She woke up earlier than the rest and prepared to be torn apart by circumstances. Bound by the hope of getting the best, she would spare no chances. That wealth was the only light was what she believed. The lack of pride and might never made her heart feel relieved. So she weaved unreal dreams with an imaginary thread of light. Luxury came with ease, she thought in her fictitious world. During one such sunset trudging as she was to home, A sudden splash of water made her wet. From a carriage, which had caused this, stepped out a young man handsome. Discomfort and apologies followed then. He offered a ride back home. Time? He didn't know it flew when. Admiring her beauty, his eyes simply shone. Unabashedly, to her he proposed, leaving her awestruck. How could she then remain calm or composed? Was it really beauty or sheer luck? A grand festival in the name of love, attended by the whole town. Where perfection existed in every line and curve. Immaculate were her jewellery and wedding gown. For someone who had slept on splintered floors, and a hut where dawn slipped in without asking twice, she was suddenly met with Ivory doors, chandeliers, perfumes and everything nice. But now the huge walls intimidated her. They swallowed her laughter every now and then. Her smiles were measured and movements choreographed. Luxury had become a merciless cage. Where the size of a morsel held more value than someone's hunger. Disappearing while being in the room was seemingly the norm. An invisible crown weighed her down. The diamond necklace was beginning to tighten around her neck. Now the gold and glitter made her frown. Was she losing it? No one would ever check. One dawn, she woke up earlier than the rest, and left the mansion forever. She had finally set out to meet the best. On cracked roads she ran, and breathed in open air. Where days and nights asked nothing of her. The Sun burned her body, but judged anyone never, is where she found her solace. Where pain and sweat felt like hers. A once despised lifestyle, she accepted once again. No longer was she attached to riches. She would remain scarred but awake. In that tiny house, she found heavenly joy, where it didn't matter if she was extroverted or coy.

If I had realized that a frayed rope and a rainy afternoon would eventually shatter my world, I never would have looked up from my sketchbook on that first day of school. But I did look up, and when I saw the girl with blue eyes standing in the class, I didn't perceive the end of a story—only its beginning. My name is Jeck Aarons; I live with my parents and three siblings in a remote home outside the city. Each day repeated like the last—until the new school year began. Vinnie and Avery mocked me in class, my older sisters ignored me at home, and teachers barely noticed my voice. When voices around me tried to silence who I was, I found refuge in my sketches.” My sketch was the sun that spilled golden light over my life. Even this hobby, my father mocked me, saying, “Your drawings are pointless.” The first school day promised nothing until a gorgeous girl called Leslie appeared, introduced by the principal. Leslie's gaze pierced me; I felt strange emotions when I looked at her blue eyes. I tried to ignore her energy. At recess, I saw Avery, the class bully, annoying the new girl. “This race is just for boys.” Without thinking, I went forward, asking, “Why?” “Are you afraid of losing against a girl?” Lina (my little sister) cheered me on, saying, “Go Jeck!” I was the forerunner. I was going to win. Or so I thought. Abruptly, a blur shot past me. It wasn't a boy. It was Leslie. She didn't just beat me; she woke me up. On the bus ride home, Leslie came to sit next to me, and I wondered, “Are you following me?” I asked. Then, we got off the bus, and I found her grinning, “Yes, I am your neighbor, and I think you need to learn how to have fun.” I wanted to say no. But something about it pulled me in. We got caught up in conversation, walking until the manicured lawns gave way to forest, and we reached a deep stream. Dangling above the water was an old, frayed rope; It looked dangerous, but Leslie didn't hesitate. She swung to the other bank. Leslie screamed, saying, “The Dark Master was here—let's define our kingdom.” Just then, I saw mystical shadows that possessed abilities like those of superheroes. This energy sensed me as well. We loitered until we found an arboreal shelter; thus, Leslie said, “It would be the headquarters for the Lunavara kingdom.” Little by little, we repaired the arboreal shelter while continuing to go daily after school. Once, while we were in Lunavara, the dark master sent his soldiers. We felt a unique power descend on us, such as invisibility. By morning, in school, “help Mrs. Zoya,” Leslie said. But I refused, and after that, I found Leslie pushing me toward Mrs. Zoya. As she looked at me, I asked her Can I help you? Mrs. Zoya said, “Are you speaking?” She perceived Leslie had an inspirational effect on me. She even looked at drawings, saying, “You are really talented.” I want to show Leslie how much she meant to me. I knew she wanted a pet, so when I found a puppy adoption flyer on my way home, I brought Leslie to Lunavara—I gave her a puppy—then she hugged me tightly, her eyes glistening, saying, “I will keep it forever.” On this rainy night, while we returned home, Leslie waved me off as if the world wouldn't allow another meeting. That weekend, Mrs. Zoya came to accompany me to the Museum of Art. For the first time, I stood in front of those paintings and felt truly seen; she explained the history behind each one, as if I were her son. I returned home, and the air was heavy. My family looked bitterly at me. “What?” I asked. My older sisters sarcastically said, “They thought you were dead.” My dad said, “Jeck…” His voice trembled. The words struck like lightning in my ears. My pulse sprinted, pounding against my ribs, each beat louder than the last. The room tilted, the floor slipping away beneath me. It's Leslie, he whispered. “Your friend Leslie is gone, as the old rope over the stream… it snapped, son.” I screamed, “No… no… You are a liar!” I ran to my room, gazing at Leslie's drawer until sleep came. The next morning, I began my day with breakfast as usual, pretending that yesterday was only a bad dream. But my mum breathed, “Get dressed, we have to go to the memorial.” Leslie's father hugged me, saying, “Leslie was so lonely in her old school; she really loved you.” While I was looking at Leslie's photo, Mrs. Zoya stood beside me; I said, “Next time we should take Leslie with us.” The days blurred together. I went to Lunavara. I was calling Leslie, and I thought I heard her reply. I ran crazily to look for her, but I found my sister. I shouted at her, forcing her to return home. Then, I felt the Dark master following me. Instinctively, I thought he would attack me, so I ran in fear—I stumbled. I found my dad hugging me. I broke down. “This was my fault,” I sobbed. If I were here, she would not have died. Now, Leslie may be gone, but our cherished memories are in every sketch, heartbeat, and breath I hold.

"You can make it in the field, I'm sure you will be one of the best if you work hard as you did so far," the lecturer told Matchim. These words echo in her so vividly, rendering them virtually impossible to forget, even if she wanted to. It had been three months since Matchim Celia entered college, three months during which she hadn't made up her mind on the field to study. Amidst the crowd of universitarians, she felt lonelier than ever. Her life had become monotonous — the same cold faces, with the same cold expressions. Though having broken the ice with some mates, she wasn't comfortable enough to lay bare what haunted her thoughts – choosing the right field after the preparatory semester. Entangled in her family's ideals and her own desires, she felt like a mere extra in her own story. She searched for meaning in chaos through the walls of the labs, wandering between each. All over were rows of equipment and myriads of students skillfully navigating between them. She watched with starry eyes and a hint of bitterness in her heart. Despite their differences, they had something she definitely didn't — passion. "Will I ever be that good at something?" she sighed deeply. December was fast approaching, marking not only the end of the year, but that of the preparatory semester too — the moment Matchim had so much feared. Her mates were firm about their fields, despite numerous dissuasions from the lecturers for most. She, on the contrary, was just as lost as before. To crown it all, she didn't make it home with her parents for the end-of-year holidays and had to make do with video calls. They encouraged her to pursue a Computer Science degree, but then, there was a catch — she did not believe that she could make it in the field, given her limited grounding in the subject. While her fellows opted for formal sciences in high school, she made a choice she believed portrayed her better and was “safer” — natural sciences; but then, things did not work according to plan and she ended up in an engineering school. She viewed this as a twist of fate for not choosing what was “right” earlier. They believed in her ability to do it more than she did in fact, but that was not sufficient; she needed an external opinion which wouldn't look “sentimental.” The following morning, she showed up at one of her lecturer's offices. This latter welcomed and listened to her, unveiling all that was troubling her — something she wouldn't have done before. That day, she walked out of the office different. She knew her fears were still there, but she could glimpse the silver lining — concealed yet visible. In January, she opted for Computer Science. During the first courses, she was astonished by her own performance. Notions she thought were long buried flowed seamlessly — she raised her hand, answered questions, and turned out to be right. In the past, she would just watch her dreams slide by without at any moment daring to graze them. Now, a new world bloomed, unfolding possibilities she had never thought about. Today, she says, "Cheers!" to her dreams, and looks forward to accomplishing them.

If you moved around for so long like me, you'd know that people start to blur. New city, new school, new introductions. Same questions that accompanied the same careful curiosity that never quite crossed into knowing. After a while, I stopped storing faces properly. They layered over each other like tracing paper -- eyes borrowed from one person, laughs from another, intentions copied and pasted. Adults called this weird outlook of mine “adaptability”, but I called it efficiency. If everyone was basically the same, then losing them didn't feel like a loss -- just continuity. Nostalgia was never a thing for me. I didn't get it when people would mourn the past, reminiscing of younger days in strawberry fields or dim-lit sleepover nights. I'd sit around at lunch and ignore any conversation until it became familiar again. I didn't want to create new memories when I knew I'd inevitably move again. Every event was just the remake of a previous one but with different-looking people and maybe with an extra quirk or two. An example of a quirk that younger me would have given you would be my cousin. I tutored him after school, mostly because no one else wanted to. He was younger, awkward in the way kids are when they haven't figured out where to put their hands yet. At first, he fit neatly into a category: bad at maths, easily distracted, and temporarily arrogant. We sat at the same table every afternoon. Same workbook, same mistakes, and the same sigh when I erased his answers and made him try again. He had a habit of rubbing the eraser flat against the page until the paper thinned, as if he could wear the wrong answer away completely. I used to stop him and take it from his hand. His consistency was what made him so easy. But after a few weeks, his mistakes changed. Not disappeared, just shifted. He stopped guessing randomly and started overthinking. He asked why formulas worked instead of just memorising them. He corrected me once, quietly, like he wasn't sure he was allowed to. That annoyed me more than it should have. I kept expecting him to stay the same version of himself I'd already filed away. Instead, he kept arriving slightly altered. More confident one day. Quieter the next. Frustrated in ways that didn't match his age. I realised something uncomfortable: he was developing in real time, and I was still treating him like a fixed draft. The moment that stuck wasn't dramatic. He solved a problem on his own -- not perfectly, but honestly -- and looked up at me like he was waiting to see if I'd notice. My hand had already reached for the eraser. I stopped when I saw the paper; it was intact, no smudges, and his numbers were written carefully this time. And I almost didn't. Not because he needed my approval, but because I'd been acting like people stayed still long enough to be summarised. Like growth was optional background noise. I would have corrected him back into the version of himself I already knew. He wasn't a “quirk.” He was a process. After that, I started paying attention -- not just to him, but to how often I decided too early who someone was. How quickly I closed the file and moved on. I still move. I still leave. That part hasn't changed. But I don't pretend people are finished anymore. I often wonder had I had a slow childhood, allowing myself to watch people grow along with me instead of leaving them before the breeze could even shift, maybe I wouldn't have wasted so many potential connections with my cynical views. But now, I stop myself from sorting people too quickly, from labeling them before they've had the chance to shift. The last time I packed my things, I thought of my cousin's page -- his numbers precise, uncorrected -- and I left it just as it was, letting him, letting everyone, be more than the file I once made of them. Some people aren't meant to be remembered as snapshots, they're meant to be noticed mid-change. I've learned to wait a little longer before reaching for the eraser.

It was a bright, sunny day. The sky was hazy blue at noon when we arrived, and turned vibrant golden by afternoon, creating a breathtaking scene. The whole friend group had finally reunited since we last met at the restaurant, before everyone moved to various schools. We decided to celebrate in a forest by the campfire. Setting everything up took us two and a half hours. The beauty of nature gave me a surge of passion, yet the sudden silences accompanied by unfamiliar animal calls sent shivers down my spine. Everything becomes much more soothing when you have someone by your side. You just have to pray they don't run away if they get scared. The smoky scent of firewood burning and the fire crackling reminded everyone of their childhood. That atmosphere gave us this weird sense of nostalgia, which was odd because none of us had gone camping, let alone had memories associated with wildfire. We lit the fire and sat around it in a circle, playing truth or dare like we used to. The atmosphere was warm despite the cooling weather. Out of nowhere, clouds rolled in, and it started to rain. So we laid out the largest hot tent we had brought and moved everything inside. We switched to playing UNO, in which I won, of course. We made the loser run three laps around our camping area. Do you ever get that feeling that you're going to miss this moment while still living in it? This feeling does nothing more than prevent you from enjoying the moment fully. That uneasiness in thinking about the future, alongside how you'll never experience this again, makes your stomach churn, eating away the whole vibe all at once. The scene in front of you becomes like you're recalling a decade-old memory. Goosebumps start to rise on your skin, as if you're no longer real anymore. Looking back, I saw many missed moments and opportunities. I couldn't miss another one because of them. I tried to focus on the present, but my thoughts kept shifting back to those wasted times. "Food!" some guy in the back squeaked out in the most cheerful voice I'd ever heard. By the time everyone turned their heads towards him, he had already swallowed two chunks of meat. "Of course, he spotted food first – that guy has radar for snacks." "Being first is better than being last," he chuckled. "Besides, I brought my own hotpot. You can take some if you want." "Come here, everyone! Wash your hands and sit with crossed legs – we have to squeeze everyone around the table. We've got sandwiches, hot dogs, bagels, and ramen. Then we'll roast marshmallows over the fire with some hot chocolate," our group leader announced. "Why is it that you only eat meat? There are other dishes besides baked, roasted, fried, grilled, and broiled meat, you know. On top of that, vegetables are much cheaper." "Then I'd have to take a mountain of supplements, which would cost more than meat itself." We live to make memories — that's how we stay happy. Time feels fast or slow depending on what you remember. Sometimes a deep thought strikes my mind: Why are we here? Is this all real? If nothing's guaranteed, what are we working so hard for? I know my path, but still, something feels missing. Does it really make a difference whenever you have deep conversations or realisations about your life? Putting it all aside, I decided to lean on my best friend's shoulder and quietly observe the scene. She immediately moved closer and wrapped her arm around me, hugging me sideways. There was no point in trying to get rid of that thought; it would always find its way inside my mind. We started cracking jokes back and forth. After the second round of jokes, the rain had eased, so we decided to go outside and play tag. The ground was wet and muddy, which made it easy to slip and hurt ourselves. Luckily, all of us knew how to hold our balance thanks to ice skating, so we didn't have much of a problem on the slippery ground. Despite that, one of us still managed to slip and slide down the hill towards a puddle near an old wooden hut we used to play in. We went inside. The first thing my eyes fell on was… Coco Puff. My childhood teddy bear, which I'd found on the side of the road and sort of decided was mine. Well, finders keepers, losers weepers. Looking at Coco, who had collected dust, I could tell someone had played with her recently. It was clear that whoever found her had attempted to clean her with the river water, which had turned brown over the years. Kids – the only ones naive enough to do that. As I checked the drawers, hoping to find something interesting, I found a cool-toned pink notebook with "Lilly's Diary" written in the top-right corner. I turned the first page: a drawing of Coco inside a red heart. I knew I had to give Coco away, even if I had just found her after years. I put her back on the shelf and gave her a quick pat. She wasn't mine from the start, so I guess she's not mine to lose. We need to learn how to let go, after all.

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.

He noticed her voice first. It was calm, assured, unhurried, a voice that did not ask for attention because it expected it. Only then did he see her. It was his first evening at the screenwriting workshop. Yvonne sat at the head of the table, composed and immaculate, her gaze resting on the group as if she were already familiar with each of them. “Welcome,” she said. “This is a professional space. We work seriously here.” Yvonne ran the workshop. She was the gate. Kenny felt the words settle inside him like a hand on the back of his neck. When it was his turn to speak, she watched him closely. She did not smile or frown. She simply measured him. “You have something,” she said. “It's raw and promising. With guidance, it could become publishable.” Guidance became a hook. Later that evening, he stopped at a pub nearby and ordered a Kilkenny. The beer was dark and smooth, bitter at first and then unexpectedly sweet. He liked the name. Kilkenny. It sounded final. Yvonne filled the room week after week. She spoke of discipline, market expectations and correct structure. She insisted that talent meant nothing without control. “Freedom is overrated,” she said once, smiling faintly. “Most writers ruin themselves with it.” Her feedback was precise, almost intimate. She praised his dialogue and then suggested changes that shifted the story away from him and closer to her way of seeing. “You're too attached to your perspective,” she told him. “Let me show you how it should breathe.” He followed her advice. Soon there were checklists, then private sessions, then paid programs. She framed them as opportunities and privileges. He complied. Around her, his body reacted in ways he barely questioned. His chest clenched. Heat settled low in his stomach. He went still, like prey that doesn't run. A rabbit under a python's gaze. Danger hovered, and he remained, suspended in a strange, aching pleasure. He stopped noticing other women. In cafés, on the street, in reflections of shop windows, faces passed without leaving a trace. Desire narrowed until it focused entirely on one point, on Yvonne's voice, her approval and her measured disapproval. Arousal and fear braided together. At night, working on his script, he ran on exhaustion and a strange alertness. His sexuality felt borrowed. It seemed to belong somewhere else. As if desire had been reassigned. That was when something began to feel wrong. Then it happened. After class, they discussed his script alone. When he said goodbye, he misjudged the distance between them and leaned in to kiss her. She pushed him away sharply. “What do you think you're doing?” she snapped. Shame flooded him, hot and immediate. Night stayed awake. The feeling was old and familiar, something he had buried and hoped never to encounter again. With Yvonne, he had returned to an old attachment, the same hunger wearing a different face. The script had shifted without his noticing. The protagonist was a man involved with a powerful woman, a mentor and a gatekeeper. He earned affection through obedience. She promised access, success and validation, and slowly she rewrote him along with his work. Kenny stared at the screen. The man in the script lived only under her gaze, hollow without it. He mistook surrender for intimacy and control for desire. He remembered his first love, older and dominant, and how she had taught him to want what erased him. Leaving her had nearly destroyed him, and it had saved him. Different country. Different woman. The same pattern. Something loosened in his chest, as if a long-held tension were finally releasing. It was not mysticism, only the body recognising safety for the first time in years. He could no longer adapt, and he no longer wanted to. At the next session, he spoke. “I want to keep the script as it is.” Silence filled the room. Yvonne looked at him with calm curiosity. “Kenny,” she said, frowning slightly, as if he were a careless teenager, “you're resisting growth. That usually means fear.” “No,” he replied. “It means recognition.” After a short pause, he added, “I see it for what it is.” Her smile tightened. “Without my framework,” she said, “there will be no publication and no agent. I can't support work that refuses direction.” He felt the familiar pull and the tightening in his body. Then relief followed. “I understand.” That night, he returned to the pub and ordered a Kilkenny. As the foam settled, he watched the dark liquid steady itself in the glass and thought of the name again. Kilkenny. It was not just a drink. It was a warning. She had not wanted to shape his script. She had wanted to kill Kenny. The cycle had run its course. He drank slowly. The future remained uncertain. The script was unfinished and the path unclear. Desire had returned to his body, and his voice had returned to his hands. That was enough.

The lake spread out endlessly before me, containing a serenity which I envied as I sank into the sand at the small lake town beach. Water rushed up to greet my feet, leaving my skin with a refreshed feeling as the wave raced back towards the endless shimmering mirror of the lake. Our lives are just like waves, I thought. One moment, we're rushing higher and higher until we think we're about to hit the stars, and then the next moment life falls into the depths of the ocean. A ripple of laughter broke through my thoughts and echoed across the beach from where a couple of kids were playing in the sand. The sounds tugged me back to my childhood when my two older sisters and I would build sandcastles, jump over waves, and return to the campground with sunburnt noses and inerasable smiles. I warmed at the fond memory, wishing I could jump back to those careless days. A black splotch of a bug puttered over my leg, drawing my attention. As its miniscule legs took small, determined steps across my skin, I fought the urge to swat it away. Watching it, I wondered what life might feel like if it were as brief as this tiny insect's lifespan. We would probably have a completely different perspective on life and how we wanted to use our preciously few moments. My mind began to wander again as I watched the sun slowly set. The faint energetic sounds of a long-forgotten song intruded upon my mental reflection, and I was carried back once more in time to church camp years ago as a kid, learning the steps to a dance and joyfully messing up each step. I could still hear the music, see the dance steps, and feel the joy of messing up as if I were in that moment again. Then it hit me. An overwhelming feeling of loss swept over me. It came to me that childhood was now a word of the past. I could never go back to those golden days, ones which I had not even noticed were so priceless in the moment. The song faded and was replaced by another song, but my mind was still a whirlpool of thoughts. When I think of the word childhood, images of me and my sisters innocently swinging on our beaten-up swing set, a sharp but comforting feeling of scraped knees, the cold, slippery taste of orange popsicles, and the smell of fluffily golden pancakes greeting my nose in the morning come to mind. These were all things that I could view as if watching a movie, or looking at old photos, but could never step into or recreate. I was hit with a tidal wave of grief, realizing I had never known the true significance of how irretrievable childhood really was. Another cold, clear wave drowned my feet, bringing me back from the undertow of forgotten moments. As all the streams of my thoughts connected, I contemplated again of how our lives went up and down like a wave, and it occurred to me that even though I could never return to that carefree world, I could still keep those memories close and use them as a stepping stool, so when the wave of life recedes, I'll stand a little taller, lifted by the memories which shaped me.

THE NOSTALGIA OF CHILDHOOD: The Shift from Childhood to Teenage hood OH! how fast we grew from the little child we were who once lived a carefree, stress free and fun filled life to becoming a teenager within the blink of an eye. Oh, how time files. A time when joy came from cartoons, playgrounds, and our imaginations. We ran barefoot on dusty roads, laughed till our stomach ached, and cried only when our toys were taken away. Those were the days the world felt safe. Back then, all we had to do was eat and play, we never had to worry about bills, responsibilities, or expectations. Sometimes, I wish I could stay a child forever, but sadly, teenage hood has dawned on us, ushering us into the kaleidoscope of life. Little did we know that this new phase would bring along so much confusion, growth, pressure, and self discovery. Oh, how I miss those nostalgic moments of childhood, when we played in dirt without a care, came home messy and smiling,watching cartoons without understanding much of it, and still laughed like it made perfect sense. Back then, joy beamed from our hearts, and smiles never left our faces. We didn't care about how we looked,what people thought, what the society expected or tried to compare ourselves. The times where jealousy didn't cloud our hearts, times where we were all like one big family. No hatred, no gossip, no betrayal; just pure friendship and oneness. Even when our parents warned us not to play with the neighbor's children or even someone else's child because they were bad kids, we still went anyways because, in our little minds, connection mattered more than caution. No emotional stress, no pressure, just freedom. Childhood made me feel effervescent and garrulous, full of life. Truly, childhood memories are priceless. Now as we stand on the edge of teenage hood, we find ourselves looking back missing that innocence. Now, I find myself wondering what this new phase holds. As I go to places, I experience sonder, the sudden realization that everyone has a story. I look at other young people like me and ask myself, "What's going on in their minds too?", because this new phase has brought more than we expected; emotion, peer pressure, silent battles and the need to find ourselves. The shift is sudden, one day you're chasing butterflies, the next you're chasing purpose. WELCOME TO TEENAGEHOOD

Development and growth in any society hinge upon the establishment of an orderly framework of behavior that accommodates everyone. This includes creating effective systems for resolving disputes, addressing crimes, and fostering a collective understanding of the need to obey rules and regulations. These rules form the very foundation upon which a better society is built. To illustrate this, I will share a story that encapsulates the essence of what I wish to convey. The Story of Mr. Adamu Mr. Adamu was a retired civil servant who dedicated forty years of his life to working in the Ministry of Information. During his tenure, he rose to the position of director. However, despite his influential role, Mr. Adamu consistently ignored opportunities to engage in community sensitization programs. These programs could have educated citizens and security operatives about the importance of lawful behavior and the role of regulations in ensuring societal harmony. His focus was instead confined to bureaucratic tasks, leaving broader societal concerns unaddressed. Time, as always, took its course. After four decades of service, Mr. Adamu's career came to an end, and he retired to a quiet life in his estate, known as PPPN Platform. As a respected elder and former public servant, he often took morning walks along the estate's serene streets. Despite his position and status, he remained indifferent to the activities around him. He neither intervened in nor raised awareness about issues concerning societal growth and development. The Setting A major route in the estate served as Mr. Adamu's regular walking path. Along this route was a checkpoint manned by a group of security operatives notorious for extorting money from motorists. This daily extortion had become an accepted norm, a symptom of systemic decay ignored by many, including Mr. Adamu. Interestingly, the head of the security operatives at this checkpoint was Mr. Adamu's former classmate. This connection offered Mr. Adamu a unique immunity. The head of the unit had instructed his subordinates to always show respect to Mr. Adamu whenever they saw him. Thus, Mr. Adamu walked past the checkpoint daily, unconcerned about the corrupt practices occurring right before his eyes. The Incident One fateful day, tragedy struck. Mr. Okoya, a tricycle rider and neighbor of an army officer, returned home to find the officer's pregnant wife lying unconscious on the floor. Alarmed, he and his wife hurriedly carried the woman into their tricycle, intending to rush her to the nearest hospital. As they approached the main road, Mr. Okoya switched on the tricycle's hazard lights to signal the urgency of their mission. Unfortunately, the security operatives were already stationed ahead, preoccupied with their routine of extorting money from motorists. Mr. Adamu and his former classmate were standing nearby, reminiscing about their school days and oblivious to the unfolding drama. When the security operatives spotted Mr. Okoya's tricycle, they interpreted his haste as an attempt to evade their checkpoint without paying the usual bribe. Despite the visible distress signals and his wife's frantic shouting from inside the tricycle, the operatives decided to act. As Mr. Okoya accelerated to bypass the checkpoint, one of the operatives struck the tricycle's windshield with a heavy stick. The loud crash startled Mr. Okoya, causing him to lose control of the tricycle. In the ensuing chaos, the tricycle veered off the road and crashed into the barricade erected by the operatives. The aftermath was catastrophic. Mr. Adamu, his former classmate, and the pregnant woman all lost their lives in the incident. Mr. Okoya and his wife sustained severe injuries but survived. The question arose: who was to blame for this tragedy? Reflections This story is a stark reminder of the societal decay that stems from negligence, corruption, and indifference. Mr. Adamu's apathy toward societal issues during his career and retirement exemplifies how ignoring small acts of misconduct can snowball into larger, more devastating consequences. The security operatives, blinded by greed, failed to recognize the urgency of Mr. Okoya's situation. Their abuse of power and disregard for human life were the immediate catalysts for the tragedy. Yet, their actions were symptomatic of a broader societal failure—a failure to instill discipline, enforce the rule of law, and prioritize the common good over selfish interests. Conclusion The question, “Who killed the man?” is not merely rhetorical. The blame lies with a system that tolerates corruption, a society that prioritizes personal connections over accountability, and individuals who choose complacency over action. If we are to prevent such tragedies, we must embrace a collective responsibility to address societal flaws. It begins with each individual understanding the importance of their role in upholding justice, fairness, and humanity.

He lies outstretched in the sun, glassy eyes watching the shadows of leaves flicker on the wall, faintly recalling the cold of last winter, penetrating beneath his skin as he huddled close to family against the back wall of the construction site. He wouldn't have made it out there on his own. We're informed he's half blind, cross eyed, schizophrenic, deaf, or maybe just a little confused. But still he stumbles to the door every time its opened. He wishes he could leap and pounce like his sister, run like her or remember like her. Maybe if his back legs were stronger or his instincts slightly sharper, he would have made it out that door by now. Maybe he would be able to climb up on the windowsill and watch the birds fly by. One day he runs to the door just in time. The brief escape window is elongated by a foot in the door and he finally sees the outside world, a fleeting vision of those long winter months brought back. His curiosity is satisfied and he finds a new interest. He now runs along the hall and watches the light grow orange against the wall. He realizes the value of warmth and comfort, of steady meals and love.

He never talked. He never moved in a weird way. He only stared. He spent hours and hours looking at everyone in that mysterious way. At that old bench. Dressed all black. Just looking. I didn't have any reasons, but he scared me. A lot. I don't know why. Don´t ask me. In the way from school to my house I need to walk across the park where he sat. I just didn´t look at him. Period. I just walk away as quickly as I could. But one day all was different. One day he did not just look. That was the day when I nearly die. It was a normal day, bad stuff at school, nothing else. The moon and, with her, the night were starting to appear. I was very concentrated and focused on what I was doing. That day I was not paying so much attention on everyone else. And he noticed it. I was looking at my book when I walked across the park, a bit slower than other times. He was there, as always, just staring. I did not notice that, for the first time in probably ages, he stood up. He moved and started walking behind me, very calmly. I was not noticing at all. I walked through one and even two main streets, but in my way home I needed to cross a little and lonely passage. It has only closed shops and no one can look at it without being physically in it. That was when he decided to act. He stopped walking and he moved his mouth. -Hey- he said. I stopped my way, cold as ice, and, in a very slowly way, I turned around. It was him. Again. And he was not in the bench, his was walking to me. I froze, couldn´t move. I started to run, but it was too late. He reached me with his big arms and brutally pushed me to the wall. A very cold wall. He then decided to take out his clothing, one by one, while with one hand was grabbing my neck. I tried to shout, but, for this time, my mouth was shut, it was impossible to me. I just couldn't do it. I had to see a very unpleasant vision of an adult man without any clothing. And it was my turn. I tried, somehow, to resist, but it was impossible. I was without any clothing. My brain was trying to react, but I stood still. Then I did shout. Damn, of course I did. It was the mixed feeling of the beginning of a trauma and the unpleasant experience that I was being forced to have. All of a sudden, everything finished. He dressed up and he vanished. I was devastated. Then, I just cried. I threw all the tension and fear I had been feeling the last ten minutes and, don't ask me why, I ran back home. After that, everything changed. I, one way or another, turned out to be more mature and, also, more suspicious about everything, and everyone. That day, I began a new life, I was a new version of myself. Just ten years after the first had started. That was the day, when I died.

It all started when my dad had a dream — not the poetic kind, but the “you two will take the toughest exam in India” kind. The JEE. An exam taken by almost 12 lakh students every year. Me and my twin sister? We decided to prepare for it on our own, with no coaching, no teachers, nothing except YouTube, fear, and a lot of audacity. We studied till 3 AM almost every night, and during the day we helped our father, who is a farmer. Four hours of field work, cattle work, housework — because we are the daughters of the house, and apparently also the “perfect cousins” of the family. Somehow, preparation went well. The January 2025 attempt felt good. We both wrote the exam on the same day. Then came the results. My sister got 42 percentile, a classmate with two years of coaching got 80 , and I got… 22 percentile. I cried. Not because of the score, but because I started doubting myself. In 10th grade, both of us had scored 96%, so failing suddenly felt like breaking into pieces you didn't know you could break into. But I still had a second attempt. So while preparing for the April exam, I also had to prepare for my final board exams. Two big weddings came in between too — yes, we attended them (priorities change when you live in reality, not in textbooks). After the January attempt — sorry, Attempt 1, not failure — I became quiet. Very unlike my usual “chaotic-silly” personality. I thought maybe I wasn't good enough. But then I looked at my parents, my sister, and myself. I couldn't continue like that. So we planned again, studied again, cried less and worked more. Boards came first; JEE had to pause. Boards are conceptual, JEE is practical — both pulling in opposite directions. After boards, we resumed JEE prep and wrote the second attempt. My sister got 51 percentile. I got 61 percentile. Still not enough to qualify because of category cutoffs. Still disappointing. But that night, when I compared 22 → 61, I felt something I hadn't felt in months: Proud. Then our board results came — 91%. After failing two JEE attempts, that felt like a small but meaningful victory. Then came the future. JEE wasn't happening. We gave CUET — decent marks, but not enough. We gave NDA — and reached the exam center two minutes late. Worst feeling ever. At that point, it felt like there was no light at the end of the tunnel. I genuinely thought, “Bro, just disappear.” But instead of disappearing, we changed our direction. We prepared for IELTS at a small local institute, and within 9 days, both of us scored 7 bands. People take two months for that. This was our BIGGEST win of the year. Now came the country. Everyone suggested the US or UK, but we thought about our parents. We wanted something good but affordable. And then — while listening to BTS (yes, I'm not denying it) — we found out Korean currency is cheaper than Indian currency and the education is brilliant there . So South Korea entered the chat. Most people in our village didn't even know if that country existed. Our parents thought we just wanted to go because of BTS (okay, 30% true). Convincing them was the hardest part, but we did it. We applied to one university — got rejected due to a missing document that even our teachers didn't know existed. Another failure. We found a travel agent. Applied to another university. Got shortlisted for a scholarship interview. Meanwhile, we still did all the field work — we have 16 cattle, and for years we've been helping our father. People in the village criticized him for letting girls do “boys' work.” But now they praise us, and sometimes even feel jealous seeing my father relax. (Also, I make tea so good it could enlighten someone.) Then… Results came. We BOTH got a 70% scholarship — the highest scholarship offered for undergraduates by that university. The purpose of telling this story isn't to brag. It's to show that everything happens for a reason. If we hadn't been rejected, failed, or cried, maybe we would've never researched so deeply, become hardworking, or turned into village girls who can outshine men in farming. Never expect life to be good or bad — it will happen anyway. If something bad happens, it means you need to change. If something good happens, it means you're on the right path. Follow your passion. Once you find direction, you will never be lost. Either you will reach your destination, or you will become an excellent traveler — a quote from one of my favorite teachers. Now, with all these lessons, me and my sister are going to South Korea for our bachelor's degrees. This year changed our lives — and I'm grateful for every part of it.

“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.

'Clear your mind.' What a strange concept. As if I have the ability to throw a switch and all my thoughts can be shut off. Like I should just turn a faucet and the continuous flow of distracting memories will dry up. Precious memories… like those of my unlettered Indian mother who emigrated to South Africa, and managed to raise seven children all on her own, with minimal help from my father. Relived moments of seeing her always busy and hardly ever resting – cooking dishes whose mouth-watering aromas continue to haunt me; frying off samosas and rotis that made the house smell like the best restaurant in the world. Or quickly baking a plain cake which she decorated with a jam spread topped with desiccated coconut. Painful memories of her beloved face saddened by some thoughtless thing I had said in anger; unbidden reminders of her tears flowing unhindered after receiving a few punches from my changed father; moments of grief at recalling her sitting up in bed, unable to sleep because of the unbearable pain brought on by her failing heart. Fearful memories of seeing her lying in the hospital bed, hooked up to a million contraptions, pipes going into her mouth, others snaking out from under the thin blanket covering her aging body after her triple heart bypass operation. Paralyzing thoughts that freeze me once again in that moment when I had visited her in hospital, crying silently at seeing her incapacitated, witnessing this woman who used to be such a tiny dynamo spinning with energy. My heart breaks anew. How can I ‘clear my head' of these, scatter the clutter like unwanted baggage? These thoughts are ingrained within my psyche; they have shaped my perception of life and people. These memories are the scaffolding that bolsters this house that is me. Pain is part of joy; gain is inseparable from loss. I turn on rainbow thoughts, rejoice in the colorful music of memory that spills over me like a deluge. Her generosity, kindness, forgiving nature, selfless attitude, patience, faith… these now remind me of the qualities that had defined her. A snatch of her mischievous laughter tickles my inner ear, brightens my soul like an exploding star. Memory speaks of her positive reaction to life, whispers of how even in her most grueling moments of pain she had not complained. My heart softens at remembering her unstinting love for all of us; constricts at the memory of her stern visage whenever any of us got into trouble. But most of all, my disorderly mind recalls two unforgettable things about my mother. How wonderfully beautiful she had looked whenever she had dressed up for an occasion. How fearlessly she had faced every uncertain day, filled with unabashed faith that all will be well. And it always was, and still is… For her spirit resides within me, within the atmosphere, and within the realm of dreams. Whenever life hurls nearly insurmountable challenges at me, her face swims into my consciousness. When I think I've reached the end of my fragile tether-hold on life, her courage and strength sustain me. If I feel overwhelmed by the world's sorrow, or become despondent because of rejections and life's myriad little disappointments, I envision her offering me the rolled up, hot, very first flaky, delicious roti she had fried. It was filled with sugar and the taste of this simple treat still serves as a healing balm. My mind may be cluttered, but this is one mess I'm not ashamed of. 'Clear your mind,' you say. Why should I do this, when clarity springs from the very disorder of my thoughts.