Whispers of Forgotten Dreams

Written by Zainab Ahmadi

Photo Submitted by Zainab Ahmadi to HerStory

Today is Thursday, November 7th. I reached for my notebook, my loyal companion, flipping through the pages, a record of each small hope and goal I’ve tried to hold on to in this endless, silent waiting. As I looked at the plans I had listed for this week, my mind drifted to the life I had before, the life I would have had if only things had stayed normal.

What would these past three years have looked like if I had been able to walk through the gates of my school, surrounded by friends, full of laughter, and a future filled with possibility? I can almost see it—a life where I’d be waking up with purpose, putting on my uniform with pride, rushing to catch the bus, my books in hand, and my heart racing with excitement over the day ahead. I remember the feeling of sitting at my desk, surrounded by the warmth of a place that made me feel alive, that gave me hope.

Now, all of that is just a distant memory, a faint echo. My dreams feel like they’ve been locked away, placed on a shelf I cannot reach, yet still so painfully close. I hold onto them, though the path to fulfilling them seems lost. My notebook has become my confidant, a place where I pour out all my broken dreams, all the little fragments of who I once was and who I still hope to be.

If only I could turn back time, and return to those days that seem to have slipped away like sand through my fingers. It hurts to remember, yet I cannot forget. These dreams are unfinished, but they’re still here, whispering to me, urging me to keep going. Maybe one day I’ll find my way back to them.

Until then, I’ll keep writing, letting my words carry the weight of dreams that refuse to be forgotten.