https://eitaa.com/ananasmi/11238 ای وای پس یعنی خیلی وقت بود دوست بودید واقعا متاسفم ، ببخشید اگه یادآوریش اذیتت کرد
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فداسرت دخترخانوم واسه چی معذرت خواهی میکنی😭
I know I won’t have time to say all this out loud.
So I’m writing it here — for me.
For her.
For the memory of everything she was.
Yasna wasn’t like anyone else.
Not even close.
She wasn’t from my country.
She wasn’t from my school.
She wasn’t someone I passed by in the hallways.
But somehow… she became home.
We met so young — when I was in sixth, and she was in fifth grade.
We were kids.
And yet, she had this… energy.
Something in her voice, in her eyes — even through a blurry screen.
She already knew who she was.
And she never tried to impress anyone —She just existed.
Naturally, beautifully, unapologetically.
Yasna was stunning.
And I mean it in the kind of way that stops your breath for a second.
Long, thick lashes. Those deep, clever eyes. That soft, clear skin.
She never wore makeup. Never used filters.
She didn’t need them.
She had that real beauty —
The kind you only see once in your life.
I remember telling Rachel once,
“Bro, I didn’t even know girls in Iran were this gorgeous.”
And Rachel just went,
“Yeah. Yasna’s an international phenomenon.”
But her beauty?
It wasn’t even the most impressive thing about her.
She was so smart.
Not just book-smart.
Not just language-smart.
But the kind of brilliant that scared you a little.
Like she could read your thoughts.
Like she knew ten steps ahead of every conversation.
She spoke English better than most Americans I knew —
Could roast me in two languages, sometimes three.
She learned them all for fun.
And then turned around and helped Rachel with her homework while calling Chris a "goldfish with WiFi."
She had that spark.
She didn’t just learn — she devoured knowledge.
She remembered everything.
And somehow, still acted like the most chaotic little gremlin in the group.
Tongue out. Always.
Even in serious moments.
I swear, that girl stuck her tongue out more than she breathed.
And she knew it made her cute.
She’d act like, “What? I’m just thinking,”
And we all knew she was being playful.
We had the best memories.
Our video calls were full of disasters.
Like the night she tried to teach us how to make cookies.
She was so focused, acting like a tiny, angry chef.
Chris dumped too much sugar.
I broke the egg on the side of the laptop.
Rachel confused salt with baking soda.
And Yasna just stared at the screen with her arms crossed and went:
“...I hate you all. I’m leaving.”
Did she leave?
No.
She laughed so hard she snorted and stayed to watch the chaos burn.
There was that other time we all danced to Iranian music.
She tried to teach us moves, and none of us could follow.
Chris looked like he was having a seizure.
I tripped over my own foot.
And Yasna?
She spun around in her room like a princess from a cartoon —
Barefoot, hair flying, tongue out —
Just joy.
She sang, too.
God, her voice.
It wasn’t professional.
It was real.
Soft, clear, full of emotion.
Like the kind of voice that sneaks into your chest and never leaves.
She’d sing silly songs, half-serious, and I swear sometimes I forgot to breathe.
She cried too.
Once, during a show we were all watching.
Her favorite character died, and she went OFF —
Yelling in Persian, switching to English halfway.
“NO. I AM NOT OKAY. I HATE THIS. I HATE ALL OF YOU.”
Then Rachel asked, “Are you on your period?”
And Yasna froze.
Went silent.
Then said, “…shut up,” grabbed snacks, and came back like a warrior.
She was also so unbothered by attention.
Rachel? She got hugs. Affection. Sweet words.
Chris and I?
She roasted us 24/7.
Insulted us with love.
And we loved it.
Because we knew that was her way of protecting herself — and still loving back.
She never once tried to flirt.
Never asked for validation.
She didn’t need it.
She was it.
Her family?
So loving.
So kind.
They invited me to Iran.
Said I’d always have a place at their table.
I never felt so welcome from people I’d never met in person.