Hello dear Hivers,
Back when my brother and I had no work yet, we were extremely close. We did everything together: watched action, horror, or funny movies — whichever we felt like. Sometimes when we were alone at home and had nothing to do, we would sing songs together, laughing and trying to hit the notes. Many nights, after watching a movie, we would lie on our beds and talk. We’d recount the scenes, retell the story, teasing each other about characters or surprising moments. Hours would pass by so fast; we’d only realize it was already three in the morning. Those were some of the best nights of my life: simple, carefree, full of shared laughter and imagination.
But when he went away — first to study, then to build a life — those kinds of nights became rare. I missed not only the companionship and the shared laughter, but even small things like arguing over which movie to pick, or competing to remember the funniest lines, or just singing along to old songs until our voices went hoarse. I missed our harmless arguments over what to watch, our excitement at a horror film, or our laughter bursts during a comedy show. I missed the feeling of being two people in tune, sharing the same joys, the same simple pleasures.
I still remember clearly the day his student visa was approved for Canada. I felt a surge of happiness — that sense of pride and hope that he had a bright future ahead. But deep down, I also felt sad, because I knew this meant I would no longer spend movie nights or random karaoke sessions with him for some time. I felt torn: happy for his opportunity, but sad for what I — we — would lose in the process. I looked at a photo taken that moment. In the picture, he was smiling widely, holding the approved visa in his hands. His eyes had that spark of hope and ambition. My own smile was forced. I wanted to be happy for him, but I also felt a pang of longing. I thought about the empty seat beside me, about the movies we would no longer watch together, about the songs we would no longer sing until the early hours.
Those were bitter-sweet feelings. Proud, yet nostalgic. Hopeful, yet lonely.
Then this year — finally — his return became real. The anticipation built up: the date, the flight, the countdown. And then the day came. We met again.
Ever since then, we’ve started doing again the things we used to do — not exactly the same, but close enough. We’ve watched a movie together, joked about the old funny scenes, sang a song or playing guitar, just like before. Of course, things are different now. We have our own routines now but that bond — that closeness — is still there. And maybe it’s even stronger now because we appreciate it more.
This reunion made me realize: some relationships pause because life pulls people apart. But love, care, and shared memories — they don’t disappear. When the time is right, they find their way back. The laughter, the companionship, the quiet nights talking about movies or singing at midnight — these things may fade away for a while, but when you care enough, they come back, sometimes even more precious than before.
So, to my dear brother: welcome home. And to all my fellow Hivers: cherish the people you love, because distances and years may separate you — but memories, love, and hope can bring you back.
Thank you dear Hivers for taking the time to read. See you on my next blog!
Choose to live fully, love deeply, and show up each day with purpose and kindness.
