📖 MAAZI MEIN REHNE WALAY
(Those Who Live in the Past)
By Aishah Raheel
🕯️ Prologue — The Chains
They don't look like chains.
They look like memories. Like old photos. Like "remember when" and "what if" and "if only."
They feel soft. Familiar. Safe.
But try to move forward while holding them?
You'll feel the weight.
You'll realize — you're not holding the past.
The past is holding you.
🌑 PART ONE — THOSE WHO LIVE THERE
(A portrait of the people who never left yesterday)
i. The One Who Still Waits
She checks her phone.
Not because anyone's texting. But because once, a long time ago, someone did. And she's still waiting for that feeling to come back.
She doesn't notice the sun anymore. Doesn't taste her food. Doesn't hear her friends when they laugh.
She's somewhere else.
1. Or 2021. Or that Tuesday in October when everything still made sense.
She's still there.
And here? In this body, in this room, in this life?
She's just... visiting.
ii. The One Who Still Apologizes
He says sorry for things that happened years ago.
Not out loud — but in his head. In the middle of the night. In the shower. In the moments when his mind goes quiet and the old mistakes creep in.
I should've said this. I should've done that. If only I'd been better.
He's apologized a thousand times.
But the person he's apologizing to?
They haven't thought about it in years.
They've moved on. They're living. They're free.
He's the only one still serving a sentence.
iii. The One Who Still Compares
Every new person. Every new opportunity. Every new chance at happiness.
She measures it against him.
Against the way he laughed. The way he looked at her. The way things felt back then.
No one measures up.
Not because they're not enough.
But because she's still using a ruler from five years ago.
And the world has changed. People have changed. She has changed.
But her ruler hasn't.
So everything new?
It always comes up short.
iv. The One Who Still Goes Back
Not physically.
He doesn't call. Doesn't text. Doesn't show up at their door.
But in his mind? He visits every day.
The good moments. The bad moments. The moments he'd give anything to relive.
He replays them like a movie he's seen a thousand times. Knows every line. Every scene. Every frame.
And every time the movie ends?
He presses play again.
Because in there — in the past — he knows what happens.
In the present? Everything is uncertain.
So he stays. In the theater. Alone.
Watching a story that's already over.
🌑 PART TWO — WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU STAY
(The cost of living in yesterday)
v. You Lose Today
It's subtle at first.
You miss a moment here. A laugh there. A sunset you didn't notice because you were thinking about a sunset from years ago.
Then it gets louder.
Friends stop calling because you're never really there. Opportunities pass because you're not looking. Life happens — and you're not in it.
You're somewhere else.
And today?
Today becomes another yesterday you'll one day mourn.
The cycle continues.
vi. You Stop Growing
Plants need sun. Water. Soil.
Humans need new experiences. New challenges. New pain and new joy.
But when you live in the past?
You stop seeking the new.
You stop risking. Stop trying. Stop becoming.
You're the same person you were five years ago — just more tired.
And growth?
Growth happens in the present. In the messy, uncertain, scary present.
You can't grow in a place that's already dead.
vii. You Become Heavy
Not physically.
But people notice. They feel it when you walk into a room. The weight you carry. The sadness you wear like a coat you forgot to take off.
They don't say anything. They just... keep distance.
Because it's exhausting being around someone who's always looking back.
The past is heavy enough for one person.
But when you make others carry it with you?
They eventually put it down.
And walk away.
viii. You Miss the Door
It opens.
Every day. Sometimes multiple times a day.
A new person. A new chance. A new version of happiness you didn't know existed.
But you don't see it.
Because your eyes are fixed on the door that closed years ago.
The one that's not opening again.
The one you keep staring at — hoping, waiting, praying —
While behind you, a dozen new doors have opened and closed without you ever noticing.
That's the tragedy of living in the past.
Not that you lost what was.
But that you missed everything that could have been.
🌅 PART THREE — HOW TO LEAVE
(Small steps toward the present)
ix. First, Grieve
You can't leave without saying goodbye.
So say it.
Out loud. On paper. In a note you'll never send. In a prayer. In a scream.
Tell the past: I see you. I felt you. You mattered.
But I can't stay here anymore.
Grief isn't weakness. It's the door you walk through to get to the other side.
Don't skip it.
Don't pretend it doesn't hurt.
Let it hurt. Let it pass. Let it go.
x. Then, Forgive
Not them. Not yet.
First, forgive yourself.
For staying too long. For hoping too much. For not knowing better. For knowing better and doing it anyway.
For being human.
You did what you could with what you knew.
And now you know more.
So forgive yourself for not knowing it sooner.
The past doesn't need your guilt.
It needs your acceptance.
xi. Then, Look Up
One day — maybe today — lift your eyes.
Look at the room you're in. The people around you. The sky outside your window.
Notice something small. The way the light hits the wall. The sound of someone laughing somewhere. The feeling of your own breath.
This moment — right now — will never come again.
Don't miss it because you're somewhere else.
Look up.
You're here.
xii. Then, Choose
Every morning, choose.
Choose today over yesterday. Choose the unknown over the familiar. Choose the scary present over the comfortable past.
It won't feel natural at first. It'll feel wrong. Like wearing shoes on the wrong feet.
But keep choosing.
And one day, you'll realize —
You haven't looked back in weeks.
You're living here now.
In the present.
Where you belong.
🌙 PART FOUR — THOSE WHO MADE IT
(Portraits of people who learned to leave)
xiii. The One Who Finally Looked Away
She doesn't remember the exact moment.
Maybe it was a Tuesday. Maybe she was making tea. Maybe she just... forgot to check.
But one day, she realized:
She hadn't thought about him in a week.
No panic. No guilt. No "what if."
Just... quiet.
She didn't celebrate. Didn't tell anyone. Just sat with the realization and let it settle.
I'm free.
And for the first time in years, she looked at today.
It was beautiful.
xiv. The One Who Found New Paths
He stopped walking the old roads.
Deleted the photos. Avoided the places. Stopped asking mutual friends how they were doing.
At first, the new paths felt wrong. Unfamiliar. Lonely.
But then —
He found a café he'd never noticed. A hobby he'd never tried. A person who looked at him like he was the only one in the room.
The new paths weren't empty.
They were just waiting for him to stop looking back.
xv. The One Who Learned to Visit
She still thinks about it sometimes.
The past, I mean. The memories. The people who shaped her.
But now?
She visits.
Like an old museum. Like a graveyard she tends once a year. Like a chapter she reads when she needs to remember where she came from.
She doesn't live there anymore.
But she respects what happened there.
And every time she leaves, she turns around and says:
Thank you. I'll come back sometime.
But not today.
Today, I have a life to live.
🕊️ Epilogue — Aaj
They ask: Are you over it?
And you smile.
Not because it's funny. But because "over it" is such a small word for something so big.
You're not over it.
You just stopped living in it.
The past is still there. Always will be. A room in the house of you.
But you don't sleep there anymore.
You visit sometimes. Dust the shelves. Remember how it felt.
And then you walk out. Close the door. And go make tea in the kitchen of today.
Because today?
Today needs you.
Aaj.
THE END.