I find myself drawn to the pages of my old journal. Leafing through its weathered, yellowing sheets, I am transported back to a time when my words flowed freely, capturing moments of both lightness and shadow in my life.

One entry catches my eye, penned during another somber day much like today. I wrote about cigarettes back then, of all things—how many one could smoke in a day, as if counting them could measure the weight of my worries. The inked lines reflect a younger me, grappling with the heaviness of life, seeking solace.

But amidst these reflections on cigarettes and gloomy days, my journal also holds memories of my dad. How vividly I remember those childhood trips with him to Ranau and Kundasang. The mist would settle thick around us, a veil of cool dampness that made everything softer, quieter. Dadi would pull over to the roadside, and there, amidst the fog, my sisters and I would play, giggling as the dampness kissed our cheeks. Those were moments of pure joy, wrapped in the warmth of his presence and the innocence of childhood.

My dad was a good man—a gentle soul, though he never uttered a word about love, but I know in a way, he did love us. Even now, at nearly 25, I still feel like his little girl, forever held in his memories. The ache in my chest grows as I read those words I wrote years ago, realizing how much I miss him.

He suffered so much, bore burdens that weighed heavily on his shoulders. He had his flaws, as we all do, but he tried his best. I don't think he ever truly had a chance at a good life, yet he persevered. Now, as I stand on the threshold of my own future, I find myself yearning for a life that honors his memory—a life filled with happiness and fulfillment, the kind he wished for but never quite achieved.

I wipe away a tear, letting it mingle with the raindrops tracing their path down the windowpane. I wish I could have done more for him, shown him more of the love and gratitude he deserved. The memories flood my mind, each one a bittersweet reminder of the man he was and the impact he had on my life.

I whisper into the quiet of the room, to the memory of my dad, hoping somehow he can hear me across the divide that separates us. "I miss you, Dadi," I say softly, my voice breaking with emotion. "I hope I can make you proud. I hope I can find the happiness you wanted for me, so that in some small way, your spirit can live on through mine."

And as I close my old journal, feeling the weight of both past regrets and future hopes settle upon my heart, I know that his memory will always guide me. In the rain-swept quiet of this day.