If I Survive

A long, stretchedout week that has felt less like seven days and more like an entire year. As I write these lines on this Saturday morning, I still cannot grasp that only a week separates me from last Saturday.
We live in eastern Tehran, an area repeatedly and brutally targeted. Not a single day or night has passed without the sound of explosions, the roar of fighter jets tearing through the sky, followed by wave after wave of relentless blasts.
The worst moment came on Friday morning. The ground shook, the windows rattled, and my husband and I held each other in the tiny shelter we call safety, the doorway frame, far from the windows, whispering what felt like a final goodbye.