The Room I Will Leave Behind

Someday, I’ll leave this room.

Not for a vacation.

Not for a change of scenery.

But for good.

And someone else will walk in,

not knowing what this space meant to me.

They won’t know how many nights I sat here,

heart open like a torn letter,

speaking to a silent ceiling,

searching for answers between shadows.

They won’t know how I stood by the window

watching rain fall on the old tree outside—

counting the droplets like lost hours.

This room saw it all—

my hopes,

my flaws,

my quietest prayers whispered into pillows.

One day, it will forget me.

My books will be packed away,

my clothes donated or discarded,

my toothbrush thrown in the trash

without ceremony.

Someone might repaint the walls,

move the furniture,

hang their own memories where mine used to live.

And slowly, I will vanish.

Not suddenly—

but like perfume fading from a scarf.

And then I wonder…

What will remain?

What part of me will outlive the dust?

Not my face.

Not my name.

Not my possessions.

They are too fragile to fight time.

But maybe—

just maybe—

the kindness I gave will linger.

The pain I helped ease.

The smile I inspired in someone who desperately needed it.

Maybe a child I never met

will recite a verse from the Qur’an

because someone I once taught passed it forward.

Maybe a dua I made for someone in secret

will reach them long after I’m gone.

That is what I want to leave behind—

not echoes in a room,

but traces in souls.

I don’t want to be remembered.

I want to be witnessed—

by the One who never forgets.

So when I’m gone...

Don’t cry for the things I owned.

Cry for the prayers I missed.

The words I should have said.

The time I could have given.

And remind yourself—

this room, too, will one day be empty.

Yours.

But your deeds—

they will echo far beyond walls.

So love sincerely.

Pray deeply.

Give without keeping score.

And live like your soul is being written in light.

Because it is.