The week of the grapefruit.

Sitting in the rain, watching everything peppered by unforgiving droplets of water...I whiskfully think of hot soup, preferably with chicken, potatoes and carrots. I begin to salivate, and swallow.

The trials and tribulation of being away from our loved ones, especially my parents during times of much transition happening inside of me. I can't even call them to say I'm sad or happy or that I miss them. I smile when I imagine F reading intently-something he hardly ever does-on an apple application that follows the progress of our baby.

I know I am strong enough to endure this - hell others have gone through it under more depressing circumstances. I feel a warm teardrop roll down my cheek and swiftly wiped it away. It seems to be the only thing that keeps me company lately. Crying is such a familiar feeling it is always striking close to my heart.

I miss my friends and house in Kemaman. I had enough rest, food, I was laughing a lot more. I am stressing out my baby for sure.

Somehow I'd envision myself to be a happy happy mommy, perhaps just like my mom did. She divulged in boxes of Belgian chocolates, white and milk being her favourites. Now, hunger pangs are treated like heart wounds and the empty space in my head is often filled with self pity.

I have a 35-page cementing program to write and yet this unhappiness is so overwhelming I write it with such ease.

Only to Allah do I turn to, always.