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“Some nights, I sit with the ghost of who I was meant to be. She doesn’t speak. Just traces the cracks on my skin like they were her inheritance. I let her braid my hair with all the things I never became the violin I quit, the apology I never gave, the summers I spent folding into silence when I should’ve screamed.” — Maimoona Abidi

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Some nights, I sit with the ghost of who I was meant to be. She doesn’t speak. Just traces the cracks on my skin like they were her inheritance. I let her braid my hair with all the things I never became the violin I quit, the apology I never gave, the summers I spent folding into silence when I should’ve screamed.
— Maimoona Abidi