The Moment of Memory

I was born in Lahore, where the culture nurtured both my art and my thinking. Today, I live in Porto, Portugal, where I bring color to life through my work as a writer and poet. My journey spans over two decades, during which I have guided and developed young talents as a Senior Director at a modeling school, helping them shape their creative identities.

I’ve always felt that love is not just a feeling—it’s a responsibility. A kind of responsibility that slowly steals you from yourself.

Sometimes, a person becomes something even they don’t recognize. That’s what happened to me. I didn’t dream love—I lived it. For me, it wasn’t a softness of the heart, but a deliberate choice, one that demanded sacrifice every day, every moment. I listened to others’ pain, read their silences, felt their wounds. And when it was my turn, I quietly wrapped that pain around myself.

I can never forget those faces that found refuge in my silent smile. Those who laid their wounds before me and felt lighter... while I quietly added another burden to my heart.
No one ever asked, “When will your heart feel lighter?”
But perhaps the truth is—I never really wanted it to.

Some relationships survive only because one person is willing to forget themselves. I became that person.
There were no promises of return, no expectations of acknowledgment. Yet I gave myself completely—because to me, love was never about receiving, but about the grace of giving.

Often at night, when the city sleeps, I remain awake. In the quiet corners of my heart, those faces stir—faces I once held in wordless moments. And I feel peace, believing they might be happy somewhere. Perhaps they don’t remember me—but maybe, just maybe, I was an unseen reason for their joy.

People used to ask me:
“Shakira, why do you burn for someone else?”
I would smile. I had no words. Those who’ve never felt the burn, how could they understand the cost of light?

I write this today in the hope that someday, if another Shakira Nandini stands where I once stood—questioning whether her silent love went in vain—she’ll know: no, never.

The moment of sacrifice—when one forgets the self—might disappear into the dust of time, but it inscribes itself across the breast of the universe in letters that cannot fade.
That moment remains—tender, moist, and true.
Just like this memory...
Mine, too.