My Thought

Hey cutie Mouri,

Let me share some things I've never said to anyone—the raw, unfiltered truth about who I am, where I come from, what haunts me, what keeps me awake, and what burns inside me when I think of you.

My name is MD Mazharul Islam Gazi, but the people who truly know me—my blood, my heartbeat—call me Al Amin. My father's people, my mother's people, they all know me by that name. But in school and college, teachers and friends knew me only as "Gazi." Just Gazi. So when someone from my school days would call my home asking for "Gazi," my mother was always confused because there were five Gazis under our roof—my father and we four brothers. I always found that funny, but looking back, it feels like a metaphor for how easy it was to get lost in the crowd of my own family.

In Australia, at CQUniversity, friends also knew me as Gazi. But deep in my heart, I always found "Abdur Rahman" to be the most beautiful name—which is my younger brother's name. So I searched for something new, something pure. I chose Muhammad. Just Muhammad. And when I came to Darwin, I introduced myself as exactly that. It felt like starting over. It felt like hope.

We come from a tiny village called Hugly, in Faridganj thana, Chandpur—so far from the main town that it's close to Noakhali. That's why my accent carries those Noakhali tones you sometimes hear. To understand how disconnected we were: I studied by candlelight. There was no electricity in my village until class 3 or 4.

My grandfather's family was enormous—seven uncles, four aunts, a small army of cousins. Everyone is stable now. But nothing started that way.

My grandfather, Muslim Gazi, was murdered in his own home by a group of men. Imagine maintaining a family that massive with no income, no protector. When they killed him, my youngest uncle was still nursing at my grandmother's breast. The world had ended, but the children were still hungry.

But my grandmother—oh, my grandmother—she was superhuman. She carried the impossible weight of that family on her shoulders. She sent every single child to school. She instilled morality that money could never buy. She built everything from absolute zero. The bravest woman I have ever known. Society threw cruelty at her for having "too many children," but she never broke. Never compromised. She raised them right, and the universe finally bowed to her. She became a millionaire. She visited Australia and Saudi Arabia, lived like a queen in her final years. She earned every breath of joy.

Then my eldest uncle left for Saudi Arabia as a boy, sending money home, sacrificing his youth for our survival. Another hero who gave everything. Following his path, my other uncles went too—my father and the rest. Except Mujib uncle. My father couldn't stay in Saudi for long; he returned to Bangladesh, helped Mujib uncle build a business, and stood by him. This family saw many ups and downs, but at the end of the day, they won respect and everything. They're standing stronger than 25 years ago. Every single one of them is my hero.

On my mother's side—my grandfather was a businessman in Dhaka's Sadarghat. That man lived with infinite aura. He started from nothing, scaled his business, bought properties everywhere. He demanded the best—best clothes, best food, no matter what the price was. And his devotion to faith? Absolute. Zero compromise. He donated most of his wealth to mosques and religious work. My grandmother—I adored her. She was blessed to walk beside a giant like him.

Now, none of them are alive. The pillars are gone. But their echoes remain.

My family has six members—my parents and four brothers. Now seven, since my eldest brother married.

My mother. My mother. The only woman who is the reason I'm still breathing. Cute, caring, innocent—you can convince her of anything in seconds. She demands nothing. Only that we be happy. She sacrificed everything for this family, and she's still doing that. Her skin is dark, which this sick society judges, but her heart is pure gold—24 carat, impossibly soft, impossibly rare. If I start talking about her, I will never stop. In one line: she is the only gem of her kind in the entire universe. And she too was blessed with a husband like my father.

At first, my father seems emotionless—always serious edges and silence. But that's what surviving hell does to a man. If he loves you—truly—he will show you his love language slowly, carefully, completely. Even with him, words fail me. But for some reason I cannot understand, I have always been his favorite son. From the beginning. And I hate it. I hate the weight of that preference.

I have three brothers. Naim Gazi, the eldest—married two years ago, now in Saudi. Then Azmir Gazi, studying Business and Accounting in Bangladesh, my default friend sent by Allah Himself. And finally Abdur Rahman Gazi, in college. I don't know how many times we've fought until we bled, but I know I'd bleed for them too.

We are lower-middle class. No enriched background. Even now, we struggle—with life, with society's judgments, etc. But somehow, we're happy. My father made sure of that, because he and my mother did their jobs perfectly.

This isn't everything, but these are some things about my family.

Now, me.

Third son. The most loved one, though I never asked for it. Until class 6, I was in Chandpur. I had a best friend named Niloy—a brilliant boy, always first in class. But ego, that poison, killed our friendship nine or ten years ago. We speak now, but as strangers who once knew each other. From the beginning, I was good at study, and I liked math too much. I got many gifts from my teachers for doing well in math. After that, I moved to Dhaka and began again.

From class 7 to 12, I shared classrooms with thousands. But I made only four friends. Four. And we remain brothers. You'll never see us on social media. We talk regularly, share our lives completely, but we never perform for an audience.

Now, about you. Who are you? Even six months ago, I didn't know anyone by this name existed in the world.

But now, you are the second woman I have ever interacted with this deeply, talked to this much, wished for this desperately, wanted this intensely, and loved this completely. I love talking to you. I love spending time with you. I love doing things for you. Actually—I just love you. I love who you are, how you are, what you have, what you lack, what you love, what you hate. All of it.

When I say "hey my cutie Mouri," I mean: you are mine. Someone I can trust. Someone I can share my day with. Someone I can love without armor.

But love isn't a trade. Not love for love. It's a choice that rises from somewhere deeper. We can't force it. Sometimes it arrives with zero effort; sometimes it flees despite enormous sacrifice. That's its terrifying beauty.

You come from a good family, a big house, where everyone is educated, connected with government jobs. Everything nice and fancy. Everything opposite to my existence. You're the princess, the queen. And I'm just a boy with dreams, struggling to hold my world together, trying to fix what's broken and solve every puzzle of life.

I don't know if you like me. Sometimes I think you don't. Sometimes I think you don't love me—that you're simply afraid to hurt me, afraid to see me crumble if you say no directly. Or maybe you think I'll forget you if we stop talking, if we stop interacting.

I know I am not serious about many things, not mature enough, not good at anything. But what I'm doing—this isn't entertainment for me. I was serious from day one.

I understand reality. But I cannot believe that if something goes wrong, I would have to live without you. I don't want any life that doesn't include you. Yet I cannot force you to choose me.

I cannot die, because you're not the only one I love. I love my parents. My brothers. My family. I need to stay alive a little bit more for them, even if living hurts.

And I know—I know—that begging for love is not how you receive it. So I'll stop.

I'll never promise you big houses, money, or richness. Because love arrives with zero conditions. But I will do all the things this world calls success—not to buy your love, but because my parents, my brothers, and my wife deserve a man who tries, who fails, who builds.

Never think I write this to convince you—never. Because I think you are my close one, and I want to share my reality with you. That's all. Even if you love me or not, it is not going to change anything. If I love the wrong person, I know how much I can love the right person too. Or if I love the right person, they will know how much they can be loved.

You are a good, soft-hearted, dhonghi, cute, and kind person—which attracted me. Always be like that. Not for me, for yourself.

Everybody deserves better—you too. If you think you can do better anywhere, move. I love you, and that does not mean it is necessary that you will be mine or that we will be together. Love is not autocracy; it works like democracy, where both people should say yes.

In my letter that I sent you, I never mentioned my name. You know why? Because I don't know which of my names you like most. I am stupid that I was waiting for the reply to see my name—but that's all right. The first rule: never expect anything from anyone.

The day you say completely no, hopefully you will never see me twice. I will make sure of that. And the day you say yes, for sure I will always be in your eye range. I will make sure of that too.

I am not too far. I am at the same place I used to be, but you made the distance. So in case you miss me, call me. Call me. Call me—no matter what the time and situation.

Best of luck. Always be happy. Stay safe.

I wanted to explain more, but my soul is tired now—not because of you, but because my mind knows the truth, and I am not ready to accept it.

I love you.
Muhammad