Longing Beyond Time

Early last month, my younger brother finally became older than my older brother.—something I always knew would come, yet never truly prepared for. A paradox that life cruelly created, a reminder of time moving forward for some, while standing still for others.

I think about them both often, though in different ways. One, I watch grow, shaping his own path in this world, while the other, forever frozen in time.

They share the same blood, yet their lives have never intertwined. One still breathes, still laughs, still dreams. The other… is a memory, a name whispered in prayers, a soul I long to meet again.

I do not fear death. Not the way most people do. Not the way it is painted in hushed conversations and sorrowful glances.

Because for me, death does not only mean an ending—it holds a quiet promise of reunion. A reunion with someone I have lost but never truly let go of.

My older brother left this world too soon, a soul still wrapped in childhood, untouched by the weight of growing up. And ever since, a part of me has been waiting. Waiting for the day when time and distance no longer matter. When I can look at him, not as the child I last knew, but as the soul I have always loved.

I wonder if he will recognize me. If the years have changed me too much. If he will see my face and hesitate, searching for the little sibling he once knew. I wonder if I will have enough time to tell him everything he missed. The days he was absent from. The stories I wished he could have been part of.

I hope he knows I have carried him with me, in every quiet moment, in every whispered prayer.

I hope.. and I wish… wherever he is, he's always feels peace. That there is no sadness in his world, no longing, no weight to bear. That he is free—free from the pain, free from the memories of parting.

Because he was only a child. —a child who never had the chance to grow older, to experience the weight of years, to see the world beyond the short time he was given.

And until the day we meet again, I will continue living. I will continue loving, remembering, and carrying him with me—not as a weight of grief, but as a quiet presence, a reminder of a bond that even death could not break.

At the very least, holding onto the belief that those in Barzakh and Akhirah are aware when we think of them and when we miss them, makes it all a little easier to bear.