Dear Zuni,

How do I start? What can I say? Where to begin this letter from? It was a Friday. I don’t remember if it was summer or autumn. My friends and I had a long day, and so we were sprawled on the ground, chattering away like we have all the time in the world. You entered the room with your friend, and one of my friends squealed they loved your jeans. I turned around to see who it was, and I remember saying, I love her hair and everyone concurred with an Hmph in response. Your bright blue hair was salient, striking, so, so pretty.

Then the weekend came, and on Monday, your soul had transcended to a better place. It is going to be a year soon. But, the numbness hasn’t abated. It is still so hard to accept how you became a candle in the wind without a warning. How foolish it is for us to think we have all the time in the world.

We never really talked. I wish we had. But, I remember seeing your bright blue head from afar. That’s how noticeable you always were. You know how the night sky is dark, and then the sun comes out and illuminates the sky. I often wonder if the sky’s giant blanket changes its colour twice a day, or if the sun repaints the darkness every morning. Because, your existence, Zuni, was much akin to the sun. You radiated happiness in a world that is standing on its quivering legs, desperate for some kindness, some love, some gentleness. 

I remember you used to bake. Your blueberry tarts and your gooey brownies. Baithak would feel at home when you would click open the Tupperware you would bring each day and distribute cookies to people you love and people you’ve never even met. The sky is less blue now, Zuni. There is a lingering silence that cannot be silenced or ignored after you left this place, these people behind. Tasneem kept staring at the white plumeria on the ground where you both used to sit for hours and traced the spot on their arm where you would draw daisies. Daisies. Daisies drawing that you would draw at your friends' arms is now debossed on the white wall bench in Baithak with your name. I will leave. Tasneem will leave. Eventually, everyone you and I knew will leave Habib, but your name will always stay there like you would in all of our hearts and memories. 

I worry about Zuha. Every Tuesday, I’d go to her slightly dark office. I’d offer her a hot chocolate or my help with all the towering amount of work she keeps herself busy with all the time. She always denies it. She always says she is doing okay. But, she wakes up every morning before dawn to take care of your cat, Bubba. And keep your things tucked so safely next to her bed. And, keeps the blue wall of your room in her sight. And, I haven’t talked to your brother, but I saw him standing silently going through your things when I returned from downstairs to the empty room with your things on Zuha’s bed. I wanted to say something comforting to him. But, what could I possibly say to him that was placating enough to feel better about losing you. I hope you know you’re loved so deeply, so gently, so widely. 

Tasneem wrote you a poem. They wear all the things that remind them of you. They tucked a tiny purple shell in my palms that they brought for you from their trip to America but could never hand to you. They thought they had more time to give it to you. Zuha thought she has more time to ask you about your dreams and your favourite poet. Rameen wanted to meet you more once the pandemic ended. I thought I’d one day utter a hello instead of passing quiet smiles to you once the campus reopens properly. We all thought we had more time. And, it only made sense. You were younger than all of us. You were supposed to outlive all of us. But the pandemic still hasn’t left us, but you have. And, it feels like this is a weird trance, and at any moment your hearty chortle would pull us out of it.

You’d know Zuni was here if you see a diet coke can lying around is how your friends remember you. You and your diet coke cans and your overtly big tote bag. Your energy was so chaotic but calming. All the receipts in your wallet and the careful assortments of paraphernalia in your bag tell me it was hard for you to let go of things. Almost like you gave non-living things feelings, and now you had to honour them. The juxtaposition of your bright, bouncy extroversion and its stark absence is perhaps always going to be too much. It is colossal. Echoing. Grievous.

You’re too far away now, Zuni. I hope in a beautiful place surrounded by periwinkle blues and a surfeit of daisies. You did well. We are all proud of you. Even in our oblivion of spending time like it's abundant, you’re a reminder to be gentle, to forgive, to love with all our capacity.

Rest in peace. 

I miss you.

Eesha.