The bond between us was unusual; Abbu and I. It was rather whimsical, like magic.

For we were never vocal about how much we meant to each other. I never ran up to him as soon as I heard his footsteps coming home; neither did I ever lean against his chest for a warm embrace like most girls do. It was only the kindly, occasional pats on my head and that was all; enough to make me feel like the luckiest girl alive: a daddy's girl.

Our love was rather different: it was in fact in the little things.

It was present in the dozens of my favourite salted corn chips that he always bought for me on his way home from the mosque, it was there in every verse of the Qur'an that he recited for me over the bed side when I got sick, the pulao-roast that he would ask my mum to cook to celebrate my littlest of achievements. The love also sparkled when his face lightened up as soon as I agreed to eat a fruit — as he would immediately rush to the kitchen and slice the papayas ever so delicately for us. Also, when he would demand his children to be a part of all intense family discussions to make us feel valued. The love was indeed in the little things. We did not have to voice it, the two of us could sense it in our own distinct ways.

Until one day, he left us for until the end of time and took all the precious little love-bonds along with him; and ever since, life has never been the same.

Life shrunk to only a knack of denial, resentment, and rage. How could this happen to me? I could not comprehend the depth of the situation (I still cannot) and buried myself in a violent tussle between the life I have and the life I desired as I just could not accept it. I was fortunate to have my loved ones by my side, as a source of comfort and solace. Yet, I knew it was only a silent battle that I had to conquer all by myself for each day that I live. After all, life had to go on. I could not pause time.

Today, a year has passed by while the wounds poke me as fresh as yesterday every night. Yet, I looked back at the devastating three-hundred-sixty-five days and cheered for myself for how far I have come while I had believed I would not survive. It's the same for everyone who is longing for a loved one. Perhaps the world does not know how the air feels heavy as bricks and the minutes feel like eternity without them. We are brave; we are fierce for confronting life with a smile every day when every ounce of the body desperately cries to give up.

However, such traumas help open the doors of self-love and self-worth. I have indeed realised how every heartache has given me an opportunity to start relying on myself — trusting and befriending my own spirit when I have no one to lean my head on. Actually, taking comfort in solitude, I steer myself a little more everyday into accomplishing all that my dad had dreamt for me.

It is indeed unexplainably difficult but one step at a time goes a long way: even with teary eyes and a bursting heart, growth and greatness emerge in our lives when we are at a stronger tie with ourselves.

Thus, to everyone enduring the biggest calamity of life in losing a loved one: we can do this, we can tackle all obstacles by shifting focus to ourselves, by realising our worth and what our dearest ones would have wanted for us at the moment. We are not weak for not having them around as their presence is always with us: forever. We need to make them proud.

May we rise, build ourselves up and take this throbbing pain as a gift: till we are reunited with our beloved in a land far better than this.