"The Last Letter: A Heartbreaking True Story of Love, Loss, and a Brother’s Disappearance"

It was one of the ones on Mondays in December since the chilly temperature is more severe than the hospitality. Through my loosely drawn curtains, the fading winter sun highlighted the bedspread at thin golden lines. I went there listening to the luxurious hum from the city outside after coming up for ten minutes. A bike roared past, the kettle yelling somewhere in the kitchen and vendors on the street began calling out the products they were selling.

Life looked habitual and fatigued.

My younger brother, Hasan, had been exceptionally silent to earn the past week. Normally, he was an example of person who naturally filled the room with his personality. This laugh was too loud, and he might cancel out any conversation, and he had an impulse to force himself in. without knocking into my room. But he had been locking themselves in his room more lately, arguing he was "just tired."

I speculated that it was anxiety about an exam or possibly, as I caught a sneak suspicion, some recent heartbreak he didn't want to discuss. Love sounded to come to Hasan without as much as trouble at his youthful age of 19.

I noticed something odd that morning. My pillow's edge got higher just enough to give the appearance that something has been tucked underneath it. Half expecting to see a note reminding me to buy Hasan a carton of milk or a doodle, I reached over.

However, what I constructed out wasn't light-hearted.

The paper practically slipped away from my hands owing to their excessive trembling. Tears filled my eyes, minimising what was said.

Gone? What did he mean? Where has it disintegrated to? Why is it gone?

Throwing my blanket aside, I sprinted directly to his room. The door was not locked. The wardrobe was partially open, with empty hangers swinging softly, and the bed was not made. His shoes were gone, his phone charger was gone, and the framed picture of us from the previous Eid remained face down on his desk.

My knees gave way at that precise moment.

The sound a heart makes when it cracks is tough to articulate, but I swear I heard mine at exactly the right moment.

I ran by means of the house as if he had been hiding in another spot and yelled his name once, twice, or just ten times.

There was certainly not anyone in the kitchen.

The window in the living room was still slightly cracked and allowed the chilly breeze to enter.

I sprinting out. As usual, the street was hopping with operation: an older gentleman sweeping the sidewalk, a fruit vendor weighing apples and kids in school uniforms adopting by. No one had witnessed a nineteen-year-old boy with a rucksack in secret leave the residence.

Flashback: Three Weeks Before

One evening, as the city lights began to twinkle in the distance, we were enjoying tea on the rooftop. Hasan had been disproportionately considerate.

"Do you ever feel like you're not really… living?" he asked abruptly. As if you're only here because that is what people expect from you?

I scowled. "Where is that coming from? It sound like you've been reading disappointing poetry lately.

His eyes weren't catching his faint smile. It's simply that sometimes I believe how people consistently move on. Even if you perished tomorrow, everyone was going to just... translate on.

I discounted it with a laugh, accepting it was just one of his frequently dramatic outbursts. I was ignorant that he had been sharing a glimpse of his storm alongside me.

His words came back to me like an urgent echo now that I experienced that letter in my trembling hands.

I titled him once, twice, fifteen times. It repeatedly rang ahead of heading directly to voicemail. I imposed on his friends, classmates and even the man who performed at the chai stall he utilised every afternoon a call.

He had gone overlooked.

I didn't sleep that night. I sat on his bed and exhaled the pleasant aroma of his cologne while gripping the hoodie he had left behind. I gazed at the strewn papers he had been drawing on and the defunct chair in addition his desk. His drawings were always sloppy but vibrant, but the most most recent one I emerged across was unique.

Day 2: The Search Beginning

I went to the police station on the next morning to report somebody missing. The on-duty officer just raised his hands from his tea.

He demanded, " How long has he been gone?"

"Since yesterday morning," I clarified.

He let towards a sigh. "Not even a day. Most probably, he only hangs out with friends. Give it a little time.

I felt like yelling at I slid the letter all his desk instead. After perusing it slowly, he gave me a worried look. He said, "We'll keep an eye out," as though he were referring to a forgotten wallet in lieu of my brother.

I sensed an adjustment in the city as I walked home. Strangers' faces developed colder, and the streets seemed noisier. My heart raced at every boy wearing a hoodie untilEvery boy in a hoodie made my heart race until I realized it wasn’t him.

More Excruciating Memories Now

Hasan was more than just my younger brother. I attempted to shield him from everything after our father succumbed five years ago, including the harshness of the outside world, the burden of obligations, and a sense of isolation that creeps in late at night.

He stayed up the whole evening to make me soup when I had the flu, I noted. He used to make me laugh by performing off-key any time I had my feelings down. How would he text me "home yet?" if I was particularly five minutes late for work?

Now, he fled without providing me with a justification.

I discovered an additional thing that night. I opened my small notebook and began searching his desk for hints. Song lyrics and occasional draws ruled the majority of the pages. However, he had composed things that caused my stomach turn in the former few entries.

"Even in my own their homes, I feel invisible."

"I smile, so everyone has I'm fine?"

"There are days when I only wish to go for a walk and never growth."

My vision became blurred once more due to tears. How could I neglect this?

The Call That Produced All Difference

The cell phone rang at 2:17 a.m. two days later. No one believed the number. As I said, my heart leaped.

"Aapi?" The sounds of traffic noise almost drowned in the voice.

"Hasan? You're where? Are you fine? Are you okay? Come home, please—

"I am unable to," he interrupted. "I simply... I had to hear your dulcet tone. Don't be concerned with me.

"Don't get alarmed! You left a letter, Hasan, saying—

"I needs to leave," he interfered with once more. "Tell Ammi how much I approve of her."

The waiting room then succumbed.

It happened to be off when I wanted to call it back.

I sat there appearing into my room's darkness as holding my phone. His booming voice had been an insult as well as a relief. He was alive, but he felt the need for peace and was in an environment far from safety.

I didn't just cry that night. I prayed as if it were the first time I prayed.

The Storm That Cannot Be Seen

People who go away in this way leave below more than just empty spaces. In the quiet hours, they leave you with unanswered questions. Had I missed it because I was too busy? Too oblivious to the fissures that are beginning to form in his world?

My mother hardly spoke as she walked through the house like a shadow. Whispering began among the neighbours. While some offered theories, others offered assistance. One said, "Perhaps he's joined a bad crowd." Another person said, "Perhaps he's unhappy about something."

However, I knew Hasan better than anyone else. And if they did, they would know because long before he left, whatever had made him leave was eating away inside of him.

After Three Weeks

21 days have passed since I discovered that letter. I look every day for cafes he enjoyed, train stations, and bus stops. I examine my phone every day for unanswered messages or missed calls.

After someone goes missing, I've discovered that life is a weird, harsh limbo. Because you are waiting, you are unable to proceed. The individual whom you knew could potentially no longer be everywhere, so you can't go back.

I still hang on to hope because the rule is all I have left for home.

On some nights, I dream that he knocks on the door, says, "Did you miss me, Aapi?" with that crooked smile. The folded letter is still in my drawer when I wake out to the silent of the house.

that I've no idea where this road will lead. I'm unclear if I'll see my younger brother again. However, I am informed that I intend to continue to look until that moment I die.

Because you don't stop cherishing someone just because they've moved on.

To be continued...