The air feels soft, the sky covered with gray clouds, it looks like it will rain anytime soon. But—why am I running so fast? And what is chasing me from almost all directions? shadowy shapeless beings, too many, closing in. Oh no! I need to find a shelter or some kind of hiding place. No wall, no roof, no tree in sight…..Papa? When and how did he appear, I don't know., I have no time to think. I have to quickly touch him. I put my hands in his pants pocket…where did they go? They just vanished. I couldn't understand it then, but now I know why. I had exams scheduled for the following week. Feeling anxious and stressed, I had a small argument with my younger brother over a pencil case. I was 13. It escalated to a point that my brother started crying. I saw him going to my father, getting hugged and consoled. A part of me quietly broke. Deep in my heart maybe I was also craving for that affection. My father called my name lovingly, “Fatima beta, come here”. I went to his room. Witnessing my brother still in his embrace, fired up my anger and I shouted, “ You only love him, You don't love me”. Tears rolled down my cheeks. I went straight back to my room, curled up like a baby with my face pressed into a pillow and cried. “Maybe he will console me too.” Thinking about this I went to sleep. The next day was a bit unusual. A heavy air surrounded yesterday's lively house. My father had his Sunday breakfast, read the newspaper, and watched political shows. Everything seemed normal except for the fact that he didn't smile once….he went SILENT. A few days later, as he came back from the office, I went to the front door to greet him. With a smile, I stretched my hand out to take his briefcase from his grip but he pulled away. The words he said next wrenched my heart,” learn some manners first, then talk to me.” He walked through the front towards the living room, leaving me standing there in shock at what I had heard. I spent the remaining day, choking back tears, questioning myself, “Have I hurt my father? Have I been so disrespectful?”. I pondered all night hoping to uncover the reason for his reaction to my outburst and how I can smooth things over. This is when I realized—I had to be careful with him. By the end of that week, I mustered up the courage and apologized. He accepted but a gap still remained, waiting to be bridged. I knew he loved me and so did I, without a doubt. So I started learning a new language, a language of his silence. A sweet from lunch money, a question about his day, a flower from a random bush—simple gestures that are hard to refuse, too notable to be ignored. Daily conversations with him made my day complete. “I went out with girls today, we had chocolate ice cream but I think strawberry one tastes better”, I murmured. “Hmm…right”. He brought strawberry ice cream the next day. I was happy not because of the ice cream, but the fact that he remembered “strawberry”. I felt satiated after seeing a subtle but gratified smile playing on his face. He did not reply mostly but I was starting to grasp HIS language. Like this, a year went by. Then, one evening, I heard something I was not expecting to hear this early. “I had a bad day today.” Tears swelled up in my eyes before I could gather my words. He opened his heart to me, not because I'd asked but because, for once, he wanted to. “Don't worry, everything's gonna be okay. You have me”. I opened my bag, took something out, reached my hand to him and slowly unclenched my fist, letting the toffee drop in my father's hand. He didn't say anything, just took it, as if it was a ritual for him. Now, I'm 26, coming back home from a tiring day at the office. The crowded bus is acting as a trigger for my burnout. My phone screen lights up with a text message on top, “Location Plz. Pulao for dinner.” The edges of my tiredness softened, no longer heavy, a feeling of languor washes over me, as if my body exhaled all the burden. I used to call him but now he calls me first, asks for my location whenever I go out on work trips. We converse for hours, sharing our recent purchase and how uncle Mubashir's cat broke his vintage vase. We laugh, share burdens and sometimes he covers me with a tapestry of his childhood days. After putting each fragment of his memory together, I unfold the story of his efforts, along with a fear of disappointing others. Till now I couldn't understand why the shapeless shadowy beings in my dream vanished. But now, I can vividly picture and sense my fathers warm pocket and why they couldn't harm me in his embrace. The language I learnt for his reticence, finally bore fruit. I'm glad, in the end, I was the one reaching out first.

Letter The room was small, just large enough for four young men. Moonlight slipped through the window, casting pale shadows across the desk. Three of them slept soundly. Only Ilyos remained awake. Bent over the desk, he wrote without pause. But something felt wrong. With a frustrated sigh, he crumpled the paper and threw it toward the wastebasket—already overflowing with discarded pages. He reached for another sheet. After two lines, he stopped and reread what he had written: Perhaps I'll never give you this letter... But my heart refuses to be still. If only these words could reach you... He nearly crumpled it too. But instead, he set his pen aside and picked up a charcoal pencil. For three years, only one face had occupied his heart. He closed his eyes. She appeared before him—her jet-black hair, her emerald-green eyes that he had never dared to hold for more than a moment. He began to draw. Stroke by stroke, the empty page came alive with her likeness. He worked through the night, unaware of the hours passing. When he finally stopped, the clock read five in the morning. He studied the portrait, then carefully slipped it between the pages of one of the library books on his desk. --- By dawn, Ilyos had barely slept. His roommates stirred. "Do you have to start this early?" he mumbled. "Get up. First class is soon. Aren't you going?" Ilyos glanced at his phone and sighed. "I'm not going. I barely slept." "Suit yourself." One by one, his roommates left. One of them grabbed the library books from the desk and returned them—Ilyos didn't even notice. It was nearly noon when he woke. He washed his face and saw dark circles beneath his eyes, his hair a mess. He hadn't eaten since the night before. He grabbed a quick meal, then hurried to his desk. The books were gone. He searched the drawers, the shelves, every corner of the room. Nothing. Panic set in. Just then, his roommates returned. "My God, what happened here?" one of them asked. "The library books!" Ilyos cried. "Where are they?" "I returned them this morning," his roommate said casually. The color drained from Ilyos's face. Without a word, he grabbed his jacket and rushed out. --- He burst into the library, breathless. The librarian pointed him toward the shelf where returned books waited. He hurried there, scanning one spine after another. Beside him, a girl selected a book from the same shelf. He found two of the three books. His trembling fingers flipped through their pages. Nothing. No drawing. No letter. The third book was missing. Then he froze. The young woman beside him was holding it. His eyes rose from the book to her face. Time stopped. It was her. The girl who had lived in his heart for three years. His heartbeat stumbled. He wanted to disappear—to pretend he'd come for any other reason. But it was too late. As she opened the book, a folded paper slipped to the floor. She picked it up and unfolded it. And forgot to breathe. It was her portrait. Drawn with astonishing care—the faint freckles, the soft lips, the emerald eyes. For several moments, she simply stared. Then she read the lines above the drawing: Perhaps I'll never give you this letter... But what can I do? My heart refuses to be silent. If only you could know what I've carried all these years... A warm blush spread across her cheeks. Something tender stirred inside her chest. She lifted her eyes and saw the young man standing there. Pale. Frozen. Unable to look away. She folded the letter carefully and stepped toward him. "Are you looking for this?" she asked softly. Ilyos swallowed. "...Yes." His voice barely escaped. Then his eyes met hers. A shy smile appeared—filled with relief, embarrassment, and three years of silence. He lowered his gaze and whispered: "Yes... but I think it has already found the person it was meant for." Silence settled between them. Not awkward, but full—the kind that says everything words cannot. Outside the library windows, afternoon sunlight spilled across the campus.

Flummoxed? Yes I was. But how and why is the question. I have never met my maternal grandmother in my life. She had passed away or if I put it in a more eloquent manner, she had entered the gates of the beautiful heaven, much before I was born. But I have always heard stories of her from my mother fondly. So, one thing that I'm sure about is that she was a wonderful and an amazing woman and she continues to be with us through my mother. Nonetheless, the pain and sorrow of never being able to meet her physically will always be there. But a while ago, I happened to experience a dream at night that somehow felt very real even though it was not. I saw myself standing in an inexplicably bizarre, twisted, bedlam-like place. It was a big corridor, made of ancient stones, with hardly any source of light entering in there whatsoever. A creature resembling a man, with unshapely head and limbs was screaming continuously. Some other people were running helter- skelter. I was shook beyond imagination. In the very next second, I was inside a beautiful and spacious room that had the biggest window you could ever imagine. The presence of clouds just outside the window seemed to suggest that it was a tall building. As soon as I turned around, I saw an old woman standing in front of me. And oh! It was my maternal grandmother. Although it isn't an uncommon encounter for me to see people in my dreams, however seeing my grandmother was totally an unprecedented one, because till then I had only seen her in photos, lovingly preserved by my mother. Nonetheless, my heart was screaming in joy. She smiled at me as if she had known me since ages. I approached her with slow footsteps, and she said,"Finally we meet my sweetheart." What we talked about afterwards is not something that I can remember vividly. But I can remember one thing for sure - I wasn't willing to leave her anytime soon. Grandmother realised that I was getting incredibly emotionally attached to her.So she said,"You have to leave now, or you might never be able to leave my dear." With a heavy heart, I left the room, knowing very well that I would never meet her even in my dreams too again. Once I left her and went outside, I again saw those weird people running aimlessly and I thought of going back to my grandmother fearing how she would live here. But it was at that very moment that I realised what the dream signified- that even in the worst situations, one can choose to stay as calm as a lotus flower, like my grandmother did. I wish I can again meet her in my dreams!

I am currently studying for a bachelor's degree at the institute. But I really miss the events and my classmates from my school days. Now I feel more deeply that every moment I spent with them was even more enjoyable. However, one of my greatest regrets in life occurred at the end of my school years. I went to another city to prepare for the university entrance exams. At that time, many people I knew had done the same, as they had heard that the teachers there were very knowledgeable. Envious of them, thinking that my own studies would improve if I went there too, I chose the same path. However, my academic results were already high. I was strong in history and had won awards. For that very reason, my tutor advised me to apply to the Faculty of Law and prepared me accordingly. Most of the interesting events of my life took place right here. We would often have lessons with questions and answers sessions, laughing together. That's why my interest in history grew. But later, the subjects in this field changed. I decided to take the IELTS and go abroad to study. After that, I moved to another city. There, I got into the habit of attending extra classes outside of my regular lessons. But because I was so far from my parents and my home, I didn't want to study; I just cried. Whenever I thought of going home, I'd remind myself that I'd come here of my own accord, and my pride wouldn't let me leave. However, I felt very lonely here. Everyone around me had their own friends. They had already made friends by the time I arrived. But I was still forced to return home and continue my studies in another village. A few months later, it was time for graduation. I had hoped to attend my school's prom, but the management wouldn't allow it, and I couldn't go. I was very upset about it. From these events in my life, I have realised and can say that you should never take an early interest in life beyond your home. You may not be ready for it. As the youngest child in my family, I was also prepared later in this respect. Even though I was older, I was still that simple young girl in my parents' eyes back then. The next thing I realised was that in life, things don't always turn out the way we expect. In such situations, one must not run away but fight. You should accept every situation in life as an opportunity from God and use it to your advantage. For example, I should have drawn strength from my loneliness and worked hard on myself, but I couldn't. However, after that experience I learnt to be strong. Now my life is good: I'm studying tourism at university, and I still intend to study abroad. I'm having a great time with my coursemates at the moment. I've also learnt to appreciate every moment as it comes.

My skin prickled as the rain whispered against the world around me. A cold breeze brushed my cheeks, and the wind carried my damp hair in a gentle dance. The steady rhythm of falling rain blended with the carefree laughter of children playing in the alley below. I lifted my eyes to the sky. It stretched above me in shades of restless grey, its heavy clouds looking as though they had been carrying untold stories for years. A single raindrop landed beside my eye. I closed my eyes, and it slowly traced its way down my cheek. I drifted into my thoughts. Why was I here? Why was I standing alone on this rooftop? For a brief moment, I looked both backwards and forwards. My past and my future seemed to share the same colour—dark, uncertain, and painfully heavy. Was all this suffering truly worth it? Would tomorrow really be kinder than yesterday, or was hope simply another illusion we invented so we could keep walking? Perhaps I had been taking life too seriously. Perhaps I had been searching for answers in places where silence was the only reply. The sound of children's laughter—"Haha... haha..."—gently pulled me back. They were talking to one another, but their words were strangers to me. Then I remembered. I was living in another country. A country whose language still refused to become my own. A small smile found its way onto my face as I remembered how determined I had been to learn it. I had spent countless hours memorising words, repeating conversations, convincing myself that this time I would remember them. Yet somehow, they always slipped quietly out of my mind. I breathed in deeply, letting the cool air fill my lungs. When I opened my eyes, the first thing I noticed was our neighbour's tall tree. It stood firmly rooted in the ground, yet even it trembled beneath the wind. Perhaps it was trying to tell me something. That no matter how deeply rooted we are, life will always bring storms powerful enough to make us shake. I looked down at my hands. They were pale, almost colourless—as they always seemed to be. Slowly, I walked closer to the edge of the rooftop. Below me, people moved through their ordinary lives. A shopkeeper sat outside his small store. Two young children chased each other through the street. From where I stood, the ground looked impossibly far away. For a heartbeat, every thought inside my mind dissolved into silence. I stood there... Overwhelmed by a thought I could not bring myself to name. Then, without warning, I took two quick steps back. My heart raced. My breathing became uneven. I did not know it then, but sometimes the bravest step forward begins with taking two steps back. An hour later, I was home, lying beneath the ceiling, quietly watching the familiar cracks above me. The warm scent of the cake my mother had just baked drifted through the house, gently pulling me back to the present. I poured myself a glass of hot tea and cut a small piece of cake. As I sat there, another thought quietly settled inside me. Perhaps life is not a race in which we are meant to collect every achievement. Perhaps life is simply the feeling of rain against our skin. Perhaps it is the tears that soften the soul, the pain that quietly reveals our strength, and the scars that remind us we survived the chapters we thought would destroy us. Perhaps life is hidden inside smaller things. The laughter of children. The comforting smell of freshly baked cake. The warmth of tea between trembling hands. The quiet relief of discovering that, despite everything, we are still here. Maybe the only way forward is, sometimes, to take two steps away from the endless noise inside our own minds—thoughts that refuse to be controlled and refuse to fall silent. And perhaps, in the end, hope is nothing more than a thin thread. Fragile. Almost invisible. Yet somehow... Strong enough to keep us connected to life.

The guilt, started off low as I made my way to yet another restaurant where my weekly facade would take place. The mere fact of lying to your own child, was as real as any physical pain I'd ever felt. I couldn't escape it though. Not when I was stuck like the hardened gum you'd find under each and every table in a restaurant. When the waiters only smiled and walked by, I knew that my presence could easily be replaced with a mannequin. My phone emerged from my pocket, as I prepared to make a call to my daughter. Just as quickly, the guilt entered my bloodstream like a toxin that was eating me alive. As it rang, my heart throbbed in the center of my chest. “Hey dad” I heard my sweet daughter say on the other end. How I longed to have her in my arms again just once. The one and only person who managed to add the first colours to my black and white life, after everybody I knew and loved started leaving me slowly but surely. Then in the end, she left too, as I passed her on to someone who swore he loved her greatly. At the end of the day, the love he spoke of could never accumulate to mine. “Hey sweetie, how are you” The ache of her absence hit hard, as my throat hurt from the repressed tears. I found such relief in the fact that everything in life was flourishing for her and her husband. She didn't stop talking for a while about her achievements, and the plans she had laid out for her future. “Where are you right now dad? Have you eaten anything?” She spoke lightly, then paused waiting for a response. Her questions never caught me off guard, because I knew well enough to prepare myself in advance. “Out with my mates. To your old favorite.” I spoke casually, as I fixated on the 4 empty chairs around me. It took me a while to change to a video call, but when I did, I turned the camera towards the cheerful and noisy people around me, shunning my own table. “Let me guess. Fries with steak, and a salad on the side?” There was nothing I knew about myself that she didn't know. I nodded in response, knowing full well that not even a plate, that was empty nor full, was facing me at the moment. Before I could say anything more, her husband's voice could be heard in the background, and as quickly as she answered, she had cut the call with a hurried, “See you dad, be happy”. Only I know that after she left, I never found that same happiness again. That's okay though. I never expected to. I sat only drowning in my own thoughts, in the hole that I dug for myself, until an unfamiliar voice broke my train of thoughts. “Winter Watkins” A female that looked right about daughters age, sat opposite me, placing her plate on the table simultaneously. She raised her hand, catching a waiters attention, and glanced back at me.' “What would you like to eat?” She asked as both, she and the waiter turned to look at me for a response. “Nothing at all, thanks. You should go.” Determined to make as little as eye contact as possible, in hopes that she would notice the wall I built around myself with society. My efforts were in vain as instead of leaving, my response was followed by her ordering for me. “Fries with steak, and a salad on the side please” She repeated my favourite meal, like we'd known each other for a while now. Persistent isn't she?. Seeing my confused expression, she smiled lightly and mouthed the word ‘daughter', reminding me of the previous lie I told. After the waiter left, we sat in awkward silence for a while, until she broke it. “So… Why did you lie to your daughter?” I glanced up at her, meeting a face that was filled with curiosity. She quickly added, “You don't need to tell me if you're not comfortable”, but I could see that she really wanted to know. I started from where life was what is known as “Sunshine and rainbows”, to how it became a tragic play that I couldn't escape. From my wife running away the day after our daughter was born, to all my friends abandoning me one by one when all I came to them to do was borrow cash. To top it off with a cherry on top, how the love of my life left for another continent with the love of her life. She was listening attentively, as I brought her a few insights about myself. I quickly diverted the topic off of myself to avoid seeing the pain that washed over her face, but the little conversation quickly turned into a therapy session for each one of us, as oceans fell from our eyes at the end. In the end I found out she too didn't have parents, and was barely holding on to the scraps of survival. When the food finally arrived, I regretted my earlier remark. It tasted like heaven had made its way down my oesophagus, and no matter how many times I thanked her, what I felt inside was way more than what I was letting out. I looked up mid bite of a piece of steak to find Winter already looking at me, grinning from ear to ear. “I genuinely feel like this is going to be the start of a good friendship” “It sure is”.

Wake up, make the bed, cook breakfast, clean the house, cry, cook dinner, greet George with a bright smile, have dinner, go to bed. This is my life. These mundane tasks chip away at my hope for the future. This is it. I am going to die on these perfectly waxed floors. This is the “perfect nuclear family.” I am living the life every woman told me I wanted. So, why am I leaning on the sink counter contemplating my existence? When I got engaged, everyone congratulated me. Why? Why would they wish for this dehumanization? Hopelessness crushes my chest, attempting to squeeze out my remaining breaths. The first time I had this reaction, I thought I was dying. But I am growing accustomed to it. Today, a spot of grime sent me spiraling until I hit the floor of my bottomless well of a soul. All I can do is wait for the spiraling to slow. Just wait and this feeling will be pushed down. My back slides down against the wall, dragging my skirt with it until I hit the cold tile floor. GET UP ELIZABETH. Despite every muscle in my body telling me to lie down, I pull myself up to prepare dinner. Six o'clock. George should be arriving soon Bright smile “I'm home. . .” my husband's bored voice fills the room, “. . . have you made me my drink yet?” “Of course. How was work, darling?” “Oh, boring work stuff. I'm in no mood to talk.” He picks up his daily paper and sits down at the head of the table. The bright smile plastered onto my face falters. Why do I even try anymore? What happened to me? I was once idealistic. Ambitious. “Women only go to college to get their MRS degree,” my mother said. Oh, and a husband I found. George was practical, stable, average. Nothing little girls wish for. An accountant with a retirement plan. Just what every girl dreams of. I quit school after I got married. Sometimes I wonder about the girls who stayed. Who chose themselves. Who didn't buy into the nuclear family fever dream. I imagine them stepping out of elevators and rushing down the hallway to their desks. They are stressed but fulfilled. The most fulfillment I get is clean dishes. I glance over at my husband's paper, announcing “Supreme Court Strikes Down School Segregation.” My law professor told me I was the most promising student he'd ever had. I've been chasing that high ever since. I only had one year left on my law degree. I could go back! I look over at my husband. He sits across from me, yet I am alone at this perfectly set dinner table. His face is shrouded in the shadow of the newspaper, a wall between us physically and emotionally. “How is the food?” I ask, trying to nonchalantly propose my return to the university. “Fine.” Of course it is. “I was thinking, you are always at work and I get kind of lonely here,” I hesitantly state. “So, you want to have a hobby? That's fine with me.” “Not exactly. What if I return to school and finish my law degree?” His silence at the end of the table sends trickles up my spine. “I only have one year left.” His lack of a response flushes my face. He has not put down his paper. “I'm not sure that's a great idea,” he states matter-of-factly. “Why not?” An edge creeps into my voice. “You are just so busy here taking care of the house and cooking.” His completely flat tone raises my body temperature. “I could find …” “No, you couldn't,” he interrupts. “Well, I was just saying that…“ “It just isn't a great idea. Sorry.” Adrenaline pulses through my body. “I need someone to be here waiting for me.” Boom. There goes my temper. “JUST PUT DOWN THE DAMN PAPER!” That gets his attention. He lowers the newspaper and strides over to my side of the table. “That's no way to speak to your husband.” He raises his hand and strikes me on my cheek, leaving a stinging sensation. A tear trickles down my face. George returns to his seat and picks up his newspaper. “A wife needs to support her husband. And for that I need you to be here.” Tears silently roll down my face. No. I am not doing this. I rise and stare this man in the eyes. I briskly march to my purse. “Where are you going?” George shoots up, his chair crashes against my immaculate floor. His voice quivers with uncertainty. “Anywhere but here.” I grab my purse and make my way to the door. “Wait, you can't just leave!” I ignore his frightened calls. I open the door feeling the rush of the cool night air on my skin. “I AM YOUR HUSBAND!” I shut the doors behind me, turning George's shouts to muffled words. I step inside the car and turn the engine. The soft roaring sound fuels my passion. I drive away from my perfect white picket fence house. In spite of the darkness shrouding my view, I sense a new dawn of a life absent of the suffocating “nuclear family.” Finally feeling that warm rippling feeling of potential surging through my veins, I choose myself.

This happened a year ago. We have a family business — a small special clothing shop in Ferghana — and we always bought our goods from second-hand dealers. My parents never intended for it to grow beyond that. From a young age, I was buried in my studies and dreamed of becoming an international teacher, so I was never particularly interested in the business. But one day, I came across a financial report, and things weren't looking good. Our business partners of ten years had raised their prices by 30% without explanation, and our margins had dropped sharply. At this rate, I realized, our family business would go bankrupt. Despite my age, I decided to take matters into my own hands. I'd always heard that our partners sourced their goods from China, so I suggested to my parents that we order directly from the manufacturers. But they were afraid of being scammed online and refused. That was the last straw. I took my savings, pulled all the cash from the store, all combined was around $8000 and the next morning set off for Osh — the border city where Uzbekistan meets Kyrgyzstan — planning to catch a bus through Kyrgyzstan into China. But I was too late. The bus had already left. I sat on the edge of the road, unsure where to go, since I'd decided I wouldn't return home without goods and signed contracts. A Tajik taxi driver walked over, and after I explained my situation, he suggested I hitch a ride with truckers instead. I got lucky almost immediately: an Uyghur man named Rustam, heading to Kyrgyzstan, drove me to a truckers' base hidden in the middle of the desert, filling the fifteen-hour ride with stories from the road. At the base, a Kyrgyz driver named Shermat, around forty-five, agreed to take me the rest of the way to the Chinese border — another thirty-five hours, during which we ate, slept in shifts, and talked until we felt like father and son. Both men refused any payment when I offered; among truckers, I learned, that's practically an insult. We said our goodbyes like family. I hadn't realized how much distance still separated the two borders. Kyrgyz customs let me through without trouble, but after a two-hour walk to the Chinese side, soldiers stopped me, confiscated my belongings, and held me in a small cell for questioning — who I was, why I'd crossed without a permit. I answered honestly, and after a background check confirmed I had no bad intentions, they returned my things and wished me luck. I've never felt relief like that. I caught a taxi to Ürümqi, but quickly learned it wasn't the right place to source our goods — everyone pointed me toward Guangzhou, the city of manufacturers. There I met Timur, a young Uyghur man job-hunting himself, who joined me on a forty-nine-hour bullet train ride south. In Guangzhou, I searched for products while he searched for work and translated for me. Five days of combing markets turned up nothing. On the sixth day, Timur left for a job interview, and I was on my own. As the day wound down, I sat on the street, crowds swarming past like ants, in a foreign country, alone, with no idea where else to look. Silently, I prayed: "Almighty God, you led me here and lit my way — would you really send me home empty-handed?" The instant that thought crossed my mind, I heard a woman's voice nearby, speaking Russian on the phone. I called out, "Можно вас на минуточку?" ("Could I have a moment of your time?") She turned and said, "Of course." Something about her face looked familiar — she was from Uzbekistan too, just like me. I was overjoyed. Her name was Nastya. I explained my situation, and she gave me the contact of a man named Sardor, along with her own number. I reached out that night, and he already knew my story through her. He invited me to lunch the next day, where I found him waiting with four firms already lined up that could supply what I needed. We visited them that same day, and I signed contracts with three. Sardor became my new business partner on the spot. I booked a flight home, said goodbye to Timur, and flew back to Ferghana. My parents gave me a long lecture when I arrived — but once I explained where the money had gone, and told them everything that had happened, they calmed down and said they were proud of me. We cut ties with our old partners, and our family business began to thrive with the new contracts in place. Looking back, I've come to believe that risks taken in God's name, and actions built on trust in Him, always turn out better than you'd expect. And I'm writing all of this now, sitting in an international airport in Uzbekistan, waiting for another flight to China.

“What are you doing?” The voice cut through the rush of water below me. My fingers were tightening around the rough stone parapet. One foot rested on the ledge; the other remained behind, undecided. I imagined the water folding over my head, muffling every sound until even my heartbeat disappeared. Yet, hearing distant chatter from my classmate going to school, I couldn't move. “What are you doing?” His voice felt like a rope dropped into a hole. “Emily! Catch my hand.” I tried to answer, but no sound came. Calling my name, he climbed over the parapet. Teetering beside me, he squeezed my hand. “The water sounds good,” he whispered. “I want to jump.” “Stop! I will get down.” I panicked. He smiled faintly. “This time I saved you, so let's walk together.” I stepped back down to safety. “I said go, Jordan.” The school bell still echoed as I hurried into class. My foot caught on a desk, and I crashed violently to the floor. Cruel laughter burst through the room. A sudden, loud bang shattered the mockery. Jordan had slammed his books onto his desk, glaring at the room. “Oh! It was an accident,” he scoffed. The teacher slammed his hand on the desk. “Enough!” he thundered, and the room fell silent. “Each one should choose his partner for next week's presentation.” Jordan raised his hand, staring right at me: “Emily and I, we are a group.” Whispering rippled across the room. The teacher turned to me. “Emily?” Knowing Jordan was the class troublemaker, the room held its breath. Under my breath, I whispered, “Okay.” “Get in, Emily,” Jordan called out over the rumble of the engine. The hum of the motor instantly pulled me back to that rainy night—the screech of metal, the shattered glass, the crushing silence that took my parents. My knees went weak. I gripped my bicycle handlebars until my knuckles turned white. “I don't ride in cars,” I choked out, pedaling away as fast as I could. Stepping inside, the warm scent of fresh bread greeted me as my grandma called from the kitchen. But the doorbell abruptly ruined the warm moment. I opened the door to find Jordan. “Hi, Emily!” I slammed the door in his face. My grandma reopened the door. “Welcome! I'm Jordan—Emily's friend—and we have to work on our presentation, so can I go with her?” She took him to the reception. Moments later, Jordan led me outside and flicked his bike bell: Ding-ding! “What do you think of mine?” He smirked: “Follow me.” As we rode, he peppered me with questions, but only one stuck: ‘Why won't you ride in my car?' “Can we return?” I whispered. “I'm sorry; really, I didn't mean anything. Can we just ride?” A silent war raged inside me as memories flooded back—the violent crash that took my parents. We arrived at a hidden lake. The water murmured endlessly, carrying the wind's secrets across its glassy surface. This simple whisper eased the tension from my body, leaving me completely at peace. Over the next few weeks, we returned often, talking and laughing. Then one afternoon, Jordan dived underwater and didn't come up. Five seconds. Ten. Twenty. “Jordan! Jordan!” I screamed, but the surface gave back only silence. When his head finally broke the water near the bank, I reached down and dragged him onto the shore, trembling. “Don't ever do that!” He sat beside me, shivering. “My whole life, people only saw a troublemaker. I come here because underwater is the only place where the noise stops.” Looking into his eyes, I realized the troublemaker everyone saw wasn't who he really was. I took a deep breath and finally revealed the truth about the car crash that took my parents. The next day in the cafeteria, somebody seized me by the hair. “The sweet girl with the troublemaker,” he sneered. Jordan's patience snapped. A heartbeat later, he lunged, sending the bully sprawling backward with a split lip. Panic filled my mind—the fear that he was destroying his life because of me. I snapped, “Stop, Jordan! You're going to ruin your life for me—please stop!” He froze, hurt flashing across his face, before turning and running away. Days slipped by. Every afternoon, I went to Jordan's house, but his sister always gave the same answer: he refused to see anyone. On the fifth day, no one answered. I went to the lake. On the damp shore lay his folded shirt, shoes, and wallet. On top sat a paper weighted by a stone. Emily, You didn't push me away. You were the only light in the room that was already dark. I tried to hold on, but noise got too loud. Please, don't carry this grief like you carried the rest. Love, laugh, and live for both of us. You aren't broken, Emily. Thank you for seeing me. Goodbye. I fell to my knees, screaming his name into the silence. Jordan was gone. But standing by the water where I once wanted to end my life, I realized the true gift. He had taught me how to feel again. Now, I am alive, not forgetting him, but honoring his memory.

My background is deeply connected to a rural area. I wasn't born into a family with abundant resources or money to invest in me - every cent was important, every cent was accounted for. Coming from a background like that meant a lot more competition for me, but I still managed to get accepted into Presidential School (PS) - because of my intellectual curiosity, yes, but that wasn't the only reason. I relied heavily on luck along the way. So in the future, I want to help children from low-income families, from different regions of Uzbekistan and the world, achieve their dreams and compete equally with those who have resources. But how? Why? Is it really a problem? Yes, because children can't choose the location or the family they're born into. It is a lottery - some are born into high-income families, continue that legacy, and widen the gap even further, while only a few students without such advantages ever reach that same level. To fix this, I would suggest the government provide more seats in Presidential School and other specialized schools, where admission is decided purely by the student's own knowledge. However, this isn't the solution. Rich families could still hire experienced mentors from top universities and give their children elite knowledge anyway. So could starting the competition at an early age, and providing this elite knowledge in public schools from grade 1, be the solution? NO! Because not every student is intellectually curious. But why not? Because they aren't gifted? No, of course not - there are plenty of students who study harder than the gifted ones and outcompete them. Then how can we determine who to invest in, without knowing enough about them yet? If we really want to provide elite education from grade 1, it means we'd need to invest only in the most competitive and curious students, to avoid wasting resources. But which one should decide - curiosity or giftedness? A curious student can still fail academically. A gifted one can procrastinate. Finding both is really hard, especially at an early age, when the brain has only just started to develop. What separated me from the other 20,000+ students in Tashkent? How can I, or the government, find students like the ones who win international tournaments effortlessly? Is there anything that has separated them from everyone else since childhood? Maybe environment is the main factor - but then every student would deserve a spot in a place like that, which contradicts the idea I raised before. Then maybe that's it - just separate students based on their ability to learn and understand the material from the start. Give them a demanding system in first grade, and separate those who pass from the rest. But this is contradictory too. Every student from a low-income family deserves a chance, but under this system they only get one - the only thing they need to do is finish grade 1 successfully. Yet one year of education shouldn't decide a student's future. Still, extending this system beyond one year could cause economic problems down the line - high opportunity costs, among other things. Then what about improving the overall education system instead? Instead of giving a chance to only a few students from low-income families, Uzbekistan could focus on improving education across the board, in every region. This solution is universal - it could be applied in any other country too. The main problem is managing it. Expanding its scope too quickly could cause public and international debt, reduce productivity in firms as subsidies to them shrink, and lower the quality of other public goods and services, like healthcare. So the question becomes: is it really worth it? I think yes - because educated youth can boost any sector of a country far more than an uneducated population ever could. Education also teaches moral values, like avoiding corruption. This could help reduce crime rates, since there would be less unemployment, and it could build people's trust in the system, creating an environment where the economy can truly thrive.

"He can't lift it, y'know." Tyler tried to drown out the external influences of the surrounding crowd, especially Geoffrey's. It was just him and the barbell. Him, and 140 lbs. of cold, hard steel. But who was he kidding? It was no use. Geoffrey's snide remarks drilled themselves into his brain, mocking him and his ineptitude. "I'm just saying–'training' can only do so much for a scarecrow like him. If puberty couldn't help him–" "Geoffrey, shut it! C'mon," Lucy said in hushed whispers. "Ty deserves his shot." Lucy Monroe-Calafat. Oh, Lucy. At least she gave a reprieve to waves of doubt. Yet that didn't make the weights any lighter. Tyler struggled not to groan as his arms vibrated–a stoppable force against a very immovable object, fighting in futility to move that iron bar up. How did those bodybuilders do it? Did they live in the gym? Sweat drizzled down Tyler's forehead, landing in a small pool at his feet–splatters of wasteful energy. Proof of effort squandered. Yet, with every moment that passed, the murmurs of the surrounding crowd became less subtle and more painstakingly obvious–Geoffrey and others included. Tyler looked to the side, instantly regretting it. Lucy was looking straight down at her feet, avoiding his glance. Tyler paled. What was I thinking? I can't do this. God, I'm an idiot. In that moment, the crowd was gone, the noise nothing more than echoes in Tyler's mind. And he was seven. "Tyler, stop!" his Dad said, agitation clear in his tone. The tiny barbell was supported by two milk jugs on either end. It was only 20 lbs. Only 20! "But Dad–" "No, son." His dad snatched the barbell away, ending the debate. "You're not ready." "I can! Miles can already lift 20 pounds! If I can't…" Tyler pouted while plopping down on the floor. To gain sympathy? It didn't work. "If you can't," his Dad started, "Then you can't. But don't let a shortcoming define you…" His voice trailed off as the present came back into view. Tyler took one more deep breath. Go! One inch. The crowd didn't react. C'mon! Another inch. Then another. The crowd's volume noticeably decreased. I define myself. No one else! Another. Another! The bar was now past his belly button. "Tyler, Tyler, Tyler!" Lucy looked around, gesturing to the others. The crowd got the message and started chanting and stomping their feet in rhythmic succession. "That's…" Geoffrey sputtered. "Impossible!" But it is. And this is just the beginning! Tyler raised the bar above his head… …and heard nothing. The crowd was silent. Then, a chorus of gasps, claps, and murmurs of shock swelled into a great crescendo in the room. From the corner of his eye, vision going in and out, Tyler could swear he saw Lucy beaming, hands clasped together. Geoffrey looked pissed, his hands clenched in fists. Still, Tyler heard nothing. He merely gasped and inhaled some sweet, sweet air.

The first word my best friend ever said to me was "no." Not "hello." Not "nice to meet you." Just.. "no." I stood there for a second and tried to see if I had heard her right. "Can I sit with you?" I had asked, expecting nothing more than a little chat before the next lesson. Instead, she looked straight into my eyes and answered with a single word that completely took me by surprise. "No." I smiled awkwardly, turned around, and walked away as if it didn't matter.It did. At school, I wasn't used to being rejected. I had always been surrounded by friends, teachers knew me well, and I had built a reputation that made me feel confident wherever I went. That one word felt strangely personal. Who does she think she is? I remember thinking. When my best friend told me the new girl was kind, I couldn't believe it. Kind people didn't reject someone who simply wanted to sit down... did they? Yet over the following weeks, I kept noticing things that didn't match the image I had created in my mind. She stayed quiet while others talked over her. She shared her notes without being asked. She smiled gently at everyone who spoke to her. The girl I had labeled as rude didn't seem rude at all. How could someone who seemed so kind be the same girl who had looked me in the eyes and told me "no"? The question stayed with me longer than I wanted to admit. Then one afternoon, our classroom grew unusually quiet.Two girls were arguing. At first, it sounded like every other school disagreement—raised voices, crossed arms, classmates pretending not to stare while secretly listening. But this one didn't end with someone walking away. It ended with tears.She tried to hold them back. She really did.She bit her lip, looked down at the floor, blinked several times.Then she cried. For a second, I froze. A part of me whispered, She wasn't exactly kind to you. But another part—the louder part—couldn't watch someone cry and do nothing. Without thinking, I walked over and wrapped my arms around her.She didn't say anything.Neither did I.Sometimes silence is kinder than advice. That hug didn't magically make us best friends.Real friendships almost never begin that way.Instead, they began with ordinary things.A conversation after class.Sharing homework answers.The girl I had once avoided slowly became the person I looked for every morning.It happened so quietly that neither of us noticed when "she" became "we." Somewhere between school projects, birthday celebrations, and inside jokes, the awkward stranger disappeared.Looking back, I can't remember the exact day we became best friends.Some relationships don't begin with fireworks. They begin with tiny moments that quietly collect until one day you realize you've found your person. Years later, curiosity finally won. "Can I ask you something? "She laughed."You already are."I smiled. "Why did you say no?" She looked at me for a moment before covering her face with her hands. "Oh no, We're talking about that?" Then she told me the story I had spent years trying to invent in my own head. She had just transferred to a new school.She barely knew anyone.When I suddenly walked over to her, she panicked.In her mind, confident girls didn't come over just to chat.She thought I was teasing her.She thought everyone was waiting for her reaction.So she chose the safest answer she could think of. "No." I stared at her for a second.Then we both burst into laughter.All those years... All because two teenage girls believed stories they had written about each other without ever asking if they were true. When we're young, we believe first impressions are facts.We decide who people are within minutes. Confident.Rude.Shy.Friendly. But people aren't books with titles printed on the cover.They're stories with chapters we haven't read yet.If I had allowed my pride to make the final decision that day, I would have walked past one of the greatest friendships of my life without ever knowing it existed. Years passed.School became university.Homework became careers.Our conversations changed, but somehow they never became smaller.Then one day, she asked me a question. "Will you be my bridesmaid?" I answered before she had even finished asking. "Of course." On her wedding day, I stood beside her, carefully fixing the edge of her veil while she nervously smoothed invisible wrinkles from her dress. She looked at me through the mirror.I looked back.For a second, neither of us said anything.Then we smiled.The kind of smile that belongs only to people who know every embarrassing story about each other. A few minutes later, I watched her promise forever to the person she loved. "I do," she said. Everyone around us heard those two simple words. But my mind wandered back to another classroom, another ordinary afternoon, and another word spoken years before. "No." Funny how one tiny word almost became the ending of our story... when, in reality, it was only the beginning.

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.

Each musical note blossoms with color. Each color infuses a distinct flavor in my mouth. C# is light blue and metallic. A—my favorite—is yellow and peachy. I cannot escape the constant barrage. Everything has a tone. The school bell rings out an E—it's green, tastes like pistachio ice cream. The hum of the fluorescent lights is out of tune to an A-flat. Even silence has a note, because it's never truly silent. When I plug my ears, even the blood rushing through me has a note. A color. A taste. If I tune one out, it means tuning in something else. Like Mr. Steever in history droning on and on mostly in low F, a swirl of gray and beige, tasting like mashed potatoes with nothing added to them—earthy and bland. I can handle his class. My therapist calls it a gift. I call it a prison, and I don't know where the key is, or who has it, or if one even exists. I can't focus on Ms. Donaldson's lectures. Her voice hits almost all the notes but F. Most of my class thinks she's the best teacher. She probably is, but I usually leave her class with a splitting headache. I wish I could have a brain transplant. “Sadly, it's not a medically viable option, Allie,” my dad said. So, what do they do with a freak like me? They stick me in the gifted classes. I told them, this is not a gift. Plus, in the gifted classes, we just get more homework and harder assignments. So not what I need. They say I'm under-performing. What they don't realize is I can't perform. Not when I have three distracting channels going on inside of me—at all times. My only friend is my dog, Cody. After school I bury my face in his fur, and I can finally focus on a different sense: touch. I could lie there for hours, rubbing his fur. Nothing else calms my other senses. But I don't tell anyone this. It's my secret. I don't want them to make me go to school with a guide dog. I have enough trouble making friends. I think my mom knows I'm different when I'm with Cody. It makes her happy, and that makes me happy, too. Today my lab partner, his name is Jay, brought his rabbit in. It had babies last week. Jays in 4-H and wants to show off his project, which Ms. Donaldson is more than happy to oblige. I've never held a rabbit before, but I'm anticipating the feeling of it. Everyone passes the baby rabbits around, and Jay hands me the mama rabbit. I hold her close and stroke her head and ears. I close my eyes and hold her up to my cheek. The notes fade. The colors turn to gray. My tongue tastes . . . like nothing. When I open my eyes, half of the class is staring at me. My face heats up as I lower the rabbit. Someone points at me with their mouth popped open. I scratch my wrist and sniff. My nose is stuffed. Was I crying? Jay takes the rabbit. “Are you okay?” I scratch my chin. “I'm fine,” I say, but I don't feel fine. “I think you're having an allergic reaction.” Jay takes my hand and says to Ms. Donaldson, “I'm taking her to the nurse.” Jay pulls me into the hall. His footsteps echo with mine. His are A and C: true perfection. My one shoe squeaks out F, F, F—dull, boring, mashed potatoes. But together, the notes make a beautiful chord. I look at his hand holding mine. My wrist is covered with red bumps. “This happened to my sister's friend,” says Jay. “You need to wash your skin.” My face tightens around my mouth, cheeks, and chin. I touch my lips and scratch. “Don't touch your face,” Jay says. “Let's go in here.” We duck into the teacher's-only bathroom. Jay turns on a stream of cool water—B-flat, terracotta, cinnamon with a hint of chocolate. “Wash up,” says Jay. He puts my hands under the water and starts to rub them. He pumps soap out of the dispenser and rubs my wrists, and lower arms. I stand speechless and tune out the sounds, the colors, the tastes to focus on his rough, sand-papery skin rubbing my smooth arms. It feels so good to be touched. And not in an accidental or slight way, but in a firm, intentional way. I can feel this and feeling it makes my prison slowly disappear. “Wash your face,” he says, but my hair falls forward into the sink. He holds it back as I cup water into my hands and splash my face over and over. When I come up for air I'm shaking. He doesn't let my hair go until I wipe my face with the rough paper towels. “You'll be okay. Don't worry.” He takes my arms, turns them over, and looks at the insides of my wrists again. “They haven't gotten worse, so that's good,” he says. “Let's go see the nurse.” I don't move with him. I want Jay to hold my hands forever. How can I tell him I don't want him to let go? I look into his deep brown eyes and grab his hands. I've never held a boy's hand before. But I can't let him go. Not yet. He tips his head and narrows his eyes, questioning. “Come on,” he says, but he keeps holding on. We walk to the nurse's office. I still feel miserable, but I don't hear the notes of our footsteps. I only feel his firm grasp; the key I've been searching for my whole life.

That day, an unexplainable restlessness filled my heart… It was just an ordinary evening, yet something deep inside me refused to stay quiet. A gentle but persistent voice kept whispering: “Go… go see your parents.” Normally, I would wait. I would plan. I would ask for permission and choose the “right” moment. But that day was different. “I'm going,” I said with unexpected certainty. “Even if it's late… I need to see them.” Winter had already settled in. The cold air cut through my skin, and the wind followed us the entire way. Still, I took my children with me, and we set off. At the end of that long journey… my father was there, waiting. He smiled. A simple, warm smile. At that moment, I didn't realize I was looking at something priceless. We stopped at a small restaurant to have dinner. While waiting, we took a few pictures together—ordinary moments, or so they seemed. But then I looked at him more closely. And my heart quietly broke. He had grown older… far more than I had allowed myself to notice. The strong, tireless man I had always known… was no longer the same. A silent ache settled deep within me. That evening, we sat together at home, sharing stories, laughing, remembering the past. The room was filled with warmth, love, and a fragile kind of happiness. Two days later, we celebrated my father's birthday. Everyone spoke from their hearts, offering wishes filled with love. Then it was my turn: I stood up. But, suddenly… my voice disappeared. Tears came before words. “Dad…” I whispered, struggling to speak. “Today, I just want to thank you… for everything.” I couldn't hold back anymore. “For giving me life… for working so hard to educate me… for raising me into who I am today… I am endlessly grateful.” Memories rushed back. “Do you remember what you always told me when I was young?” His words echoed clearly: “A girl must be educated… so she will never depend on anyone.” I took a deep breath. “Today, because of you… I stand on my own feet. I have a stable life. I am raising my children with dignity…” My voice trembled. “But, Dad… even with everything I have… I haven't truly done anything for you…” That realization shattered something inside me. I cried openly, helplessly. We spent a few more days together—days filled with laughter, warmth, and quiet joy. It felt as though I had gathered enough happiness to last a lifetime. Then I returned home. That evening, as we sat at the dinner table, my phone rang. It was my aunt—a doctor. She rarely called me. And suddenly, my heart sank. I answered immediately. “Aunt… hello… is everything alright?” Silence. Then her voice, heavy and unfamiliar: “Nothing is alright, Shakhi… Your father had a heart attack… He's in a coma… he doesn't recognize anyone…” The world stopped. Everything around me faded into emptiness. I don't remember what happened next. I don't remember the road, the journey, or the people around me. Only one thought remained, echoing endlessly in my mind: “Dad… please don't leave me… please…” Final Reflection: We often believe there will always be time. Time to visit. Time to speak. Time to say the words that truly matter. But life does not wait. My dad overcame the heart attack, but that day taught me something I will carry forever: “Love should never be postponed.” Gratitude should never remain unspoken. And the people we cherish… should never be taken for granted. Because sometimes, the hardest truth is this: “Too late” comes quietly… and once it arrives, no words can bring the moment back. Shakhlo Kenjayeva 27 July 2026