the baby’s cry, nor the kitchen’s morning clatter where her mother-in-law began her daily rituals.
No, something unseen stirred her awake…
as if her heart carried a secret clock, quietly waiting for something unknown, yet deeply expected.
She reached for her phone with hesitant breath—more cautious than hurried.
She opened the app… no clear notification, but she entered the page as if walking toward a first meeting, visible only to her eyes.
And there…
her heart paused for a moment.
“Someone accepted your friend request.”
A simple line, neutral in tone, yet it felt to her like:
“Welcome to a new life.”
She hesitated.
No message from him yet.
But the acceptance alone was an unspoken recognition, a quiet announcement that she now belonged to his digital world—if only in thought.
She studied his photo again.
The same smile held a mysterious familiarity—like a face seen before, not on a man, but in an old dream of one who listens well.
She wanted to send the first message but held back.
She typed, erased, then tried again:
“Good evening… I don’t know why I sent the request, but something in your words made me feel I know you.”
She stopped.
Deleted it.
Wrote instead:
“Thank you for accepting the request. Your words are deep.”
And sent it.
She closed the phone.
No immediate reply.
But her heart felt lighter—
as if she had emptied half her pain in two words, realizing the world was larger than her silence, and that connection sometimes begins with a word… but does not end there.
The first reply.
Three hours passed…
Three hours of waiting mixed with a soft doubt, heartbeats rising each time the phone vibrated, only to be quiet again.
Then…
the notification finally rang.
A message from him.
A short message.
She opened it with trembling hands:
“Hello, my friend,
Thank you for your message. I’m glad my words found a place in your heart.
I write often because I have no one to share my thoughts with… maybe you are the first to notice.
Do you write too?”
She read it twice, then three times…
Between the lines, a kind of confession; after the question, an invitation to open up.
She breathed deep.
She knew that replying would open a door…
But she was tired of closed doors.
She stood.
Went to the mirror.
Looked at herself.
In her eyes, a question:
“Do I begin? Or do I stop here?”
But in her heart, the answer had been written long before, the moment she pressed “Send Friend Request.”
Yes. She had already begun.
“Sometimes our voices sound louder on paper than they do in real life.”
“Yes… I was writing, and I still am.”
“In my old journals, I found phrases much like yours—like I was ahead of you, or maybe you were ahead of me… I don’t know.”
“Do you think there are people who write the same thoughts because they are alike, even if they’ve never met?”
She read the message one last time, feeling a warmth she hadn’t known in years.
Not the warmth of a man… but the warmth of a meeting of minds, the warmth of someone seeing beyond her silence.
Then she sent it.
No hesitation.
No deletion.
She sat and waited.
But this time… the waiting felt light,
like knowing the message would be born again… in a heart like hers.
This time, she didn’t hesitate much.
It was as if the gentle kindness of the message had peeled away the cloak of fear she always carried.
She sat down and began to write:
“Hello, I think I truly understand what you mean when you say you write because you have no one to share your thoughts with.”
________________________________________
The souls alike
His delay wasn’t long this time.
As if he too was waiting for her message, or something inside him stirred when her name lit up the screen.
He read her words slowly, then reread them, as if feeling every line…
And in his heart, a string trembled.
After a quiet moment inside, he wrote:
“Strange what you say…
More beautiful than mere coincidence.
To write in your journals what I post today makes me think sometimes words choose us, waiting for the right time to bring us together.
Yes, I believe similar souls think in the same language, even before they know each other.
I would like to read your words if you allow me…
Not out of curiosity, but out of a desire to witness this likeness I never thought possible.”
He wrote the message, then hesitated briefly before sending it…
But something inside told him:
“If you don’t write now… you will never know who this woman is, the one who writes you before knowing you.”
So he sent it.
He set the phone aside and closed his eyes,
as if he did not want to see the reply but only to imagine it.
“To you, the first woman within me.”
She opened her old notebook,
turning the pages slowly…
There, in a handwriting still tender,
rough as if written in the dark of feelings,
she found the letter.
She read it silently…
then copied it, unchanged,
and sent it to him, saying:
“This is the first letter I wrote
to that woman who woke inside me one evening…
I was sixteen,
not knowing why I cried,
nor where all this hunger came from.”
Then she followed with:
“To you, the woman within me…
Why did you wait all these years?
Where were you
when I laughed and told everyone I needed nothing?
Why didn’t you whisper to me
that what I feel is not madness,
but hunger?
A hunger to be seen as a woman…
not as a daughter,
not as a sister,
not as a duty I must fulfill.
Do you know how many times I feared looking in the mirror?
Not because I’m ugly…
but because I was afraid to see you,
to see that gaze asking for life, love, safety…
and finding only silence.”
“I write to you now to say:
I promise, if you return,
I will listen to you this time…
and I won’t silence you,
even if you scream.”
She closed her letter to him with:
“This was me…
the first time I felt I was more than just a girl
who must please others.
Tell me…
Does the woman I wrote to
resemble the woman who reads me now?”
________________________________________
When you spoke… I was born.
He read what she wrote,
and didn’t move for a full minute.
As if her words slipped from his eyes to his chest,
rearranging his inner parts.
He returned to the phone,
wrote hesitantly… then erased.
He wrote again,
this time from his heart, not his mind:
“I don’t know what to say…
but I know what I feel.
I feel like I’ve been standing
before a closed door all my life,
a door that said, ‘Here lives the woman,’
and I never dared knock…
Now, you don’t just open it for me—
you invite me in,
to a room of light, desire, and truth,
a room like your first prayer,
the one you wrote to yourself.”
He paused a moment, then added:
“When you wrote you would no longer silence her…
I felt I was born too.
Not as a man who wants your body,
but as a man who wants to think of you,
feel you…
before he touches you.”
He ended with:
“Please…
don’t stop writing to me.
Because every letter from you
raises me again…
as a man worthy to be understood by a woman like you.”
“Before the mirror… she wrote me anew.”
She stood before the mirror, trembling—
but not from fear.
Her body knew something had changed.
Her lips tightened and softened,
as if practicing a smile—
not for others,
but for herself.
She hesitated to reply at once,
yet the words called her,
so she sat down,
holding her phone close
as if cradling a heart
that beats with a man who understands.
She wrote:
“My mirror was strange to me…
Whenever I looked,
I saw what others loved—
my hair as they wished,
my eyes as they wanted: dim,
my dress as I was told: ‘beautiful.’”
“But this morning…
I saw none of that.
I saw myself.
A woman born from the womb of silence,
who wept, then laughed,
then whispered to me:
‘Someone finally heard me… don’t stop.’”
She paused briefly,
wiping a faint tear from her cheek, then continued:
“She says she’s raising me…
But you, sir, reshape me.
You never touched my hand, never saw me,
yet you came closer than any body ever knew me—
because you did not want an echo of femininity,
but a mirror of your unfolding manhood.”
She closed with:
“I will write to you,
not to captivate… but to free you.
And I will reveal myself,
not to be taken… but so you may see
what no one has seen before you.”
He sat quietly,
absorbing her words—
like soft melodies that stirred the strings of his heart.
These were no ordinary messages;
they were the trembling of a soul,
the spark of new hope.
He wrote slowly,
each letter spoken from the depths of his heart:
“Friend, you are not a woman for whom stories are written…
You are a story to be lived, felt, and seen through the eyes of the soul.
Your words are not mere letters,
but drops of rain that revive a thirsty land,
bringing back to the woman you once thought lost
life, light, and freedom.
I do not want to be just the one who reads you…
but the one who walks beside you on this journey,
where each new day is born inside you and inside me.
What is between us is no passing meeting,
but the meeting of two souls who want to live together—
not within walls of chains,
but in a space of mercy, honesty, and respect.
I need you…
not as a woman in a body,
but as a free spirit worthy of love
in all her colors and dreams.”
He paused a moment, then added:
“You awaken in me a manhood I never knew before,
a manhood that does not fear tenderness,
does not hide its weakness,
but embraces and holds it close.”
He ended the message:
“Friend, let us write this chapter together,
in a language only the heart understands.”
He sat alone in his room, shadows of night folding around him.
The phone rested in his hand, unopened.
His inner voice whispered differently this time—
warmer, softer, less rough.
He closed his eyes,
recalling Sobina’s words—each one a light in his darkness.
He wasn’t searching for a woman to fill a void,
but a soul to share humanity and manhood with… together.
Questions crept into his heart,
ones he’d never dared face before:
“Did I really know her?
Was I truly a man?
Can admiration become a birth?”
He sighed deeply, feeling both fear and curious hope.
But he remembered the promise he made to himself—to be different.
A buried dream began to rise before his eyes,
now unfolding as truth.
He lifted the phone again,
but typed no words.
Instead, he sat with himself,
in a silent dialogue—listening, feeling,
waiting for the moment masks fall, and truth appears.
It was the start of a journey…
not just with Sobina,
but with himself.
________________________________________
Between two truths
The clock neared two a.m.
A Facebook chat window blinked with a soft light.
A message from him:
“Friend… are you still awake?”
Her reply after seconds:
“I haven’t slept since I started reading myself in your mirror.”
Time slowed…
as if the soul was tracing its own steps.
He said:
“I feel like you’re giving me back my voice…
that voice lost in the noise of life,
and the man I once thought I was.”
She answered:
“And I feel like I’m reclaiming my womanhood…
not as a woman admired,
but as a woman whose heartbeat is listened to,
whose voice is embraced with permission,
and read as one reads a prayer.”
He pondered her words long, then wrote:
“Do you know? When I read you… I am afraid.
Not of you,
but of all the love I missed,
and of a man who slept inside me,
now waking to the warmth of your words.”
She paused, then sent:
“Would you like to read the first letter I wrote to my womanhood,
the day it woke for the first time at sixteen?”
He replied:
“I long for it, as a hungry soul longs for its mother’s bread…”
She began to write the old letter,
as if pulling from the drawer of her soul a yellowed page,
still alive with its first pulse.
________________________________________
“Letter to my womanhood — 1990
Oh womanhood inside me,
why did you wake so suddenly?
Why do you weep silently when the classroom noise grows loud?
Why do you tremble in my chest whenever you see a woman walking free—
free in ways we do not have?
Why?
I write to you, not knowing how to speak with you.
You are not my friend,
nor my mother,
nor even my sister who shares my room.
You are something else—
a secret in my chest,
unknown to anyone,
and too scared to name.
Do you know?
Sometimes I feel I was made for more than being “a good girl from a good family,”
more than “a bride waiting for her fate,”
more than “a mother to good children,”
more than “a shadow behind a man.”
I feel I was made to be a woman.
Yes, a woman like an idea, not a body.
A woman to be seen as poems are read,
not as clothes are tailored.
A woman whose silence is understood,
not whose desire is questioned.
Will you remain silent within me?
Or will you one day step out and say:
“I am here…
and I deserve to live fully as a woman.”
From today, I will write to you every night,
so you do not sleep inside me again.
So life does not take you and make me forget who you are.
So you do not become just a memory in a childhood notebook.
I love you…
and I will not let anyone kill you inside me.”
— Sobina
(a sixteen-year-old girl who discovered her womanhood and told no one)
The man who entered the text
read it… then fell silent.
He read it again.
Then a third time… but not with his eyes—
with trembling fingers, as if touching a wall
made of distant longing.
He wrote to her:
“Dear Sobina… what I read is not a mere paper.
It was your heart before it closed.
A small door you knocked on alone every evening,
and no one ever opened it for you…
And I, I’m late, I know… but I am here now.”
He added:
“I don’t know how to answer a sixteen-year-old girl
who wrote so much awareness…
except to apologize to her,
and to every woman put in a mold she never chose,
then told, ‘This is your fate.’”
Then he wrote:
“I thought I had been a man for a long time,
but I just realized…
manhood doesn’t begin when they call you ‘strong,’
but when you can read a woman,
weep for her silence,
and promise never to leave her alone again.”
He asked her:
“Will you allow me…
to write in the same notebook,
and leave a message to the man I once was…
to tell him: your time is over, let me start again?”
Then he finished:
“I don’t promise you only understanding,
but listening…
because you, Sobina, deserve not an understanding
like what you have seen…
but one that lifts you up, as you rise now,
from among the ruins.”
As if we were sitting on the notebook itself,
the sound of his message still echoed in her heart, so she wrote back:
Sobina:
“Do you know?
This is the first time…
I don’t feel like I’m writing just to be read…
but to be understood… quietly…
without hurry, without judgment.
I used to write in my notebook as if whispering to my mirror,
not to anyone.
And today… I feel the mirror spoke,
and its voice was yours.”
A brief silence… then he replied:
He:
“Sobina…
I don’t just hear you… I listen.
Not with my ears, but with my whole being.
As if a letter from you became a vein within me.”
Sobina (lightly, yet serious):
“But don’t be polite out of pity.
I don’t need a man to flatter me because I’m broken…
but because I’m alive. Because I’m born again.
And I don’t want a hand that holds me because I stumble…
but because I run now, and I want to run with him, not behind him.”
He smiled, as if receiving the advice of a wise man:
He:
“Then let me run beside you.
Not ahead of you, nor behind.
And I swear…
I will write not about you, but with you.
Because you don’t need description, but partnership.
And every letter from you makes me a simpler… and deeper man.”
Sobina (in an inner voice, as if whispering to the old notebook):
“Do you hear that, old woman?
At last, someone understands you,
not to cage you… but to free you.”
He (asking her):
“Do you want to open a new notebook?
One with no past, no judgments…
only what we write now, together?”
Sobina (with teary eyes unknown to anyone):
“Yes… but this time, let me write the first page.”

From Sobina’s new notebook
An autumn evening,
to someone I do not yet know how to name…
“This page is not a love letter,
nor a confession…
but a woman’s palm opening to light,
after darkness wearied her.
I no longer seek someone to save me…
but someone who sees that I saved myself,
and shakes my hand for that.
I have written much to myself…
I cried on paper,
slept on ink…
But today I write with a strange clarity in my heart.
I am not afraid, nor crying…
I am awake.
Do you know what is the most beautiful part of this awakening?
That I do not want someone to ‘take me,’ but to ‘walk with me.’
Someone who sees in my body a home, not a bed,
and in my mind a wing, not a passing cloud.
I am, dear one, a woman not desired for her beauty…
but for her pulse, her questions,
for her voice when it whispers for life to return.
I do not say to you ‘I love you’…
but I say: if you feel all this in me, then stay.
And if you do not feel it…
do not harm the light I have finally polished in my eyes.
This is my first page…
written not to please you,
but to resemble myself.
If you like it,
perhaps you resemble me…”
Sobina.
________________________________________
From a heart awakening
Sobina…
I do not know where to begin.
And I do not know how words on paper can resemble a woman being born.
But when I read your first page,
I felt I was looking at a page from my own soul…
not from your notebook.
What you wrote was not a letter,
it was a heartbeat.
And not everyone who reads heartbeats hears them…
But I felt your heart beat inside me.
“I do not want someone to take me, but to walk with me”…
a sentence that still shakes me.
And I say to you:
I do not promise to walk ahead of you, nor behind…
but beside you.
And if you stumble,
I will not only reach out my hand,
but my heart to carry you in it.
You say you do not want someone to admire you, but to resemble you…
And I say:
I do not seek resemblance between us,
but honesty that passes between you and me without masks.
And that last tone in you…
when you said: “If you like it, perhaps you resemble me,”
I whispered in my heart without knowing:
“No, I see you… and finally begin to resemble myself.”
Write, Sobina,
not for the world to see you…
but for you to see yourself,
just as you began on this page.
And I will be, if you wish,
your mirror that does not beautify you,
but tells you the truth.
I am here,
and I am not in a hurry to feel.

And any woman blooming from a delayed dream
The evening was soft,
as if the night came not to silence her pain,
but to gently brush away her fear.
On the blue screen appeared his new message,
simple in look, deep in meaning:
” Sobina…
At what grade did you stop before marriage?”
She answered after a pause, hesitant:
” I was in the third year of high school, literary track.
But I never took the exam…
Marriage, as you know, came early and overwhelming.”
He waited a moment, then wrote:
” So, you paused at the doorstep of an unfinished dream.
Do you know, Sobina?
The women with the strongest pulses
are those who never finished the path,
yet still long to walk it.”
She fell silent,
feeling as if he had placed before her a mirror she’d never seen—
not to study her face,
but to glimpse the shadow of the dream standing behind her.
He added:
” What if you went back to school?
Took the literary baccalaureate…
Not to hold a diploma,
but to raise a certificate for an old dream.
You are still in your thirties,
and life, my friend,
is not measured by years,
but by how many times we rise to begin again.”
She smiled, tears welling without notice,
then typed:
” I’m thinking now…
What if I could?
What if I truly returned and studied?
What kind of woman would I become?
Would you be the reason for two births…
a woman, then a student?”
He replied quickly:
” You are the birth itself.
And she who births herself…
can bring forth a future unlike any past.”

Two Notebooks on One Table
In the corner of the room, Solina sat flipping through her new notebooks, her slanted handwriting spelling out the first physics lesson. She seemed distracted but was trying to focus.
Sopina entered quietly, carrying two cups of hot herbal tea, her shy smile unlike any usual motherly grin.
She placed a cup beside Solina and sat calmly across from her.
Without looking up, Solina said, “Thank you, Mom… it’s a little cold tonight.”
Sopina smiled and whispered, “Solina…”
“Yes, Mom?”
“I’ve been thinking… maybe I’ll study with you this year.”
Solina looked up quickly, surprise lighting her eyes like a sudden flash in a dark room.
“You? Study what?!”
Sopina laughed softly, a shy glow in her voice.
“The baccalaureate… literature.”
“You?! Mom! Seriously?!”
She nodded slowly, as if reading an official announcement for a new life chapter.
“Yes, I am.”
“I’ve thought about it for a long time, but never had the courage…”
“This time… someone encouraged me. You don’t need to know who. What matters is they did. And I want to try.”
Solina paused, then gave a sly little smile.
“Perfect, Mom. When you study, promise me you won’t cheat!”
They laughed together, a small laughter filled with shared childhood echoes, as if suddenly they were classmates and friends.
After the laughter faded, Sopina said, “How about we study together?”
“Each with her own notebook,
but every day we review side by side.”
Solina nodded with sudden excitement.
“Deal! And we’ll make a study schedule,
and solve the exercises together!”
“But you have to get a high score. I don’t want to embarrass you.”
Sopina reached out, touched her daughter’s notebook gently, and whispered,
“Solina… do you know?
I have missed a friend like you—
not just a daughter.”
Solina looked at her mother, then stepped closer, hugging her warmly, as if encouraging her from the heart, silently saying,
“Start now… and I’ll be with you.”

When I Wrote My Name Again
A message from her:
“Do you know what I did today?
I went back and wrote my name again…
on the registration paper at the baccalaureate center.
I almost forgot the shape of my own handwriting,
forgot how it feels to set a goal on a line and walk it.
But as I signed…
I felt like I was signing a new birth,
not just registering for studies.”
His reply, feeling the warm tear near the core of his soul:
“Sopina…
I don’t know how to explain this feeling,
but today you saved something inside me too.
To write your own name…
after all those years they wrote about you, not to you…
To choose, by yourself, a new path…
Not forced, not broken, not stolen from your womanhood…
This is not just a registration,
it is your own confession that you exist.”
A message from her, eyes filled with a shy light for the first time—not from weakness, but from a long-delayed truth:
“All of this… everything I am now,
comes from one sentence you said to me once:
‘I promise not just to understand you, but to listen.’
I could have lived silently.
But maybe… my voice, which I thought was lost,
was waiting for someone to hear it.”
His reply, written with a voice touching her heart:
“And because your voice came out…
I promise you now a new promise:
I will not walk ahead of you, nor behind you, but beside you.
Every time you open a page, I will be the margin…
and every time you pause, I will wait for your silence…
to say: write, because now you are truly you.”
________________________________________

A Moment of Birth
Sopina sat in stillness, a fresh notebook resting gently in her lap. Its cover was plain, firm, and quietly proud. In soft, golden script, a single title shone on the front:
“Here I Am”
The pen in her hand trembled, as if it feared the weight of a first word.
She breathed deeply, closed her eyes for a moment, and let his voice return—his promise not just to understand, but to stay.
Then she opened to a blank page, and began to write:
“I am not only a woman asking for her rights. I am her voice. Her trust. Her dream. And the very first step she dared to take.”
A pause. A small smile. Her handwriting grew steadier.
“Today, I was born again. This is me.”
________________________________________
Names That Tell a Story
Later that evening, Sopina sat in the living room, surrounded by her four daughters.
Their legs were tucked beneath them on the soft rug, their eyes wide with curiosity and something quieter—like awe.
Sopina’s voice carried warmth as she said:
“You know, each of you carries a part of my name.”
She turned to the eldest.
“Solina, you are the clear hope, the first chapter—like the ‘S’ in my name.”
To Bina, the calm-hearted:
“Bina, you are the soul of this family, the steady beat—just like the ‘B’ that lives inside me.”
She looked toward Nada, tender and dream-filled:
“Nada, your feelings sing—like the ‘N’ that wraps around my spirit.”
And then to little Naya, whose energy made the room brighter:
“Naya, you are life in bloom—like the ‘Y’ that lights my path.”
She sighed, her voice now quiet but full:
“And now… after all these years, it’s time to write my story. My story, the one that never quite found its ending.”
The girls glanced at one another, each holding a different question behind her eyes—a hope, a wonder, maybe a small fear of what change brings.
Solina spoke first, her tone gently brave:
“Mama, we’re with you—no matter where this path leads.”
Bina added,
“Writing opens the heart’s doors. We want to know you more.”
Nada whispered,
“I believe you deserve to dream more, not less.”
And little Naya, with a grin full of morning light, said,
“I’ll be the first to read your storybook!”
Sopina smiled, her heart full with something new. This was not only a beginning for her—it was a beginning for them all.

A Firm Refusal
Sopina sat in the quiet of the living room, a faint light flickering inside her—not from the lamp, but from something warmer, newly awakened.
Her eyes held the glimmer of a dream not yet spoken, when her husband entered, slow and silent.
His face was unreadable. No smile. Just the sharp stillness of disapproval.
He sat across from her. His voice came without warmth.
“Sopina, we have everything. Money. A home. The children. What more could you possibly want?”
She lifted her gaze, gently, searching for words to soften the air—but he interrupted, cutting the breath in half.
“I don’t want you thinking about school. No notebooks. No writing. None of that nonsense will help us.”
She spoke slowly, as if choosing truth over comfort.
“But I need to live… to be more than a woman in the house.”
He stiffened, his voice rising like a wall.
“This is your place—your children, your husband. There’s no time for fantasies that change nothing.”
Tears swelled but did not fall. Sopina straightened her spine.
“The fantasies,” she said, “are what bring my soul back to life. Without them, there’s nothing left of me.”
He gave a sharp nod.
“Then there’s no room for such thoughts here.”
He stood. Walked toward the door.
And left her there—alone with her notebooks, in a silence that pulsed with fear… and fire.
________________________________________

A Voice That Breathes
She stayed in the corner of the room, the new notebook open in front of her.
But her heart was not quiet.
It roared, wordless and wild, pushing her toward the edge of the page, urging her to rise.
She breathed in deeply. Said aloud to herself,
“I am not an object. Not a weight to be carried. I am a living, breathing soul.”
She stood slowly.
Faced the mirror—tired reflection, bruised with years. But in her eyes: steel.
A shimmer of something unbreakable.
She whispered,
“I will finish my studies. I will complete my baccalaureate. I will open doors—not just for me, but for my children… so they can look at me and feel proud.”
She picked up her pen and wrote, with a hand no longer trembling:
“I will not let anyone steal my dreams. This is me. And this is a voice that will not go quiet.”
She closed the notebook with a firm snap.
And in that moment, she knew:
The journey had begun.
And she would not turn back—no matter the storm.

Between Dream and Reality
Evening settled softly across the window of their conversation.
The house had quieted. Lights were off.
But the light in Sopina’s eyes had only just begun to burn.
She typed with care—each word a breath held in longing.
Sopina:
“I told him I’ve decided to go back to school… and he got angry.
He said it straight:
‘I have everything. I don’t need a wife wasting her time with books and exams!’
As if dreaming made me a burden.”
A green dot appeared—small on the screen,
but loud in the heart.
He:
“It was expected, that he’d say no.
He only sees one role in you.
But you, Sopina, you are an entire life.
Listen…
We won’t break the wall.
We’ll enter through the cracks.”
Sopina:
“But how?
He won’t even let me leave the house alone… or speak to anyone.”
He:
“If you truly want this—
the door is still open,
even if just slightly.
We look for a private institute,
a flexible school,
even home tutoring, if we must.
What matters is to begin.
One small step.
Register as a free student,
pass your first exam—
then let your success open the rest.
And your husband…
you know his web of ties better than anyone.
Search his circle—
those he cannot say no to,
even without knowing why.
In the shadows,
real decisions are made.”
She paused.
Tears welled in her eyes—
not from pain,
but from a quiet joy she hadn’t expected.
Sopina:
“I never imagined anyone would plan something like this for me.
I was only afraid…
to dream.”
He:
“My dream now is that you dream.
We won’t declare war on your home.
We’ll simply wake the woman
no one else sees.
Except me.”
________________________________________

After Midnight, in Her Room
The house was wrapped in a gray shawl of silence.
Everyone had folded their day and gone.
Noise had crept back to the corners of forgetting.
Only one light remained—soft and stubborn—in a single room.
Sopina sat at her small desk.
A new notebook before her.
The third-year Arabic literature book opened gently—
as if she were cracking open time itself.
Her fingers passed over the printed lines,
like touching the faint scar of an old wound.
Then, with an unsure hand,
she wrote:
“Page one: What I read is not a lesson—
but what I recover from myself.”
Returning was not easy.
Titles. Chapters. Names.
Times gone—yet not fully erased.
She began reading:
“In the entrance of Alhambra, we met…”
Her eyes paused, wet at a single verse:
“And the sweetest poetry is that which flows from the pen.”
“Do I deserve to write again?” she whispered.
She read aloud, softly—
memorizing, repeating,
scribbling in the margins:
“The exam will ask about the image of woman in the poem…
But what is my image in my life?”
Her phone lit up. A message from him.
As if he had sensed the pause in her breath.
He:
“How goes the first journey?”
Sopina:
“It feels like I’m arranging a childhood that had been delayed…
trying to convince myself that dreaming isn’t a crime.”
He:
“Dreaming is the most beautiful repentance
for a life that wasn’t yours.
Study—
I’ll be the page before every lesson.”
She smiled.
Placed the phone beside her.
And under the lesson’s title,
she wrote in a clear, hopeful hand:
“New Beginning.”
Then whispered to the silence:
“I am Sopina…
not the woman of yesterday—
but the student of tomorrow.”
________________________________________

A Voice, Then a Message
Sopina’s voice trembles with wonder and nostalgia:
“Abir… I wonder if you’ll laugh at me, but as I hold my literature notebook and jot down notes, I suddenly feel I’m not at my bedroom table… I feel like a schoolgirl preparing for her baccalaureate, with a fresh pen that writes me anew.
You always told me, ‘Sopina, you’re bigger than all your circumstances,’ and I’d laugh and stay silent… but today, as I study, I truly feel I wasn’t lying to myself—I was waiting for this moment.
I’ve arrived, Abir… maybe late, but I’ve arrived.
Imagine… I reached the metaphor definition and wrote beside it: ‘I am a metaphor… they erased the woman, but kept the qualities.’
I love you… and I know you’re the only one who’ll understand me. Forgive me for lost time, but I’m back… back as a student, not just a mother.”
Then, in a quick text she sends:
“Abir… I truly want to study! Really! And I’m happy… I’m studying for the baccalaureate not for anyone else, for me. You should see my excitement as I try to understand and analyze a text! I know the road is long, but my heart led, and I can’t stop because my husband didn’t agree.”
________________________________________
It was a mild Thursday evening, fitting for a late autumn, when Abir knocked on Sopina’s door, carrying two boxes of cream-filled and Nabulsi sweets, tied with a soft pink ribbon.
Sopina greeted her with a face lifting—part shy teenager, part grown woman—her eyes bright from the thrill of studying literature and grammar.
Abir entered smiling in true joy, saying:
“Honestly, I wouldn’t have believed you were studying until I saw this with my own eyes! Just look at that glow!”
Sopina laughed gently:
“Believe me, Abir… these books mean more to me than many people. When I opened that Arabic notebook, I felt like I was breathing again.”
They sat at the table, surrounded by the scent of paper and steeped sage. Sopina reached for the kitchen, saying:
“I’ll make us some sage tea… as always.”
Abir replied softly:
“No need… just bring the hospitality tray and relax. I have something more important than tea today.”
As Sopina stepped into the kitchen, her husband sat in the living room, flipping his phone but betraying tension at the corner of his brow.
Abir spoke quietly, with gentle confidence:
“Mr. Abu Nizar… I know you’re a reasonable man, so I’ll be direct, as always.”
He looked up:
“Go ahead.”
She continued:
“What’s wrong with Sopina continuing her studies? Isn’t it her right?”
He sighed, his voice edged with unspoken worry:
“I’m not against studying, but household priorities come first… and the girls need care.”
Abir smiled:
“And she hasn’t let it slip. You know…”
Her tone shifted, firm but respectful:
“A while ago, you asked Mr. Riyadh—your friend—to handle something, and he refused. Isn’t that right?”
He stiffened, shrinking back:
“That may be… but what does that have to do with this?”
Letters to the Self
(from Chapter: The Sage Between Us)
Abir interrupted him with a steady smile,
a smile that held its ground like morning sun through lace curtains.
“The income was good,” she said, with calm fire. “He came to see us yesterday. And he told me—word for word— ‘Abu Nizar is a generous man… but he needs to understand that from now on, his requests are declined. I won’t help him personally, nor in anything related to his work.’”
Then, noticing the quick glances exchanged between Abir and her father, she added, almost as if quoting the wind itself:
“‘Unless,’ he said, ‘you or your father ask me yourselves—then, perhaps, I’ll reconsider.’”
Her words settled into the silence.
The husband exhaled, lowering his gaze to the floor. His voice fell somewhere between defeat and hesitation:
“So… you really believe studying will change anything?”
Abir’s reply came like sunlight after a long storm—gentle, unmistakable:
“It changes everything. But not to challenge you… to honor you. For your sake. For your home. So that you remain the one who decides. No pressure. No one forcing your hand. Just say it yourself: ‘Continue… and I’m with you.’”
At that moment, Sopina walked in with the tray, unaware of the hush that had rippled through the room.
She placed it on the table with quiet grace and began to set the cups, her voice light:
“Did you talk about anything?”
Her husband looked up at her. His lips opened, hesitated—then, unexpectedly, curved into a rare, sheepish smile.
“We did talk,” he said, clearing his throat.
“And I… I want to tell you something:
Continue your studies, Sopina. I’m with you…
but only if you promise not to forget the house.”
She stared at him, eyes wide, caught between disbelief and blooming relief.
Tears welled, gently:
“Really?”
Abir clapped her hands, barely touching, her joy fluttering between them:
“Yes! See? Today’s hospitality feels different, doesn’t it?”
Sopina whispered, her voice no longer caged:
“Thank you… for everything.”
And later, in their final exchange, after she told him what she’d accomplished,
he wrote her simply:
“Goodbye… You no longer have anything to fear.
Because whoever learns how to read…
knows how to live.”
(But I remain alert—
not for battle,
but to listen.)
She leaned forward slightly,
wiped the corner of her mouth with her thumb—
as if erasing a smile she no longer needed,
or redrawing it with intention.
She looked into the mirror once more.
Lifted her shoulders with quiet precision—
as though listening to a voice inside
that was rearranging the shape of her presence.
She was not the most beautiful woman in the mirror…
But she was the most honest.
And that—
that alone—
was more than enough.