The Last Time I Held His Hand I ran through the hospital corridor without stopping, heading straight for Room 15. I was running so fast that it felt as though my soul had left my body. By the time I reached the room, I was out of breath, terrified, and unable to utter a word. As I slowly opened the door, I walked toward a frail but warm-hearted man lying on the hospital bed. The sharp smell of disinfectant filled the room, making everything feel even colder. Even in pain, his eyes still carried the same warmth that had comforted me since childhood. Despite his condition, he was trying to spend one last precious moment with a frightened, tearful boy—me. "Don't cry," my grandfather whispered, trying to comfort me. The last time I held his hand, I didn't know it would be the last. His fingers felt colder than usual, yet he still smiled at me. I smiled back, unaware that those few seconds would stay with me for the rest of my life. For a few moments, we talked about old memories—my first day at school, the day my ice cream slipped from my hands, and the time he protected me from an angry dog. Although my body was in that hospital room, my mind wandered through every memory we had shared. Every weekend, I visited my grandfather in his quiet village. I didn't go because my parents told me to—I went because he had lived alone since my grandmother passed away. His home was surrounded by flowers and fresh country air. "Here comes my little champion," he would say every time he saw me. After helping him water the flowers or pick vegetables, we would sit outside with cups of coffee, enjoying the peaceful silence far from the hustle and bustle of city life. He always told me, "One day, you'll become someone the world will be proud of." Those conversations meant everything to me. Suddenly, I was pulled back to reality. The steady beeping of the heart monitor turned into one long, terrifying sound. Doctors rushed into the room, desperately trying to save him. They performed CPR, shouting instructions while machines echoed throughout the room. They tried to lead me outside, but I couldn't move. I stood frozen in the corner, as if my feet had been rooted to the floor. My hands wouldn't stop shaking, and I could hear my heartbeat louder than the machines. Only five minutes passed. Yet those five minutes felt like an eternity. Then my grandfather slowly turned his head toward me. Looking into my eyes, he whispered just four words... "Never forget your family." A gentle smile appeared on his face. Then he closed his eyes forever. At that moment, I couldn't tell whether I wanted to cry, scream, or simply stand there in silence. The following day, I returned to his house alone. This time, I wasn't carrying excitement—I was carrying regret. The garden was still there. The flowers were still blooming. The birds were still singing. But the chair where we used to drink coffee sat empty, and the coffee cups were gone. The silence spoke louder than words. Before leaving, I whispered, "Goodbye for now, Grandpa. I promise I'll come back as the person you always believed I could become." Time moved on, but my grandfather never truly left me. His words stayed with me every step, inspiring me to work toward my dream of becoming a diplomat. Every step toward my dream reminds me of the promise I made to him. Since then, I have treasured every moment with my family, never taking their presence for granted. I began spending more time with them, joining every family gathering, celebration, and simple moment that once seemed ordinary. I no longer rush through family dinners. Instead, I stay a little longer, listening to stories I once thought I would hear forever. One evening, while my parents were talking at the dinner table, I put my phone away and simply listened. For the first time, I realized those ordinary conversations were the moments I would one day miss the most. I still visit his home whenever I can. Sometimes, I sit in the same empty chair where we once shared cups of coffee. Sometimes, the wind gently moves the trees, and for a moment, it feels as though he is sitting beside me again. I tell him about the dreams I am still chasing, as if he were quietly listening with the same warm smile. Whenever I look at the stars, I remember that sleepless night and silently thank him for everything he gave me. To this day, I continue striving to become the person he believed I could be. Every step I take brings me closer to fulfilling the promise I made that day. Although I can no longer hold his hand, I still carry the lessons he placed in mine. Only after losing him did I truly understand that the greatest gift we can give the people we love is not expensive presents or perfect words—it is our time. Because we never truly know when an ordinary moment will become the last time we hold someone's hand.

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The tin was rusted at the seams, lighter than a slice of bread, and it was the only thing in our house that survived being sold twice. My father tried to trade it for kerosene the year the mines closed. My uncle tried to trade it for train fare the year he left for the city. Both times, my grandmother walked to wherever it had gone and walked back with it tucked under her cardigan, saying nothing, as if she'd only stepped out to check the mail. Inside were three hundred and twelve sunflower seeds — "small suns," my grandmother called them, waiting for permission to happen. I know because I counted them once, furious, certain she loved them more than she loved me. That was the winter the money changed its face twice and was worth less each time it did. We ate what we grew and grew less of it every year. I was nine, and I thought my grandmother was cruel for refusing to eat the seeds the week we lived on borrowed flour. "Why won't you just eat them?" I asked her, when hunger made me brave enough to accuse her outright. She didn't look up from her mending. "Because they are not seeds, Ana. They are next year." "Next year won't feed us tonight." "No," she agreed. "Tonight will have to feed itself." The neighbors thought grief had loosened something in her. My grandfather hadn't come back from the border two winters before, and grief does strange things to people, they said, twisting their dish towels tighter than they needed to. Mrs. Kovač told her plainly that a woman alone could not afford sentiment. My grandmother only smiled and offered her a cup of the tea that wasn't really tea — just hot water with a memory of mint in it. When the frost broke, she didn't plant potatoes like everyone else. She walked to the far end of our field, where the soil was too full of stones for anything sensible, and planted all three hundred and twelve seeds in a slow spiral, murmuring under her breath the whole time. I thought it was a song. It was her counting, so she wouldn't crowd them. Everyone else spent that summer arguing over turnip yields. Our spiral grew green, then rough, then taller than my shoulder, then taller than my father, rattling like paper in every wind that came down from the hills. I stopped being angry sometime in July, though I never said so. I told her the stalks were good windbreaks instead, which also happened to be true. By September we had forty sunflowers taller than the church door, heads heavy and dark, ringed in gold: a field of small suns, finally ready. My grandmother cut exactly enough seed for our own winter and set the rest aside in paper twists. Then, before light, she walked to Mrs. Kovač's gate and left one there without a note. I followed her, ten years old and outraged that we were giving away food when we lived on turnip peel ourselves. She left twists at six more gates before the village woke. At the seventh, I finally understood. This wasn't generosity. It was arithmetic. Years before I was born, a harvest had failed badly enough that half the village had eaten its own seed grain to survive, ours included. Every year since, my grandmother had been quietly replanting what fear had made people swallow — one gate at a time — so no single winter could ever again decide a whole spring. She never once called it that. She called it "tidying the field." A year later, six gardens bloomed sunflowers instead of turnips — small, uneven copies of ours. The year after that, eleven — including, at last, Mrs. Kovač's, who never mentioned the seeds and never needed to. By the time I was twenty, the whole valley turned gold every August, and almost no one remembered why. A few of us did the counting. My grandmother is gone now. The tin isn't. It sits on my windowsill in a city she never saw, and every August I fill it with three hundred and twelve seeds — no more, no less — though I don't yet know whose gate I'll leave them at. I only know that somewhere, hungry and proud and certain no one is watching, someone is deciding whether to eat their future. I'd like to be the reason they don't have to.

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The auditorium erupted. A wall of thunderous, deafening applause crashed over the stage, accompanied by the blinding flash of smartphone cameras. The school principal's voice boomed through microphone, echoing off the high concrete walls. "And the first prize for the National Merit Scholarship goes to Aakriti Rana". Aakriti stepped forward. Her black school shoes clicked rhythmically against the polished wooden floorboards, a sound completely swallowed by the cheering crowd. She forced her lips to stretch into a flawless, practised smile — the exact smile her mother had made her practise in front of the dressing room mirror for the past three weeks. The heavy, gold-plated trophy was pushed into her hands. It was cold. Remarkably cold. To the sea of parents, teachers & students in the audience, this was her moment of ultimate triumph. They saw a brilliant, teenager who had secured her future. They didn't know that for Aakriti winning this prize wasn't a victory. It was the beginning of a life sentence. The next morning, the chaotic, mundane hum of class 12-B felt words away from the high-stakes drama of the auditorium. The monsoon rain tapped gently against the glass windows, the scent of damp earth mingled with the familiar smell of chalk & old textbooks. Near the back row, a group of girls huddled tightly around a desk, their voices low, fast and animated. "We absolutely have to celebrate tonight", Ananya said, slamming her chemistry notebook shut with a definitive thud. "Lets go to that new cafe near the metro station, the one with fairy lights. Their hot chocolate is supposed to be amazing". Riya paused, her pen hovering over her notebook. Her eyes drifted towards the front row, landing on Aakriti's empty desk. "Should we... do we also call Aakriti to join?" Riya asked, her voice dipping into a hesitant whisper. Ananya scoffed, rolling her eyes dramatically. "Don't even bother. She will not come. She has just developed so much attitude. Did you see her yesterday? She didn't even smile back when we waved at her after the ceremony." "Yeah", Sneha chimed in, crossing her arms defensively. Outside the classroom door, hidden by the heavy wooden frame, Aakriti stood frozen. Every word sliced through her. They thought her silence was arrogance. Her silence wasn't attitude — it was pure, unadulterated survival. Aakriti swallowed the lump of glass in her throat, pasted on the cold, distant expression that the world mistook for confidence & walked into the classroom. As she took her seat in the front row, the girls in the back instantly fell silent. When Aakriti returned home that afternoon, the trophy was already prominently displayed on the centre table of the living room. Her Mother Kavita said "You made us so proud yesterday. Next month is Final Entrance exam. You can not afford to lose focus. Sleep a little less, study a little more. You are top ranker. You have to stay there. "I won't lose focus, Ma," Aakriti whispered. That night, Aakriti opened her physics notebook. For a long time, she simply stared at the neatly written formulas. Then quietly, she pulled out another notebook from beneath the file. The one filled with unfinished stories. Her mother's words still echoed in her mind. Sacrifice. Maybe sacrifice were necessary sometimes. But perhaps life was not meant to be made entirely of them. Outside her window, the monsoon rain had finally stopped. And somewhere between the silence of the night & the scratching of the pen against paper, Aakriti began writing again. This time, not for marks. Not for applause. But for herself.

Sparkling shards… tiny, tiny shards of a shattered, fractured dream blink – wink – wink – wink – blink at me, glowing fireflies perched on the very utmost – extremely furthermost – tip of green-leaved branches of possibilities… Twinkling – twirling – tintinnabulating crystal bells serenade my sighing heart – Take heart! – they hymn-hum, clinking – tinkling – glittering clarion calls that make my soul gleam, glow and glimmer, send courage blazing through the murk. In a lightless corner of my despair, a nub of candle fizzles – frizzles – frazzles, bursts into a flickering flame that sways, steadies, stays still, emitting the scent of jasmine and freesia: shards metamorphose into hope.

Having a learning disability has been like the butterfly going through Metamorphosis. Every butterfly goes through the same life cycle: egg, caterpillar, chrysalis, and then transforms into a butterfly. Just as the butterfly transforms through this process, I, too, needed to grow, change, and become the person that I am today. The first phase is the egg phase. The egg looks like a speck of dirt. I was diagnosed with a learning disability early on in my school years. My Kindergarten teacher saw that I was struggling to count, tie my shoes, and do math. The second phase of a butterfly's life cycle is the caterpillar stage. During this phase, the caterpillar grows rapidly and sheds its skin. My school years were a struggle for me academically and socially. To help me learn, I received specialized instruction and accommodations. Accommodations such as having the test read aloud and extra test time gave my brain extra time to process and better comprehend information. Even with the academic support, I still struggled to learn and was frustrated. All I wanted to do was learn like my peers and make my parents proud of me. I was able to understand and was put into all regular education classes, except for math and the resource room in high school. I also found subjects I was good at, such as reading and writing. Socially, my school years were a struggle for me as well. I had difficulty making friends and was bullied for having a disability. In regular education classes, my peers saw that I struggled and that I went to learning support. In learning support, most of my peers struggled with reading, not math, and I was bullied there, too. The next stage in the life cycle in the life cycle of a butterfly is the chrysalis stage. During this phase, it spins a protective chrysalis where it changes and grows. During my college years, it was when I began to develop my chrysalis. I was told that I would not be able to go to college, get my bachelor's degree, or have the job I wanted. I retreated into my chrysalis and put forth the hard work. It was not always easy, and I wanted to give up. But I did not give up and kept growing. The next phase in the life cycle is when the butterfly reaches maturity. The butterfly pushes out of its chrysalis and becomes a fully grown butterfly ready to fly. I emerged out of my chrysalis and was able to graduate with a bachelor's degree. The last phase in the life cycle of a butterfly is laying eggs, for future butterflies to be able to grow. The butterfly will lay her eggs on flowers, and the cycle continues. I get the chance to inspire the students that I work with as a para-educator in a school. I find it rewarding to work with students who have disabilities and encourage them to go after their dreams. Each phase of my life cycle has shaped me into the person that I am today. The egg phase laid the beginnings of my journey. The caterpillar phase helped me to learn and grow. The chrysalis provided the protection. The butterfly stage is when I get to see accomplishments push forward. I now work to help others by encouraging struggling students and sharing my story.

Dear Mom, I made it. I don't know how I did it without you, but I did. You said I would love it here in Kentucky, and I do now, but man it was difficult in the beginning. What made it even worse is that I knew you were the only one who would understand what I was going through, and I couldn't call you. I couldn't cry to you about the culture shock – about how much slower life moves down here, how no one is afraid of conversation, how everything will get done ‘when it gets done', about the one-lane hilly holler roads that gave me panic attacks every time I drove them, about the thick accents and phrases I didn't understand. I knew if I could just talk to you, you'd explain everything and make me feel so much better. But I couldn't…I had to get through it on my own. And for a while, I was mad at God for taking you when He did – when I needed you more than I've ever needed you. But then spring came, and oh my gosh – I can't tell you how many times I wanted to send you a picture of a new wildflower I'd never seen before, or a bird – you would have loved the birds down here. And the sunsets. And the gentle rains. And the way the fog settles in between the mountains in the evenings and rises as mist in the early mornings. How was it possible that such a beautiful place existed, and so many people had never experienced it? I spent so many summer evenings on my porch, just admiring nature, and wondering how a place that was so breathtakingly gorgeous could be so poverty-stricken and desperate. I knew that if anyone would understand how I felt, it was you…and I wished I could call you. There have been so many times I've thought about all the times I didn't call you…the weeks and sometimes even months we went without talking because of different issues we were struggling with…and I don't know whether to laugh or cry at the irony of it – because I probably would have called you almost every day, if not multiple times a day, this past year. There were so many struggles, so many weird moments, so many new experiences that warranted a phone call – like how the Walmart here is Black Friday every Friday, and there's such a thing as “Holler Dollar” and “holler dogs,” and the people here eat this cheese on their sandwiches that I think would taste better as a dip, and there's a native fruit call a Paw Paw that tastes like a cross between a kiwi and a banana, and kangaroo jerky is a real thing, and one shot of moonshine goes straight to your head, and almost everyone owns a side-by-side, and there are giant crickets here and five different kinds of hornets and more slugs than I've ever seen in my life, and one inch of snow is enough to shut down the town, and people will get mad if you insult their Double Kwik pizza rolls, and bluegrass music is wonderful, and did you know I turned 40? How weird is that? I'll never forget sitting on your bed, crying, thinking you'd be upset when I told you we were moving to Kentucky. You were sick, and I was terrified to leave you. But you smiled and hugged me and told me it was okay – you told me I was going to love it. And again, when I stopped at the hospital on our way out of town, you held me tight and told me not to cry, and told me again I was going to love it. Well mom, I want you to know – I do. It has by far and away been the craziest, most difficult year of my life, and it probably would have been a little easier if I'd been able to call you, but I made it. I'm grateful for who I've become. It's ironic - I feel closer to you, and more like you than I ever did before. I know your spirit was here cheering me on. Thank you for supporting my move here. I'm excited to see what this next year brings. I love you and miss you. Happy New Year, mom.

“Will we make it? Why does everyone look so worried?” My little sister had no idea what impact her words made, but they touched each of our family deeply. They poked at my consciousness like a pebble causing ripples on a still pond's surface. My backpack weighed heavily on my shoulders, yet I barely registered it as my mind wandered. The sounds of the airport became muted as I reentered the past. The past year had been a trial. My parents had decided to adopt and into my life came three teenage sisters. This particular choice led to a much larger trial than any of us had envisioned. Though being missionaries in Zimbabwe was already challenging, now strife laced our home's atmosphere. I would walk into the room, gauging the occupants' emotions based on their faces. A frown—I'll come back later. Silence—the new norm. Joy—what's that? I didn't know what caused the anger and grudges, but they existed anyway. Brick by brick, stone by stone, I felt walls being built around each family member. I did not blame anyone; the situation was simply there. Loneliness often threatened. Some of my closest friends had left, and living over an hour from the closest town left little opportunities. It is strange how cold wind often feels so much colder when one faces it alone. We lived in a hot town in the middle of nowhere, but to me it often resembled a frozen wasteland. “Sign here please.” The voice startled me out of my stupor. I stirred and stared at the customs agent. Her stone-like visage had barely shifted since we were halted in front of her desk an hour ago. Covid. Oh, covid. It was the root of everyone's problems recently. Right now, we had been given an incorrect covid test for my brother. It showed that he had tested positive, though that was a much earlier test. I could see the sweat on my dad's forehead. I loved Zimbabwe, but they were not known for their punctuality. If we had the wrong test, it was next to impossible to receive the right one within the hour. That would be too good to be true. And yet here we were, being ushered to our gate! Wow. Miracles still happen. It's not like we could afford to pay for another ticket. We started running, doing our best to catch our plane, but my mind wandered again. From physical injuries to a river of severe emotional strain, the pillar of my heart was slowly eroded. I lived on, unconsciously adjusting the the new norm of my life. Sadness and disappointment seemed all to eager to be my companions. When we were scheduled to go on furlough in 2019, Covid cancelled it. Already numb, I had taken it in. Why expect that something would go right for once? Time after time, it seemed as if the long-promised dawn of hope would be yet again delayed. Only an instinct deep inside of my refused the company of despair. I knew of little alternative; life had done its best to kill all the other options. Yet I knew that the dawn had to arrive; I knew it like I knew it takes oxygen to breathe. I just hope the dawn arrives soon. I cannot remain standing much longer. The plane was still boarding. We all got on and settled ourselves into our seats. It was not a minute too late. We had barely buckled before the pilot spoke from the cockpit and the plane took off. We reached cruising altitude, and I looked out of the window. The sun was rising, spreading its smiling rays of red and orange over the canvas of clouds and sky. The view was stunning, but to me it spoke of much more than simple beauty. “Never surrender,” it seemed to say to me. “Never give up. Hope always has a chance. Though the night be blacker than you have ever seen, though it seem as if the sun will never rise, hope will break through! True beauty and victory are found like gold once it has passed through the fire, removing the impurities. Hope will always prevail.” I looked at the clouds and smiled. My perseverant belief and paid off. Hope will always prevail.

He sat upon the ledge of the cliffs with legs dangling over the ethereal fall leading into the shimmering waters below; the ocean sparkled like a million diamonds in the setting sun. Up high, the sky was a brilliant hue of blue with the growing twilight encompassing it in a rosy-orange haze. Every cloud and bird rushed towards the sun, it seemed, finally seeing it as weak as it dethroned itself from its heavenly throne to behind the waters. A whale's distant cry-sounding like an explosion followed by multiple frustrated groans- perfectly encapsulated Khan's feelings. A tear rolled down his cheek and fell into the water below. Its tiny splash reminded Khan of the eternal fall. Perhaps that was the only thread which connected Khan to reality and prevented him to follow suit. Perhaps that teardrop was the only reason Khan was still real in the first place. In a way, he would have loved to drop a tear more. Surely, he thought to himself, that if he was given the privacy, he would have birthed a new river from this very cliff. After what felt like an eon of deep and troubled thought, he stood up as the sand scrunched between his feet. A deep sigh followed, emptying Khan of all emotion in that one moment of exasperation. He slightly tilted his head and gazed at the water below. He did not know what pulled him back; for a moment, he was just about to slip. Just a step. A moment. But no. It seemed as if his ancestors themselves had grabbed his shoulders from behind. ‘Not here', they seemed to whisper. ‘It's too in the open'. But he didn't trust them. In fact, he hated them. They were why he stood here on this cliffside in the first place. But he trusted them, just this once. He then did what every such troubled person did- an act which one might not expect from a person in Khan's circumstances but witnesses it themselves. The scars he so exposed to the ocean were stifled; all trace of negativity retreating deep into his eyes like the clouds fled from the sun. Ironic, he though. The clouds are not even fleeing. But he quickly shook away the thought. He smiled. A mask- a mask of satisfaction and glee- rushed to fill the vacuum on his face. Why a mask? Well, to scream would be honest. To weep would be just. But neither would fix anything. A veil, a cloak… a mask. It might. He then turned his back to the ocean; Oh how he wanted to join its waves and foam! Dr. Sharma- the old doctor who never seemed to care nigh about his many patients, and stubbornly stuck to his daily routines no matter the disaster, which Khan supposed reassured him of his so-called sophisticated nature- called out from the other side of the pathway. ‘Namaste, young lad. How's the job been?' Khan just held back a scream. After all, the old doctor was not one to whom his grievances would make the slightest difference. Nor was anyone else who inhabited the village under the blessing of the noble Pandit Srijit. Society expected more patience from Khan- from a son of a father like his. ‘Acha Sahib'… Alas, ‘acha' was the furthest description Khan could think of explaining his circumstance. Alas, that was the whole reason he chose such an evidently insincere tone, allowing himself the slightest doubt that the old doctor would ask the matter. Alas, hope was all lost already. Khan continued his trek back, passing by the mandir in which his father preached; surrounded was he by gods. Khan sometimes questioned their authenticity-as sinful as it felt. Did the gods never bother prompting his father to ask just once about Khan? Well then, such gods meant nothing to him. The gods had gotten him nothing; why must he help them when there were a hundred other devotees? His father was no better than those statues of stone. He stepped into his room, the servants shrouding him with the many issues the people came with in the mere hour he left. Usually, he would listen to them one by one, formulating solutions until the night won him over; he would never hand out his share to anyone else. That night, however, he shunned them all and gave them directions to approach his father. He sat in his window and gazed out. He thought for a moment to take off the deceptive mask on his face; he decided against it. He smiled that night, his teeth showing complete and whole. Perhaps that was because of the mask, but he, that night, had a feeling the smile was genuine. His eyes then fixated on the stars, the blue four headed statue below did nothing but stare. The next morning, the news spread like light does from its source: the son of a father like his had died. When the people heard of all his troubles, even the gods didn't make their expressions any better. The answer was one and same: ' If only we knew, there was no sign at all!

Whenever undertakers show up people always try to avoid contact as if they bring death or something so growing up i thought death has to be a body six feet under, first time meeting death was grandpa's death all I remember is mama crying, aunt on the ground and people all over the place wearing black like ALOT surprisingly they were yapping and acting like its an occasion to catch up like nothing happened ,I was a bit confused why do you show up if you really don't care? two years passes and here we meet again this time with dad got a call at school to go see dad at the hospital same scene all wearing black but this time they were all crying as I entered on dad I saw him but it didn't feel like him he was so cold like he was really soulless fear found me that time i got out of the room got out away all what i could say that i am ok, i went to the only place where i knew i will not have to deal with it to the pool spent there all day from waking up till i go home to bed and with my sister of choice it felt like nothing happened. nationals coming i trained harder than ever as every time I entered the pool I swam as sharks were chasing the faster i go the more silence i had tired body yes but muted mind just a week before my race got chickenpox sitting alone between those 4 walls felt as a mice trapped with a cat that is trying to kill him my mind was merciless blaming me for everything i couldn't sleep for 3 days itching body crazy mind felt like that this my end till my girl stepped in and helped and helped me realize that its ok nothing happened because of me, days passed and as i got better i was offered a job as swimming coach accepted with no hesitation chlorine smell is back in my hair this time I am the mentor ,that was the best time of my life. That friend we started talking less but that's ok that how it have been around us since childhood we both knew as we meet it will be like we never left or at least that's what i thought as she started ignoring me something felt wrong the more i try to approach her she runs new semester started I saw her at school went to talk to her she ignored me again. I really don't know what did I do? I kept texting , calling ,sent her a video of younger us saying how we will be together forever she saw it and then responded with a react after 3 days, that when i knew she is no longer the same person found her at school after that hanging with girls she used to yap how much she disliked them I felt real betrayal how can she even do that to me I trusted her as a family even more she was more than blood to me and I was a part of her family too! that's a betrayal you forgot 15 years? crying laughing everything together and for what I really don't know what happened as time passed I drown myself in work but that wasn't even powerful enough I don't miss her at midnight i missed her in the most crowed places and in my biggest achievements she was missing her spot was empty and she is the only person I really want by my side . As I trained more swimmers there were grandma's who came to train as there grandchildren watched , introducing kids to the water and seeing the hunger in young swimmers there, sprinting with my whistle , they think i am the one who taught them something new but they are the ones who came to me with wisdom every swimmer has a story and a lesson for me to learn specially those adults . I finally reached peace and that I need to let people die stop chasing not only those who are 6 feet under put in by undertakers but also those who breath i realized the girl i knew is dead so I have to grieve it and honor our memories that new girl is some one i don't know anything about as she don't either soka my dog just died months ago she was my last shared memory with dad she went to be there with him and the girl I never imagined she won't be there to get me out or i won't be there in her wedding as we dreamed wasn't there. something I learned too that when someone dies you don't try to bring them back cause they will come as a ghost or a vampire and from we knew from drama they aren't much friendly(except if he was Niklaus Mikaelson of course) people are stages in life god send them to help you through something and then leave ,same thing with you .even if you thought they will stay forever; enjoy the moment while you can and make peace with death it means someone's message is delivered as all I said hurt but it developed my character maybe god took them away cause they won't fit in the next chapter it doesn't matter if they died in a grave or in life make peace with yourself as that's the only one who is not just a chapter its the hero of the story love him so you can make a rememberable character out of him. True death happens when you get forgotten.

Morning. I would wake up to the same darkness that had put me to bed. The same routine — studies, chores, work, sleep. My life was made of shadows, repetition, and silence. Until one day, a flicker of light found its way in. Despite my reluctance to continue studying, I couldn't convince my parents to let me drop out. I did, however, manage to register for all online courses that semester. I didn't want to go back to a place where I didn't belong — to sit among people I feared might despise me. When the semester began, I would only look at myself and the professor on my screen. That's how small my world had become — a dark world where I felt lonely, yet safe. Then came a message — a beam of light cutting through that darkness like a tiny, burning star. I had just shared my story of enduring discrimination in class, uncertain whether anyone would care, afraid it might sound “lame.” And then, out of nowhere, a guy I didn't even know messaged me: “I really love listening to you when you speak. You are such a beautiful person. A smile looks very beautiful on you. Please smile more often.” That wasn't the only one. More messages followed — kind, supportive, and encouraging. I could barely read them all before the session ended. For the first time in years, the very people I had shut out — the ones I believed couldn't be trusted — showed me compassion, care, and cheer. I hadn't even noticed their presence, yet they were quietly rooting for me. Then, in another course, a guy entered my life. A bit tanned, with a wide forehead, big ears, and an impressive British accent. He was the first one to speak in class — a total nerd. He came into my world when I had no intention of letting anyone in. But little did I know, he would be the one to bring color back into my world. He probably doesn't even know this — but loving him brought me back to life. He didn't just give my life meaning. He became the meaning at that point. He might even wonder what he did to deserve that place in my story. The funny thing is — he didn't do anything. He simply existed beside me, exactly as he is. I remember the first time I saw him in person at a debate session. I couldn't take my eyes off his. I was stunned — not by his looks, but by what I felt. I had seen many eyes on me before, but I had never enjoyed looking back. Yet with him, I did. When he walked up to speak and we stood face to face, eyes locked — time froze. The world fell away. It was just him. Once, I deliberately went to the library to “terrorize” him, jokingly. But he found me first. When I told him it was my birthday, he gave me gum and drew a bow on the wrapper — making me realize how little is enough to make one happy. That day, I defined happiness as his gum gift. I redefined adoration as the look on his face when I said, “You inspire me.” For the first time in my life, I felt something I thought I could never do — love. Undoubtedly. Unconditionally. Endlessly. Even though I never knew where it could lead. I had lost hope in people, trying my best to isolate myself. However, it was humanity, in its sense of love, trust, care, support, empathy, that brought me back to loving life. It revived my dreams, giving me the warmth of feeling alive again. It taught me that I am capable of loving without fear, trusting in goodness, and reaching for what I desire without hesitation. Now, I have the strength to live in the moment without the limits of the past, worries of future, hesitation, or fear of failure. I started to enjoy my studies and made it to the Dean's List for the first time that semester. I participated in events that I used to call “lame”, made friends, and gathered up enough courage to finally make a career change toward my dream job. Now, I'm not afraid or embarrassed to take small steps toward my desired future — because I know that, one day, I will carry and spread that hope in humanity that I received. It has to keep existing. Because humanity — in its highest and purest form — is what is needed for humans to go on. It is what will save the worlds trapped in darkness, emptiness, and hate. I know it — because you, humanity, saved me.

There are seasons of the soul that feel like eternal winter, where time collapses into a cold grey blur, and breathing becomes less of an instinct and more of a chore. In 2023, I found myself buried in that season. Not beneath snow, but beneath silence. Beneath pain so loud it numbed me. I was in a hole so dark, I forgot what light looked like. So dense, I questioned if it had ever existed. It wasn't that I wanted to die. It was that living became unbearable, an uphill drag with no summit in sight. I was not tired of life. I was tired in life. And so, in a moment that felt both ridiculous and holy, I made a deal with the universe: “If I'm meant to be here, if I'm meant to have joy, love, and everything I ache for, then I'm going to survive this. If not, let me go.” The truth is, I woke up. Not gracefully, not peacefully. I woke up heaving and shaking and vomiting, not from divine deliverance, but from a body refusing to surrender. And in that mess, in that ragged breath I didn't ask for, I found a strange kind of clarity. The universe may be broken. But so am I, and we're both still here. This survival was not a miracle in the traditional sense. There was no beam of heavenly light, no choir of angels. Just a girl, a stomach full of regret, and a life stubborn enough not to end. But here's the thing about being shattered: it makes you porous. And in being porous, you let the light in. That moment of survival became a turning point. I decided that if I could wake up from that, if I could find breath after begging for silence, then I could find joy too. Not all at once. Not without clawing and scraping and crying again. But I could find it. And I did. Now I carry a truth so heavy and so sacred, it demands to be shared: You will get everything you want from this life. But first, you have to survive it. There is a specific kind of courage that blooms in the depths. A choice that cannot be made when everything is fine. It is the choice of someone who has seen the edge, tasted the bitterness of despair, and still says, “I will try again.” I see this bravery not just in me, but in so many others. People I love. People I've held as they sobbed. People who have buried mothers, carried the weight of identity in an unkind world, fought addiction, held hands through heartbreak, or just quietly waged war against their own minds. Survival is not glamorous. It's often silent. But it's holy. To anyone reading this, to the version of me who needed to read this, I beg you: Choose life. Not just for the promise of happiness or success. Choose life because you are a soul that the universe allowed to borrow flesh, to step onto Earth and feel everything. The joy and the despair. The heartbreak and the euphoria. The hunger and the fullness. You are not here by accident. And even if you are, even if you are an insignificant speck in an ever-expanding cosmos, then doesn't that make this even more magnificent? That from dust and stardust and mystery, you got to be here? Your life may feel small. But it's yours. And within it, you can do anything. That's not motivational fluff. That's metaphysical fact. You are a flame wrapped in skin. You are a thunderstorm pretending to be ordinary. You are temporary, yes. But that just means the moments matter more. So make it worth it. Make your existence a rebellion against the void. Laugh loudly. Cry openly. Make art that no one understands. Love hard, even if you get hurt. Rest. Rage. Dream. Begin again. And again. Because if the universe is broken, then you get to be the glue. And if you are still here, it means your story is not done. There is more. More you. More life. More love. Choose to see the light, not just at the end of the tunnel, but within yourself. You are not alone. You are not done. You are the unlikely bloom in the deep, dark soil. And you are growing.

The bazaar was a mess of voices, feathers, dust, and sun-bleached tarpaulin flapping like broken sails. Here, amidst pigeons and the metallic clink of old coins, Sergey's stall stood at the edge of it all: a stubborn table of crooked legs and flaking paint, crowned with red and gold onions piled into slouching pyramids. He sat atop an upturned crate, squinting beneath the visor of a cap that had once belonged to his father, bracing for the next haggler to insult both his prices and his parentage. She came at the hour when the shadows began to shift: a woman in black, her habit catching the light like oilskin. A nun, unusual, but not unheard of. She approached his stall with quiet purpose, eyes scanning his products. “These are bruised,” she said, selecting one and turning it over. “They're onions,” Sergey replied, arms crossed. “You want silk, try the rug seller.” “They're soft,” she continued, ignoring his tone. “Not a single one firm.” She prodded another, then another. “I'll take three,” she said at last, withdrawing a purse from the folds of her coat. “But I'll pay seven.” “They're ten.” She met his gaze squarely. “They're seven.” He sighed, muttering curses under his breath, and began packing three of the least disfigured into a paper bag. At that moment, a boy approached, no older than nine, in a shirt too thin for spring and shoes that no longer deserved the name. He hovered near the edge of the stall, silent as a shadow, his eyes wide and dark. He didn't speak. Just looked; not at them, but at the onions. Sergey noticed him and barked, “Go on, move along. This isn't a museum.” The boy didn't move. His hands stayed in his pockets, but his gaze remained fixed on the lowest row of bulbs, as though memorising their shapes. The nun turned slightly, catching sight of him. “He's not harming anything,” she said mildly. “He's not buying anything either.” “Not everyone who comes to a market has coins.” “Then they shouldn't come.” The nun said nothing at first. Instead, she knelt — slowly, gracefully — and drew a small cloth sack from the sleeve of her coat. “How much for one more?” she asked. He raised a brow. “He's not yours.” “No,” she said. “But someone ought to feed him.” Sergey hesitated. He'd heard this tone before: soft, saintly, the kind that always expected an exception. “One more's another three.” She clicked her tongue in mock indignation. “Even bruised?” “Especially bruised.” She shook her head and counted out the coins anyway, pressing them into his palm with a smirk. While he wrapped the final onion, she turned to the boy and offered the paper bag. “There,” she said. “Don't drop them. They're expensive, apparently.” He reached out with trembling hands, clutching the parcel like it might vanish. He looked once at Sergey, once at her, and gave a barely audible “thank you.” But something else had happened, something Sergey didn't notice until they were both gone. The nun had lingered just long enough to distract him, asking about his stall, complimenting his scales, inquiring about the weather. Only when he sat back down did he realize what had happened. One of the bags near the edge was lighter — the one that hadn't yet sold — he counted the onions inside. Plenty missing. He stared for a long moment at the empty air where she'd stood. The boy was already gone. The bag of onions in his hand felt heavier now. He could report her. But to whom? And for what? Theft of a bulb? He scratched his chin. “Trickster nun,” he muttered, not without admiration. He reached into the crate and pulled out the best-looking onion of the lot. He set it aside on a clean napkin, then leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes for a moment, just listening to the pigeons above, to the coins clinking down the stalls, and to the faint echo of her voice saying, “They're seven.” He didn't know if she'd return. But the onion on the napkin stayed untouched until dusk — a small, firm hope beneath the pigeons and dust.

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