aurastorm Member Profile

The last Moment

General Support / by aurastorm

September 21st

...See more TW. Hi, Void. "Hi, Aura." I said goodbye to him today. "I know." No. You don't. I don't think anyone can know what it means to say goodbye when there is nowhere safe to put the goodbye. There was no proper room. No quiet. No flowers. No time. Just concrete dust in the air, people calling names, footsteps everywhere, and me standing there trying to understand how someone can be here one moment... and then become someone you have to say goodbye to. "Did you talk to him?" I don't know. I think I did. I remember saying his name. I remember touching his face. I remember telling him that I was there. But everything after that is broken. Like my mind took the worst parts and scattered them so I wouldn't have to hold them all at once. "Did you kiss him?" Yes. His forehead. One last time. And I hated myself for knowing it was the last time. Because how do you kiss someone goodbye when every part of you is screaming that this cannot be goodbye? I kept looking at his face. I thought if I looked long enough, maybe my mind would refuse to accept it. I memorized him again. His forehead. His eyes. His mouth. Everything. As if I could carry his face somewhere the war couldn't reach. "Was he cold?" ... Yes. I don't want to talk about that. I want to remember him warm. I want to remember him sitting beside me. I want to remember his voice coming from another room. I want to remember being annoyed when he called my name too many times. I want those stupid ordinary things back. I would give anything for one ordinary day. Not a perfect day. Not even a happy day. Just one normal day. One day where nobody is counting the d ead. One day where the rockets and strikes doesn't make your heart stop. One day where you don't have to wonder who is missing. "Did you cry?" I don't know. Maybe. I think my body forgot how. There was too much happening. Too many people. Too much noise. And somehow the world kept moving. That's what I don't understand. How can someone disappear from your life... and the sun still rise the next morning? How can people keep talking? How can bread still be baked? How can children still cry? How can a clock keep ticking? How can the world continue when mine stopped? "You're still here." I know. That's the problem. I'm still here. He's not. And I don't know what to do with all this life that suddenly has nowhere to go. I keep thinking I will hear him. Sometimes I turn when someone says a name that sounds like his. Sometimes I see someone from behind and my heart runs toward them before my mind catches up. And every time... it's not him. "Do you miss him?" I miss him in ways I don't know how to explain. I miss him when I'm hungry. I miss him when I'm afraid. I miss him when I hear an explosion. I miss him when the night becomes too quiet. I miss him when something makes me laugh and I instinctively turn to tell him. I miss him when I wake up. I miss him when I fall asleep. I miss him most when I forget for a second... and then remember. "Do you wish you had said something?" Everything. I wish I had said everything. I wish I had hugged him longer. I wish I had listened more carefully. I wish I had stopped whatever I was doing and looked at him properly. I wish I had known. I wish someone had told me, This is the last time. Because I thought there would be another morning. Another conversation. Another meal. Another argument. Another laugh. Another chance to say I love you. I didn't know I was spending my last moment with him. Nobody ever tells you. They just take the person away... and leave you with all the words you thought you had time to say. "Are you angry?" Yes. At the war. At the rubble. At the sky. At every siren. At every person who told us to wait. At every tomorrow that never came. But mostly... I'm angry that I have to remember him as someone who's gone. I don't want that word beside his name. I want his name to mean a person. Not a photograph. Not a memory. Not a date. Not a number. A person. My person. "Then say his name." ... I don't want to. "Why?" Because once I say it, there is nobody here to answer. ... I said goodbye to him today. But I don't think goodbye happened today. It will happen tomorrow morning. And the morning after. And every time I reach for my phone. Every time I hear his name. Every time I walk past somewhere he used to stand. Every time I remember something I forgot to tell him. Maybe that's what goodbye really is. Not one moment. Not one last kiss. But thousands of tiny moments afterward... when you realize, again, that they are gone. And you have to lose them all over again. "Are you going to be okay?" ... I don't know. I don't think I am supposed to be okay. Not yet. Maybe for now, I just need to sit here, hold his name inside my chest, and let myself miss him. Because he was here. He was loved. He was mine to lose. And I was his... for a little while. Before war took him from me. . . Aura 🍉

Fragments.

General Support / by aurastorm

August 23rd

...See more I remember Gaza before I knew it would become a memory. Not the Gaza people put into photographs. Not the sea and the postcards and the sunsets. I mean the "ordinary" Gaza. (Yet it was never ordinary, was it?) The loud Gaza. The stubborn Gaza. The Gaza that woke before the sun and somehow still found a way to laugh. I remember streets that were crowded with voices. Vendors calling out. Children running between people’s legs. Doors left open. Neighbors shouting to one another from balconies. The smell of bread drifting through the morning. Coffee. Bread. Salt from the sea. Everything was close. People were close. Life was always spilling into someone else’s life. A mother yelling for her children. A grandmother sitting outside. Someone fixing a car with the entire neighborhood offering advice. Someone playing music too loudly. Someone laughing at something stupid. And somehow, even with everything we knew, there was still this stubborn belief that tomorrow would resemble today. That is what I miss most. Not safety. Certainty. The ordinary certainty that tomorrow would come and still look like home. Now I have fragments. A piece of a wall. A photograph with half the faces still visible. A kitchen I can remember better than I can remember my own reflection. A name. A voice. A smell. A child's shoe. A piece of wallpaper. The strange thing about destruction is that it doesn't erase everything. It leaves just enough behind to torture you. One chair standing. One window. One cupboard. One toy beneath the dust. One photograph that somehow survived when the people inside it didn't. Fragments are cruel. Because a whole ruin is easier to understand. But a fragment? A fragment makes you imagine the rest. I see a broken staircase and remember who used to run up it. I see a doorway and remember who used to call my name from the other side. I see a kitchen and remember my mother's hands. I see children walking and remember my siblings. I hear laughter and my heart turns toward it before I remember. Gaza now feels like that too. Fragments of what it was. Buildings without rooms. Rooms without families. Streets without the people who gave them meaning. The sea is still there. The sky is still there. The sun still rises over everything. And somehow that almost makes it worse. Because the world continues its routines above a place that has lost so much of its own. Morning still comes. People still search. Mothers still call names. Children still wake up. Bread still matters. Water still matters. A blanket matters. A doorway matters. A place to sleep matters. Everything ordinary has become enormous. I think that is what war does. It takes the things you never thought to be grateful for and teaches you their value after they are gone. Home becomes a photograph. Family becomes a voice in your head. A bedroom becomes four walls you can reconstruct perfectly in memory. A mother's embrace becomes something you feel only when you close your eyes. And Gaza becomes both a place and a wound. I don't know how to describe the now without betraying the before. Because Gaza is not only the rubble. It is also everything that existed before the rubble. The jokes. The arguments. The weddings. The Eid mornings. The crowded tables. The fishermen. The bakeries. The children. The old men drinking coffee. The women calling each other from across the street. The sea. The stubbornness. The warmth. The noise. All of it is still there somewhere. Buried beneath the fragments. And maybe that is why I cannot stop remembering. Because if I remember only what was destroyed, then destruction gets the final word. So I remember the loudness. I remember the ridiculousness. I remember how alive it was. I remember my family inside it. I remember my name being called. I remember home. And then I look around at what remains. Silence. Dust. Unknown. And me. Standing somewhere between the Gaza I remember and the Gaza I am still trying to understand. Carrying fragments in both hands. Too afraid to drop them. Too tired to carry them. Still carrying them anyway. . . . Aura 12:16 am 22 Aug, 2026

Two halves

General Support / by aurastorm

May 6th

...See more Everyone asks me: what’s wrong? As if the answer lives close to the surface, as if it can be pulled out in a sentence, placed between words, and handed over neatly. But what’s inside me doesn’t come in sentences… it comes in fragments. I don’t remember when it started .. only that somewhere along the way, I split. There is a version of me that moves through the day, smiling at the right moments, responding, existing, passing through people like nothing is broken. And then there is the other one, the one that stays behind, sitting in the quiet aftermath of everything, collecting what I couldn’t say, carrying what I couldn’t show. What’s wrong with me is not one thing. It’s layers. Days that pressed too hard. Days when life wasn't fit to be called a life. Days when everything was taken. Words that never found a place to land. Feelings that learned to fold themselves small just to fit inside a world that kept moving. It’s the habit of saying “I’m fine” until the word itself lost meaning. It’s being here...fully here. and still feeling like no one can see how much I’m holding together at once. So I go quiet. Not healed. Not okay. Just… quieter. At night, when everything softens, I try to understand myself, but even then, the thoughts don’t line up. They scatter, like pieces of something that was never allowed to stay whole. The worst part isn’t the sadness, or the clawing grief. It’s the way it settled in, made itself familiar, until it became part of how I speak, how I see, how I almost feel happiness.. but never all the way. They ask me: what’s wrong? And I hesitate… Because I don’t know which version of me they’re asking about... the one that stands, steady, unshaken on the outside, or the one inside, that feels like a place constantly rebuilding itself after something unspoken, again and again, without ever being asked what it lost. . . Aura 11:45 pm, May 6th 2026

The lock

General Support / by aurastorm

April 4th

I miss my name.

General Support / by aurastorm

January 11th

...See more I miss my name. Not just the word, but the weight it carried within, the way it meant I belonged somewhere, that someone called me into being. How sad it is, to forget what that feels like to wait in silence for a voice that used to be my anchor,now lost somewhere in the distance. I miss hearing my name. And i miss home. I miss mum. I miss dad. I miss my siblings. My bed. My room. My wallpaper. My clothes. My shoes. My coats. My journals. My ukulele. My guitar. My music stuff. My slippers. My washi tapes. My stickers. I miss my bathroom. My mirror. My vanity. My wardrobe. My hair bands. I miss my stuff. My collections. My albums. I miss my cups and mugs. My pillow. My sweater. My socks. My blanket. My rug. My spot in the couch. My laptop. My games. My bags. My shoes. My coffee maker. I miss the smell of home. The winter. The summer. The sun inside home. The figs and olives. The cats and birds. I miss the noises of people. The tv the movies. The bread. The tea. The homemade cooked meals. The warmth. The voices. I miss stupid posters on my room wall. I miss the walls of home. The floors. The wallpaper. The dining table. The rug we draw on. The paint. My books. My rock collection of memories. My memory box. My funny letters. My school books. My sketches. My whole damn life. My life. Its not fair Not fair at all. Not fair I miss my name I want to hear my name irl How small but hard of a wish that is.

Aftermath

General Support / by aurastorm

November 17th, 2025

...See more It’s like there’s a hole in my chest that no one warned me about, and every day it widens just a little more. Some days I pretend I don’t notice it, pretend I’m stronger than this weight that never leaves me. But then something small ..a memory, a smell, a thought hits me out of nowhere, and suddenly I’m back in that moment again, the moment everything was taken. Not lost. Taken. Ripped. Cut out. Stolen. That damn strike didn’t just hit a place, it hit my life. It hit my future. It hit everything I was supposed to still have. And the world keeps going like nothing happened, like I didn’t watch my entire sense of “home” collapse into smoke and silence. People talk, laugh, breathe, live ... and I’m standing there with this invisible wound no one else can see. I miss my family so much my bones hurt. Not metaphorically ..no ..it’s like the ache settled into my skeleton and decided to stay. My siblings’ voices echo inside me like ghosts. I can hear them sometimes, the way they laughed, the way they complained, the way they made the house feel alive. That noise was life. And now the silence is so loud it rings in my ears. I miss my mother’s warmth, her presence, the way she could look at me once and somehow know everything I was afraid to say. I miss my father’s steady calm, the kind that made the world feel less hostile. And now I feel like a tree pulled out of the ground violently, roots dangling, dirt falling off, nothing to hold onto. Just floating. Drifting. Pretending I’m fine while something inside me is screaming. And the anger… the anger is its own creature. Dark. Heavy. Bitter. It sits behind my ribs and claws its way upward, burning, tightening, pressing. Angry at the strike. Angry at fate. Angry at the world. Angry that I can’t go back in time and hold on to them harder. Angry that I wasn’t given a choice. Angry that everything can vanish in a heartbeat and there’s nothing you can do but watch your life collapse like a fragile building. I hate how missing them feels like swallowing glass. I hate how some nights I lie awake and my mind replays memories that feel both precious and poisonous. I hate how no matter how far I run, the pain runs faster. I hate how the homesickness is not for a place but for people, for voices, for warmth, for a life I can’t get back. I hate how grief becomes something you carry in your mouth, in your lungs, in your heartbeat. Something that never leaves, just changes shape. Sometimes it feels like I’m living in the aftermath of a storm that never ends. The sky above me is always that strange color, not night, not day, just the shade of things that can’t be undone. And I’m tired. Tired in that deep, bone-level way that sleep doesn’t fix. Tired of pretending I’m okay. Tired of holding all this grief alone. Tired of feeling like the child version of me is still somewhere inside, crying for a home that doesn’t exist anymore. You wake up some mornings and you don’t even know how you managed to open your eyes. You sit there thinking, How am I still here? How am I still moving? How did I survive when everything else didn’t? And the guilt hits you like a wave that pulls you under, fills your lungs with that thick, choking question: Why me? Why am I the one left? Surviving alone isn’t strength. And people say, “You’re strong,” like it’s a compliment, but they don’t understand what that kind of strength costs. They don’t understand how surviving alone means learning to stitch wounds with shaking hands, wiping your own tears, holding yourself upright when the world feels like it’s collapsing again and again. They don’t understand how lonely it is to have no witness to your pain. How lonely it is to cry into a room that doesn’t answer back. Some days I swear the grief sits so heavy in my chest I can’t tell where my heart ends and the pain begins. It feels fused together, welded by the heat of that airstrike that changed everything in a single impossible second. I replay it even when I don’t want to, even when I’m begging my mind for silence. The blast, the shock, the tearing away, it’s like the universe reached into my life with both hands and pulled out everything that mattered. And it replays, It replays, Over & Over & Over & Over.. .. .

Hello, Humankind

General Support / by aurastorm

August 20th, 2025

...See more I dig with bare hands, nails broken, skin torn, stone after stone after stone. The dust fills my lungs but I breathe it in anyway, because maybe, just maybe, a voice will answer back. I whisper their names into the rubble, each syllable a prayer, a plea, a knife. I press my ear to the ground, hoping to hear a cough, a cry, anything that means life still lingers beneath this graveyard of walls. But silence answers me. Silence and the echo of what once was, a mother’s call from the kitchen, the rustle of her dress as she moved, the warmth of her hand guiding mine. yet I call out, a name, a cry, a memory, hoping the rubble will answer back. But the only reply is the echo of my own voice, bouncing off broken walls, mocking me with the silence. I claw deeper, my fingers bleeding, my soul unraveling. I imagine I hear it, a cough, a whisper, a child’s laugh, but it is only the ghosts of what used to be. I find a hand at last. Her hand. My mum’s hand. I hold it as if holding could bring her back. Ash clings to her skin, her fingers stiff, fragile, a color no hand should ever be. I press it to my face, beg it to move, to close around mine just once more. But it is stone now, and the warmth that once wrapped my world is gone. Around me the ruins mock what used to be home. The table where we laughed, splintered wood. The door where she once stood waiting for me, ripped from its hinges. The bed where she tucked me in, buried in dust. Memories are shadows here, and I, their unwilling witness. Is this all we are worth? Is this what it means to be human now? to watch your family turned to rubble, to hold your mother’s hand and feel it crumble in your own, while leaders play monsters and the world plays blind? This is not life. This is not fair. We are humans too. Or did you forget? Did you trade our lives for your comfort, our screams for your silence, our mothers for your monsters? Are we so cheap, humankind? Are we less than your comfort, your silence, your headlines? Are monsters all you see now, while children slip through your fingers like dust? We are humans too. Do you remember that? Or have you traded compassion for politics, hearts for stone? Are we so worthless that our screams vanish into silence? Are the monsters in power all that matters now? We are humans too. We loved, we laughed, we dreamed, just like you. And now I stand with my mother’s hand in mine, her and my entire family's silence echoing louder than any bomb, and I ask you, "world" : When did you forget what it means to be human? When did you forget that it could be you, digging through rubble, praying for a voice, and finding only ash? Wake up. Hear us. See us. We are not numbers. We are families, we are children with dreams, mothers with tenderness, fathers with hope. Wake up. Remember us. Before the last memory of love is buried with the rubble. Wake up. Before all that makes us human is lost. . . Aura 🍉 683 days.

Did you know, Void?

General Support / by aurastorm

August 3rd, 2025

...See more Hi Void, Did you know that I used to collect dreams the way some people collect souvenirs? Each one, a little treasure I held close. I had a list. Messy, chaotic, full of hope,of everything I wanted to do. I wanted to learn to cook, properly cook, the way my mum did. She made food taste like home. I wanted to bake bread that filled the house with warmth. To try, fail, laugh, and try again. I wanted to play an instrument, maybe the oud or piano or the cello, just to feel the sound under my fingers. I wanted to paint, not for anyone else, just for me, skies, oceans, cityscapes, all the places I wanted to go. I wanted to sing out loud without fear, even if I wasn’t good. I wanted to build something of my own, a business, a life, a future. Continue my career i worked so hard on to graduate with honors. I dreamed of freelancing as an architect, to design places where people lived not just existed. To compete in international challenges, and architecture competitions, to stand with my team again, to win together, to feel that fire. I wanted to travel, not to escape, but to explore, to see the beauty of a world I admired from afar. To feel small in the middle of mountains, to breathe in air that wasn’t choked with smoke, drones, fire or fear. I wanted people to know me. Not for tragedy, but for the things I built. I wanted to leave a mark, a story worth telling. You know? Now I am a shadow of that girl. I walk through ruins and rubble not just of buildings, but of everything I loved. The world I adored, the world I believed in, turned cold. It watched us starve. It watched us fall. It watched as famine and seige took us one by one. They wear their neat suits, speak of peace and humanity, and then send missiles that rip through families like mine. We line up for aid, and it feels like stepping into a trap. No safety, no dignity, just the hunger games played in real life. They drop flour, we run. If we’re lucky, we get to live another day. If not, we get a bullet instead. That’s the price. That’s the "humanitarian aid" they send. I had dreams, Void. Now all I have is me. And even that feels like a curse. Because I am the last. The only one left with my family’s name. No more dad’s voice, no mum’s hands, no laughter from Sam or teasing from Loay. No adorable tight hugs from my niece. Or silly moments with my sisters. No home to return to, no one to call me in for dinner. I see videos, happy families, gatherings, full tables, full hearts. And I just want one meal. One single meal where we are together. To hear their voices again, to feel their presence, just once. Is that too much to ask? Is that so hard? to want a table, a meal, a moment of peace? What am I now, Void? Not who I was. That's for sure. Not who I was meant to be. I am what remains. I am memory and grief wrapped in skin. I am the echo of all they were. I am alone… and still here. But for how long, Void? How long before I, too, vanish like the rest? How long before there is no one left to remember our names? Maybe the world won’t notice when I’m gone. Maybe it already doesn’t. Maybe I was never meant to survive them. Maybe this...this silence, is all that’s left for us. Just promise me one thing, Void... Remember us. We were never statistics in a book. We were people. We had names, voices, goals, dreams. We lived. We loved. We laughed. We existed just like the rest. And we deserved More. So much more. . . Aura 🍉 2:58 AM Fri, 1st Aug

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1106 Days.

"Fortunate are those who lived their youth before the war, And fortunate are those yet to be born after it... As for us, may fate forgive its timing.

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1106 Days.

"Fortunate are those who lived their youth before the war, And fortunate are those yet to be born after it... As for us, may fate forgive its timing.

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