Dear Jacobabad,

A Writing Challenge

Some cities become addresses. Others become memories you never stop carrying. Dear Jacobabad... this one’s for you. 🤍

People say a city is only made of roads, buildings, and dust.

I disagree.

A city is made of the people who laugh inside it, the homes that shelter love, the classrooms that witness childhood, and the memories that refuse to leave long after we do.

You were never just my parents' hometown.

You became the keeper of my childhood.

My earliest memories are stitched into your streets.

I walked into my school as a tiny nursery student, clutching a bag that looked far too big for me. I left years later as a seventh grader, never realizing I was leaving behind an entire lifetime.

That classroom was chaos.

Everyone talked at once.

The teachers constantly begged us to quiet down.

Laughter echoed louder than lessons.

And somehow, I loved every second of it.

I was the computer freak.

The child who was fascinated by anything with a keyboard and a screen.

People knew me for that.

It became a little part of who I was.

Back then, I thought those noisy mornings would last forever.

Nobody tells children that one ordinary Tuesday will quietly become a memory they would give anything to relive.

You gave me more than a school.

You gave me a person who knew every version of me before the world asked me to become someone else.

She was my blood.

But that title was never enough.

She was my first best friend.

She wasn't the one who talked endlessly.

I was.

Every afternoon I would find her and empty my entire day into her hands.

Who annoyed me.

Who made me laugh.

What happened in class.

What I learned.

What I dreamed about.

Every tiny detail that felt important simply because I wanted her to know.

She listened.

Looking back now, I think that is one of the purest forms of love—to be listened to without ever being told your stories were too small.

I still remember our older cousin's wedding.

The house was overflowing with relatives.

Children running everywhere.

The smell of food filling every room.

Music playing in the background.

And there we were...

Standing in front of a mirror.

Fixing our dresses.

Laughing until we could barely breathe.

Arguing over who looked prettier.

Certain that the world revolved around us.

If I could visit one memory for just five minutes...

It would be that one.

Because neither of us knew that life was already preparing to separate us.

It wasn't one fight.

It wasn't one cruel sentence.

It was something far more painful.

Family politics.

The kind adults pretend belongs to children.

The kind where everyone says it is between the kids, even though the children never built the walls.

Slowly...

The conversations disappeared.

The laughter disappeared.

The comfort disappeared.

Now we can exist under the same roof and feel like complete strangers.

Sometimes I wonder...

Do you remember the two little girls who couldn't stop talking?

Because I do.

Every single day.

Then there was my uncle.

My father's brother.

There was a time when seeing him meant feeling welcomed.

His affection never needed words.

It simply existed.

Until one day...

It didn't.

Somewhere inside that same family conflict, I stopped being someone's beloved niece and became someone to blame.

I still don’t know which hurts more

losing someone to death...

or losing someone who is still alive but no longer looks at you with love.

There are no funerals for relationships.

No prayers.

No people bringing food to your home.

You simply wake up one morning and realize someone who once felt like family now feels impossibly far away.

And then there are those who truly left.

The relatives whose voices I can no longer hear.

The hugs I cannot ask for again.

The chairs that remain empty at family gatherings.

Every visit to you seems quieter than the last.

Every return teaches me another kind of absence.

For years, I blamed you.

I blamed your streets.

Your houses.

Your memories.

Because every time I thought of you, I remembered something I had lost.

My school.

A friendship that once felt unbreakable.

An uncle's affection.

Family members whose laughter now lives only inside my heart.

But maybe...

It was never your fault.

Maybe cities don't steal people.

Time does.

Pride does.

Misunderstandings do.

Life does.

You simply stood there...

Watching children become adults.

Watching laughter become silence.

Watching families learn how fragile love can be.

Even now...

When someone says "Jacobabad," I don't picture roads.

I picture a noisy classroom.

A little girl obsessed with computers.

Two cousins laughing in front of a mirror.

An uncle smiling without hesitation.

Family gathered together before anyone knew how quickly life could change.

Perhaps that is why you still hurt.

Because you remind me of the life I cannot return to.

The people I cannot become close to again.

The childhood I never realized was ending while I was still living it.

Dear Jacobabad...

If your streets still remember footsteps...

If your walls still remember laughter...

If the wind still carries echoes of the children we once were...

Tell them I still miss them.

Tell them that somewhere, a girl who grew up believes a piece of her heart never really left your city.

And tell my childhood...

I still visit it every time someone says your name.

With love, grief, and memories that time could never erase,

Tahreem.

Author’s note...

This wasn’t the easiest letter to write. Every paragraph carried a memory I thought I had tucked away. Jacobabad is more than a city to me it’s where pieces of my childhood still live, where laughter became silence, and where love and loss learned to exist side by side. This letter is for everyone who has ever missed a place not because of its streets, but because of the version of themselves that still lives there. ❤️

A heartfelt thank you to Manmeet Singh Bhatia for creating the "Dear City" writing challenge. This encouraged me to revisit memories I had buried for years and put words to emotions I had never fully expressed. If you happen to come across this piece, it would truly mean a lot if you could give it a read and share your thoughts. Thank you for inspiring stories like this and for giving writers a space to write from the heart. 🌿

🏙️ *This story is part of ‘Dear City 🏙️ — A Writing Challenge’ on The Rabbit Note. What did a city give you, take from you, or leave unresolved between you? Write a letter or poem addressed to that city and submit it to ‘Dear City’ on The Rabbit Note. Submissions open until 24 July 2026.*

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