my dearest, Nabeeha,

as I begin this letter/diary entry/attempt at feeling close to you, the wind bangs at my windows in such a way that it forcefully comes in through the cracks, making a quiet whistling noise echo around my room and succeeding at making me feel just the tiniest bit crazy. how are you? I miss you.

the air here is dry and cold, and it's making my dermatitis flare up; my hands are cracked and bleeding, and every time I look at them I think of you and your eczema. it makes me wonder about the weather in Islamabad, the stress you might be under due to your classes, the projects and models you might be working on, and your skin's reactions to all of that. writing it down on paper makes it seem silly, especially because I don't even know your eczema's exact placements or triggers, but I guess it's only natural for me to have t...