His tender touch
is not in a hurry.
It lingers —
like moonlight on bare skin,
like breath just before a kiss.

He doesn’t ask permission
with words,
but with silence,
with closeness,
with the space he leaves
for me to lean in.

His fingers trace
the edge of my collarbone
as if it’s a map
to something he’s waited to find.
Slow, deliberate —
a worship in motion.

There’s something holy
in how he touches me,
like he’s unwrapping
something fragile,
something sacred —
something he’s been craving
but refusing to rush.

When he presses into me,
it’s not just skin —
it’s trust.
It’s ache.
It’s the promise of undoing
without being undone.

He knows the places
where want lives quietly,
and he visits them
with reverence.
With fire
that flickers,
then climbs.

And in his touch,
I melt —
not because I’m weak,
but because I’m safe.
Because here,
in his hands,
I don’t have to guard
the parts of me
that tremble.

The war was not a war —
not when the guns turned inward,
not when the flags were stitched with fear,
not when the bombs fell only
on the homes of those with different names.

They called it cleansing.
They called it holy.
They called it order,
as if order meant ashes,
as if peace was built from bones.

It was not a battlefield —
it was a school, a church, a street,
where children were marked
before they could speak,
where neighbors burned
the bridges of memory
and marched in boots made of silence.

War wears a uniform.
Genocide wears the face of a man
you thought you knew.
It comes with lists,
with fences,
with whispers that grow into walls.

And when it is done —
if it is ever done —
there are numbers where names were,
ghosts in places maps have erased,
songs that no one sings anymore.

The war was not a war.
It was a choice,
made again and again,
by hands that turned away
and mouths that said
it’s not my people,
not my problem,
not my war.

Would you hold the weight of my silence,
Or hand it back like something broken?
Would you trace the cracks, or just notice them?
Would you speak when my voice has fled —
Or leave me echoing alone?

If I come not whole, but wounded —
Not glowing, but gasping —
Not dressed in grace, but grief —
Would you still call it love?

Because I’ve known touch that trembles at the first sign of depth.
I’ve seen eyes that glaze when pain speaks.
I need more than pretty promises in pastel vows.
I need someone who can stand in the storm
And still reach for my hand.

So I ask, not to test,
But to know:

If I wasnt all sunshine and rainbows but storms and darkness , would you love me?

In shadowed halls where silence dwells,
A voice unseen begins to swell.
Not loud, but low — a velvet thread,
That winds its way inside your head.

It speaks in tones the day denies,
Beneath the mask, behind the eyes.
A creeping mist of doubt and dread,
That stains the rose, that breaks the thread.

It knows the name you hide away,
The cracks you paint in light of day.
It calls you close with poisoned grace,
A mirror dark, a cold embrace.

You try to run — but thoughts don't bleed,
They nest, they gnaw, they plant a seed.
A garden grown in grief and night,
With roots too deep to flee the fight.

But still a spark, however small,
Can cut the dark, can climb the wall.
For though these thoughts may seem your own,
They’re echoes cast — not carved in stone.

So let them come, but do not stay.
Let light return to guide your way.
The night is long, the mind is vast,
But even this — yes, this — shall pass.

They say time heals—
but time has hands that only take.
They took him.
Took the sound of his laughter,
the way he said my name like it meant something more,
like I mattered in a way only he could prove.

They took my person.

Saahil.

Say it.

Saahil.
Let the name fall like a stone in your throat.
Let it choke you like it does me
every single morning
I wake up in a world that forgot how to include him.

He wasn’t just my brother.
He was my shadow when I was lost,
my mirror when I forgot who I was,
my lighthouse when I stopped swimming.
And now—
there is no shoreline.
Just waves.

He was coloured ink on a book written in black.
He didn’t just live,
he bled beauty.
He was the kind of soul that made you believe
that maybe, just maybe,
God did make art sometimes.

He was the sound of my childhood.
The bruises on my knees from games that turned into wars,
the breathless laughter
after we swore we'd hate each other forever—
but never did.

He was warmth.
He was home.
He was both halves of my heartbeat.

And now I am just an echo.

Do you know what it is
to have a whole language with someone
and then suddenly go mute?
To lose not just a person
but the version of you
that only existed in their eyes?

I would burn this world to ash
just to feel the weight of his arm around my shoulders.
I would sell every sunrise
just to hear him argue with me again.

He was the cold side of the pillow,
the smell of morning coffee,
the breath before a laugh,
the silence after a song you didn’t want to end.

He was the last piece of chocolate
I would fight him for—
and now I’d give it up in a heartbeat
just to hear him call me dramatic one more time.

But all I have is memory.
And memory is a cruel, flickering god—
it shows me his face,
but never lets me touch it.

So I live in the past,
because that’s where he lives.
He exists in flashbacks now.
In ghost smiles.
In the empty space next to me at dinner.

But I swear this on my grief:
I will not let this world forget.
I will carry his name like a war cry.
I will tell his story until my voice gives out.
I will carve his name into every generation
that follows me.

And when they ask,
"Who was Saahil?"
I’ll say:

He was everything good,
and everything gone too soon.
He was loud love and loud life.
He was fire and water.
He was sunlight through cracked blinds
on the days I didn’t want to get out of bed.
He was the reason I believed in forever—
until forever changed its meaning.

So I’ll climb the highest mountain,
shatter my lungs into pieces,
and scream so loud the sky will split:

Saahil existed.
And he was an extraordinary man.
He mattered.
He still matters.
And if there is a heaven—
they are louder now.
Because he’s there.
And they know his name.

Saahil.
Say it.
Let it ache.
Let it live.
Let him live.

- s h a s -

If i falter at the alter - would it matter?
If my tears stained your perfect suit , would it matter?
If I bled on you from scars that you did not cause , would that be okay?
If my insecurities ruined your peace , would you make it better?
When my uglies show , would you stay or run?

- s h a s -

Is he worth fighting for?
I asked myself as I lay in bed , wiping away yet another tear that he caused.
Is he worth fighting for? I asked myself as I reminisced about how beautiful my reflection looked in his hazel brown eyes.
As i recall just how sincere my smile was  whilst laying in his arms , I began to feel goosebumps on my hands with every thought of his finger drawing art on my bare skin with his love as the paint.
Is he worth fighting for? I asked myself as I could hear his ' I love you ' In every gust of wind.
Is he worth fighting for? I asked myself one last time as i wiped away one more tear.
I muttered ' No he isn't ' and in that moment - My heart sank and every memory with him became more distinct than ever.
And i screamed in a euphoric state :

'  HE IS NOT WORTH FIGHTING FOR , HE IS WORTH GOING TO WAR FOR '

- s h a s -