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.

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.

Night slipped into the city quietly, almost unnoticed. The streets filled with the thin breath of cold, wrapping everything in silence. It felt as if the city had held its breath and paused for a moment. Only a small café on the corner stood apart from that stillness. Inside, soft yellow lights spread warmth across the walls, and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee invited anyone in. Everyone there was lost in their own world — some staring at their phones, some drifting in their thoughts, others simply passing time. I was one of them. Just an ordinary night. Just an ordinary person. Until he walked in. The door opened slowly. A wave of cold air cut through the warmth. Behind it stood a man. It felt as if he had brought the cold in with him. A thin coat hung loosely on his shoulders, his worn-out shoes carried the dust of long roads, and the exhaustion on his face was deep enough to make one's heart ache. He did not belong here. As if this warmth was not meant for him. He paused by the door for a moment, looking around, as though unsure whether he even had the right to stay. Then, slowly, he stepped toward the counter. “Just a cup of hot water, please…” he said in a low voice. The words were simple. But the need behind them was impossible to ignore. The barista hesitated for a second, then silently handed him a paper cup. The man thanked her and moved to a corner. He held the cup with both hands — not as if to drink it, but as if searching for life within it. I found myself watching him. Suddenly, the coffee I was drinking felt strange. Its taste had changed. It even felt unnecessary. Something stirred inside me. I stood up. “Another coffee,” I told the barista, then lowered my voice. “For him.” She looked at me, a quiet understanding in her eyes. She nodded, prepared the coffee, and placed it in front of the man. “This has been paid for,” she said softly. The man froze. “For me?..” he asked, as if afraid to believe it. She nodded. He didn't drink it right away. He held the cup gently in his hands, feeling its warmth. He closed his eyes for a moment, as if this was not just coffee, but a feeling he had long forgotten. Inside, I felt a sense of relief. “I did something good,” I thought. But life was not done teaching me yet. A few minutes later, the man stood up and headed toward the door. But just before leaving, he stopped. He hesitated for a moment, then turned back. He walked up to the counter again. From his pocket, he took out a few small coins. He rolled them in his palm. They were so few that even their sound seemed shy. “May I have another cup of hot water?..” he asked quietly. The barista looked slightly surprised, but said nothing. She nodded. The man carefully placed the coins on the counter, as if they were all he had. Then he took the cup and walked outside. I don't know why. But I couldn't take my eyes off him. Outside the café, on the cold stone steps, sat a small boy. He had pulled his knees close, making himself as small as possible. He was trembling — not only from the cold, but from loneliness. The man walked up to him. Slowly, he knelt down. And placed the cup into the boy's hands. “It's warm…” he said gently. “Hold it tight.” The boy lifted his head. His eyes widened. Not from the warmth. But from being seen. The man smiled — a quiet, simple smile. Then, as if nothing had happened, he turned away and disappeared into the cold. No one noticed. No one stopped. No one thought. Only me. I sat there, frozen. The coffee in my hand suddenly felt heavy. As if it was no longer just coffee. As if it had become something unnecessary. I had given from what I could spare. He had given what he himself needed. And in that moment, deep within the silence, a truth awakened in the deepest part of my heart— Kindness does not begin with wealth. Kindness is not born from comfort. Kindness is when, even in the cold, you are still able to give warmth to someone else.

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.

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.

“Loneliness” I cursed the whole time, Was actually a friend of my life. When people of earth left me behind, Loneliness was the one, holding me tight. I walked up to streets, empty of life, Somehow resting from your busy plans. Nature that got hurt by your hands all times, Praying and wishing that you never come back. Would I be sad, if I am the only one on this earth? Or would I be happy that your hurt is gone with you? Would I stop smiling, now there are no faces to? And would I wish with my whole body and soul that I left with you.

The same road, everyday you pass, Where you cry and hide your tears. That exact sky, you everyday look, Never change (its) soul talking to your heart. That long breath you take And say: 'Everything will be alright one day' The same faith you have in your God, Making you more shiny than ever today Remember, how you smiled When you were 8, See? Even this didn't change On your bright face. Thoughts of failing May kill you inside, But you keep smiling On people's faces right back. You can never know, What happens next. But you still hope For the better of this life. There are times when a person feels like quitting, but there are also times when quitting is the right thing to do, and this poem helps one to see the difference in between by showing them both the good and bad of their actions. This poem is about reminding ourselves of the hardships of the actions we take for greater good but also reminding the sweet satisfaction of achieving that greater good. At the end, it gives one hope of moving forward until they reach their very last drops of capacity and potential to make their dreams come true.

"When the world falls silent at night, my mind and I begin to make noise. The night knows me more than people do, for it is the one who sees my face without masks, and the one who hears my thoughts and contradictions without me ever speaking them." Let me take you with me on a short journey inside my cursed mind .. At first, I lie on my bed thinking that I will fall asleep quickly because I'm exhausted and my energy has run out, but the truth is completely the opposite .. At that very moment when I start closing my eyes thinking that I'll soon fall into a deep sleep “or so I imagine”, my mind begins to take me to its world, full of darkness and painful memories. Sometimes I feel it says to me: “Look at those who promised to stay and left, look at those whom you trusted with your heart and they betrayed it, look at me; I'm here suffering every day because of you and your foolish actions.” When everything overflows inside me and I see that no place suits me — not even my bed .. I rise to drown in the moonlight, in its calmness that looks nothing like my noise and inner chaos. I look at it and wonder: Are you really as peaceful as you seem, O moon? Are you truly this calm and still? Don't you have something you're trying to hide behind that calm and quiet mask, just like we humans do? Sometimes I used to feel that the night was my enemy, the thing I feared the most in my life .. but the truth showed the opposite. I discovered that the night is the one who holds me in my weakness, the one who stands beside me when no one else does. The night always understands me without words, the night knows me more than I do, the night resembles me a lot; it seems from the outside very calm, but behind that mask there are so many things hidden deep inside things that only we understand. The night is the best friend, but only for the one who needs it and knows its value. The night is a hidden treasure beneath a quiet black cloak. On one of those silent nights .. my thoughts betrayed me and lit inside me the longing for memories of the past, I remembered then that I still keep some things from that time. I started flipping through this, opening that, until my eyes fell upon two small papers, One carried a confession of jealousy, and the other an admission of attachment that grew day after day. When I read them, I remembered what once was, I remembered a promise of staying, of sacrifice, of fighting wars for me if needed. My eyes overflowed with tears, my heart cried, every inch of my body cried. I realized then that what passes never returns, I realized that I held on to things that were never mine from the beginning, I realized that nothing will stay by my side and comfort me through every hardship — except the night and its moon. Since that night, I realized that the darkness of night is the mirror where I see myself more clearly. I made peace with the night, and it became closer to me than myself. I started waiting for the day to end so I could escape into the night and its stillness. I became the moon that lights my night without needing anyone to keep me company. The night taught me not to run from my pain, but to hold it until it calms. The night .. my closest friend. 🌙

Hospitals are strange places. They hold both joy and sorrow, beginnings and endings, first breaths and last. As a pediatrician, I have witnessed moments that tested my faith and hope. Yet one story remains—a fragile cry that reminded me of the miracle of life. It was an ordinary morning in the maternity ward. The corridors smelled of antiseptic, and newborn cries echoed. But a case arrived none of us would forget. A young mother, pale and trembling, was in preterm labor. Her baby was coming weeks too soon: fragile lungs, fragile heart, fragile chances. The room grew tense. Nurses prepared quickly, the incubator hummed, and my heart pounded. Experience never removes the weight of such moments. And then, he came. A tiny boy, so small it seemed the world could crush him. His skin was translucent, his chest uneven. For a moment, silence. Too silent. His mother whispered, “Is my baby alive?” We rushed into action. His breaths were shallow, flickering like a candle. For an instant, I feared he would not survive. Inside, I prayed: Please breathe. Please cry. Then it came—a soft, raspy cry. Not loud, but enough to bring tears to our eyes. That cry was hope made audible. His mother sobbed with relief. We placed him in the incubator, wires and tubes surrounding him. Beyond machines, there was something greater: the astonishing design of the human body. His lungs struggled but learned. His heart kept beating. Every cell seemed to whisper, I want to live. Days turned into weeks. I visited often, listening to the monitors, watching his tiny fingers curl. His mother stood by, whispering lullabies through the glass. Slowly, he grew stronger. Weeks later, I entered the ward and froze. The incubator was empty. He was in his mother's arms, no tubes, no wires, only life. His wide eyes and faint smile were victory itself. Months later, I almost didn't recognize him. The fragile infant was now a chubby, bright-eyed baby, cooing and grasping at his mother's necklace. His laughter filled the room. I remembered that first cry—how close we came to losing him, and how miraculous his life now was. That day, I was reminded how extraordinary human beings are. We often take life for granted—the beating of a heart, the instinct of a newborn curling its fingers. But when life nearly slips away, every detail shines like a miracle. Every child born healthy is not “ordinary.” It is a wonder, repeated millions of times yet never losing its beauty. A premature baby growing into a thriving child shows how humans are created with resilience and grace. I often think of that boy. When I see children running in the park, laughing freely, I think of him and others like him. I think of mothers waiting anxiously, fathers hiding tears, grandparents praying in hospital corridors. Each child is a living testament to creation's brilliance. The world may be full of noise—wars, fears, uncertainty. But then there is the quiet cry of a newborn, reminding us that life continues, that miracles happen every day. That fragile cry taught me more than textbooks. It taught me that humans are wonderfully made, and that every child carries a spark of divine perfection. And that is why I continue my work. Not just to heal, but to witness life's miracle again and again. Because every cry matters, every breath counts, and every child is proof that even in a fragile world, hope endures

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

When I was fourteen, I erased myself. Not physically, but piece by piece, online. I deleted every photo I didn't look “right” in. Smoothed my words. Posed differently. Smiled differently. Because every scroll through social media whispered the same thing: you're not enough. So I followed perfection. Girls with flawless skin and color-coordinated lives. I copied their captions, mimicked their diets, bought their filters. Eventually, I became a curated version of someone I wasn't—liked, but not known. Then, one afternoon, I overheard my younger cousin whisper to her friend, “I wish I looked like her Instagram.” They were talking about me. That night, I stared at my own profile. It looked like a magazine ad. Polished, distant. Beautiful, maybe—but empty. That's when I realized: the version of me I was projecting was making someone else feel the same way I once did. Less than. So I did something radical. I unfollowed the influencers. I archived half my posts. I shared a selfie—no filter, just me. Skin not perfect, hair a little frizzy. The caption read: Trying something new: honesty. The response wasn't viral. It was better. A friend messaged, “Thank you. I've been struggling too.” Another said, “This made me cry.” I hadn't planned to start anything, but somehow, that post started conversations that mattered. Real ones. Since then, I've been living less like a highlight reel and more like a story—mine. Sometimes messy, sometimes amazing, always real. I didn't lose followers. I gained freedom

The final horn blew… The war was over, but the cost was beyond counting. It didn't feel like victory. Exhausted soldiers in torn uniforms with empty stares stood in silence. The guilt and grief of surviving were the heaviest burden on them all. So many friends were buried beneath the cold soil. Rafe stood frozen, not from fear or cold but from emptiness. He had lost everything: his family, his happiness, his hope… The only thought that kept him alive was to return to his hometown and reunite with his love, Ellis, who brought colour into Rafe's grey world. At dawn, Rafe packed what little he had left. He folded letters Ellis had written to him and put a small silver ring into his pocket - the one he had promised to propose to her when the war ended. He wondered if she was waiting for him or if she was even alive… Four days. Rafe walked with no sleep or rest. Not really. His coat was soaked through. His boots were torn, but nothing could stop him now. Finally, he approached the hill that overlooked his hometown. His heart pounded harder the closer he got to the town with every step. He whispered, “Please, let her be there.” The moment he saw the smoke, he froze. The town was nothing but ash and ruins. He ran even though his sore legs barely held him. Not a single soul remained. He wandered around the ruins and screamed her name. But there was no answer. Only silence. He just stood there, blinking as if trying to wake from a dream. Fifty years had passed. The war had been forgotten by the world, but not by him. Rafe, now an old man with grey hair and a walking stick, visited the ruins of what was once his hometown. The promise ring was still inside his coat. It had never belonged to anyone else because no one else ever felt right. He stood where her house used to be. He had nothing left except memories. At that moment, with the last hope still inside him, he whispered, “If you survived, I hope you found the reason to live and smile again. If you didn't survive, I hope your soul is waiting for me to meet again.”

When I was little, everything felt fun and interesting. Life was colorful, beautiful, and unique. We grew up in a village where people were judged based on their social status, wealth, family background, and ancestry. I remember being easy to love — even when you beat us, punished us severely for our mistakes, or scolded us harshly. No matter what, we always apologized. We always crawled back to you, seeking your attention, your love, your time, and your acceptance. You were our hero; you were everything. However, as time passed, I began to see other people and their families. They lived lives far better than the one I had known. I kept failing, again and again. I fell into depression, blaming everyone around me. At some point, I became a person without any feelings at all. I had no choice but to wake up to a reality I had never truly seen before. I once thought I loved my father more than my mother, but now I realize that was only a reflection of my longing — a longing for someone who was no longer there. It made me forget the pain and disappointment that remained unresolved. I questioned myself over and over: Why did you do this? Why did you say that? I told myself I would never forgive you. I was overwhelmed with sorrow, resentment, and anger. I was ungrateful — too blind to see how lucky I was to have a mother like you. I carried so many broken pieces within me, and I had to find my true self beneath the mess I had gathered over the years. It was hard — so hard — to accept everything. I always dreamed of a life that was simple and beautiful, where happiness lasted forever. But reality was different. It's painful to live in an environment where you want to forgive but the same wounds reopen again and again. One day, I found a quiet place to sit and think. I realized: everything in this world is created through love. Love is the reason we are alive. Yet the most important question is not whether we love — but how we love, and in what way we express that love. That determines who we become. Every time you punished us, you used to say, "I know you will hate me one day for this, but I have to do it for your own sake. There is no other way I can raise you without you being hurt by your own envy, your own fears." I thought about that — deeply. Was every embarrassment, every pain, every harsh word truly the only way to prevent me from ruining my future? Was punishment the only tool? Must it always be pain? And then I realized — the greatest fear I have is that one day, my own children might hate me. But you, my mother, were willing to risk losing my love, to risk living with my resentment, all for the hope that I might one day survive and thrive. I was overwhelmed with tears. I remembered everything I had once forgotten: how I loved you, and how you loved me. How we spent time together. How you held me in your hands and kissed me. Until that moment, I had only remembered what I wanted to remember — the pain. I convinced myself that you hated me, and I refused to allow myself to love you again. But that day, I found the courage to gather myself and go to your home. Of course, we argued. Of course, I cried — and so did you. But I said to myself: I cannot change her. I may not be able to fully accept her as she is. But at the very least, I can learn how to love her — not by punishing, not by hating, not by scolding. And for the first time, I said to you, "I love you — no matter what happened in the past or what will happen in the future. You are a part of me, and I will always love and admire you." You cried and hugged me. From that day forward, yes, there are still struggles. But it has become easier to face difficulties, easier to love beyond boundaries. As long as we are alive, we grow, we learn, we change — and most importantly, we love.

Once upon a time, in the divine realms beyond human comprehension, there were two angels in service to the Almighty. As imagined in human dreams and visions, these celestial beings were adorned in radiant garments, their presence a harmony of grace, beauty, and unwavering devotion. They resided in a heaven free from sorrow, pain, or hardship—a paradise that mortals could only long for. Their sacred duties were assigned by the Almighty Himself, and they carried them out with perfect obedience. But one day, a question stirred in the heart of one of the angels. “Lord,” he said, his voice trembling with reverence, “You created humans and granted them a status even higher than ours. Yet they stumble, again and again, falling into sin and error. Still, You forgive them, granting time and grace instead of swift punishment. Why?” The Almighty looked upon His angel and replied gently, “If you were human, you would err just as they do.” The angel, in his pride, could not accept this. “No, my Lord,” he said. “I would never fail You as they do.” So the Almighty gave him a chance—not as punishment, but as revelation. The angel was sent to Earth, stripped of all memories of his heavenly origin. He was reborn among humans, granted the role of a wise and respected judge, known for his fairness and virtue. Years passed. One day, a woman—young, breathtaking, and burdened—came seeking his help. From the moment their eyes met, he felt something stir deep within him, something new: love. She told him she could not be with him unless he did one thing for her—something against his principles. “This is forbidden,” he said, disturbed. “How can you ask this of me?” She leaned in, her voice soft and persuasive. “Everyone in this town does it. No one is punished. Why are you so afraid? Isn't love about sacrifice? About choosing someone else over yourself? I know it's wrong, but I also know you. You're kind, powerful, intelligent… Any woman would want to be with you. But unless you do this for me, I cannot be.” Blinded by love, he surrendered. For her, he crossed the line he swore he never would. Together, they built a life—filled with laughter, wealth, children, and joy. For a time, it all seemed like bliss. But as the years passed, the happiness they once knew began to fade like mist in the morning sun. The joy became routine. The love, quiet. Something felt missing, though neither could say what. Eventually, the man—once angel—fell gravely ill. He lay in bed, his body frail, but his mind adrift in memories. He thought of the woman he loved, the children they raised, the life they built. He had tasted joy, sorrow, pride, and failure. And through it all, he was grateful. Then, one quiet evening, a light descended from above—soft, golden, and otherworldly. It hovered above his home, casting a gentle circle on the ceiling, like a whisper from a forgotten realm. Slowly, the light entered his forehead, awakening everything he had once been. His memories returned—the heavens, the promise, the pride. Tears welled in his eyes. “I could not walk the path,” he whispered. “Not as I thought I would. I did not understand… until now.” He looked up, not with regret, but with a quiet awe, as if something larger than words had settled in his soul. And for the first time, perhaps, he saw humanity—not as flawed creatures—but as something else entirely. But what that was... he could not say. And maybe, neither can we.

Aboard the ferry were a monk, a teacher, a bandit, two antique smugglers, a mother and her child, a young couple, and the ferryman's wife. The ferryman's wife laid down a wooden plank as the two smugglers struggled to push their motorbike aboard. The tall smuggler cautioned his plaid-shirted companion: "Careful!" He wasn't talking about the bike but the cloth bundle in his friend's arms—inside was an ancient porcelain vase. As they strained, the plaid-shirted smuggler called for help. The teacher hesitated, but the young man from the couple stepped forward, lifting the fallen bike. Inside, a refined mother and her nine-year-old son sat quietly. When the smugglers positioned the bike, it grazed her leg. She frowned. The tall smuggler apologized, reaching to brush off the dirt. She swatted his hand away. Behind them, the monk spoke to the teacher about Bodhidharma: "When Huike cut off his arm to prove devotion, he pleaded, ‘Master, my mind is troubled.' The great sage replied, ‘Show me this troubled mind.' Huike searched but could not find it. The master then said, ‘See? I have already put your mind at ease.' And with that, Huike was enlightened." The plaid-shirted smuggler, clutching the bundle, sat near the monk—the safest place. The teacher scowled: "You, sir! Why squeeze in here?" The smuggler muttered: "Forgive me, elder. If this vase breaks, my life is ruined." The young man sat close to his girlfriend, his fingers grazing her belly beneath the coat. She stiffened slightly but didn't move. The boat drifted away. The sky darkened. A lone bird flapped toward the mountains. Suddenly, a sharp voice called from shore: "Ferry!" The tall smuggler waved dismissively: "Ignore them." But the ferryman's wife hesitated. A rugged man leaped aboard, splashing water over the monk. The monk flinched: "Amitabha Buddha!" The teacher muttered: "Looks like a bandit." He was. Yet he grinned politely, casually took an oar, and lit a cigarette. He winked at the ferryman's wife: "The sky is neither sunny nor rainy, yet the day has slipped into dusk." She responded vaguely: "What storm brings crows from the mountain?" The bandit laughed: "A wedding. A sixty-year-old groom, a seventeen-year-old bride." The boat fell silent. The little boy, watching the water, suddenly declared: "I see spirit fish!" The plaid-shirted smuggler smirked: "Kid, ask your mom—spirit fish or just carp?" The mother stiffened, pulling her son close. Just then, the boy reached into the smuggler's bundle and slipped his hand into the vase. His mother gasped: "Take your hand out, now!" The boy tried—but his wrist was stuck. Panic spread. The tall smuggler grabbed the vase: "Damn brat! Always causing trouble!" The mother sobbed: "What do we do?!" The ferry reached shore. A cold wind blew. Then—knives flashed. The smugglers pressed their blades against the child. The mother shrieked: "I don't have money!" Desperate, she yanked a ring from her finger. The plaid-shirted smuggler snatched it. The tall one pressed his knife to the boy's throat. A crimson drop formed. The young man clenched his fists. He ripped his own ring from his finger and thrust it at the smugglers: "Take it. Now let the boy go." At that moment, the bandit moved. With a single, fluid motion, he swung his nunchaku—shattering the priceless vase. The mother wept, clutching her son. The smugglers stood in shock. The bandit smirked and leaped onto shore. The teacher murmured: "That man... a hero! A revolutionary!" The ferryman's wife smiled to herself. She knew better. Alone in the dark, he was nothing but danger. The boat emptied. Only the monk remained. The ferryman's wife hesitated: "Master... it's time to disembark." The monk shook his head: "I've changed my mind. Take me back." She sighed: "I don't ferry people back across." The monk chuckled: "That's alright. Once, the great Bodhidharma crossed a river on a single blade of grass." The ferry turned back. Under the rising moon, the river shimmered like glass. A distant temple bell rang. The monk murmured his mantra: "Gate gate, paragate, parasamgate…"