The Day My Brother Disappeared Without Saying Goodbye

There are moments in life that come silently, without warning, and yet leave behind a thunder that never stops echoing. For me, that moment came on a foggy Wednesday morning—the day my older brother disappeared.

His name was Saad. He was three years older than me and, in many ways, everything I wasn’t. Quiet, brooding, thoughtful, and always lost in books or long walks. He had a smile that didn’t come easily, but when it did, it made you feel like everything would be okay. We were close once. Shared a room, a bicycle, even secrets. But as we grew older, something shifted.

Saad began to pull away.

At first, it was subtle—skipping meals, sitting alone on the rooftop, and staring into the night for hours. He would disappear for long stretches without explanation. When I asked him where he went, he’d just shrug and say, “Somewhere quiet.” There was always this weight in his eyes, like he was carrying something none of us could see.

Our parents noticed too. My mother thought he was in love. My father assumed it was just a phase. But I knew something deeper was unraveling.

Then came the morning.

He left home like he always did — wearing his dark green jacket, headphones around his neck, and a small notebook in his pocket. My mother handed him his lunch, and he kissed her forehead, something he hadn’t done in years. Then he turned to me, gave a nod, and said, “Take care of them.”

I laughed. “You act like you’re going off to war.”

He smiled — a full, warm smile — and walked out the door.

That was the last time we saw him.

When he didn’t return that night, we thought he might’ve stayed with a friend. The next day, worry set in. By the third day, my father filed a missing person’s report. What followed were weeks of searching—calls, posters, visits to friends, hospitals, even the morgue.

Nothing.

Then, exactly thirty days after his disappearance, we received a letter. No return address. Just his handwriting.

> “I’m not lost. I’m just away. I need to breathe, to feel something different. Don’t be angry. I love you all. Tell Mom her food still smells like home.”



My mother held that letter to her chest and sobbed. My father crumpled it, then smoothed it out again. He read it every night for a month, always in silence.

We never heard from Saad again.

Years passed. We tried to move on. I finished school. My parents grew older. The house grew quieter. Saad’s room remained untouched — like a museum. His books, his scent, his scribbled poems in the margins — all still there.

Sometimes, I’d lie on his bed and read his old journals. They were filled with thoughts too heavy for someone so young. He wrote about feeling invisible, misunderstood, exhausted by expectations. He questioned the purpose of everything — life, family, even himself.

I often wondered — what was it that finally broke him?

Was it the pressure to succeed? The silence around mental health? Or just the sheer weight of existing in a world that demands so much from people who feel too much?

I don’t know.

But I do know that we failed to see him. Really see him.

Ten years later, I visited a small village in northern Pakistan for work. While walking through the bazaar, I passed a man who looked so much like Saad, I froze. He had the same walk, the same slouch, even the same dark green jacket.

I called out, “Saad?”

He turned for a second, stared at me. Our eyes locked. But then he turned away and disappeared into the crowd.

Was it really him? Or just a ghost of my memory playing tricks on me?

I don’t know. But that night, I dreamed of us sitting on the rooftop again, sharing stories, laughing about silly things. I woke up crying.

Some disappearances are not about escape. They're about survival. About finding space to breathe, to heal, to exist on one’s own terms.

If I could speak to him now, I’d tell him we forgive him. That we still love him. That not a single day goes by when we don’t think of him.

That the door is still open.

Always.