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.

I used to think I was invisible. Not in the dramatic way. No one ignored me on purpose. People talked to me, teachers called my name, friends laughed at my jokes. From the outside, everything looked normal. But inside, it felt different. It felt like I was always slightly out of frame — like I was there, but not really noticed. Every day followed the same pattern. Wake up, go to school, listen, respond, come home. I did what I was supposed to do. I answered when asked. I stayed quiet when needed. I became… easy. Easy to overlook. At some point, I stopped trying to be seen. It just didn't seem worth it. One afternoon, I stayed late after school. There wasn't any special reason. I just didn't feel like going home yet. The hallway was unusually quiet, the kind of silence that feels heavier than noise. I sat on a bench, staring at nothing in particular. Thinking… or maybe just existing. That's when someone sat down next to me. I didn't even look at first. “Long day?” a voice asked. It wasn't loud. It wasn't overly friendly. Just… normal. I nodded. For a few seconds, neither of us said anything. Then they said something strange. “You always look like you have something to say, but you don't.” I turned. It wasn't someone I knew well. Just a person I had seen around. Nothing special. No big connection. And yet… that sentence stayed in the air. “You notice that?” I asked. They shrugged. “Yeah.” That was it. No long conversation. No deep advice. No life-changing speech. Just… someone noticing. We talked for a few minutes. About random things. Nothing important. But for some reason, it felt different. Not because of what was said. But because, for the first time in a long time… I didn't feel invisible. After that day, nothing in my life changed dramatically. I still went to school. Still had the same routine. Still the same people. But something inside me shifted. I started speaking a little more. Not a lot. Just… a little. I started saying things I would've kept to myself before. And slowly, I realized something I hadn't understood for a long time. Maybe I wasn't invisible. Maybe I just stopped showing up. It's strange how one small moment can stay with you. Not because it was big. But because it came at the exact moment you needed it. I don't even talk to that person anymore. Life moved on. But I still remember what they said. Not because it was powerful. But because it was simple. And somehow… exactly right. Because sometimes, all it takes… is for someone to see you. And for the first time… you start seeing yourself too.

My hands were completely coated in sticky blackberry juice, and my phone screen was... well, an absolute disaster. Every single time I swiped to check the news, I managed to leave a translucent purple smudge over headlines that were already depressing enough on their own. Tech layoffs. Some new, incredibly tedious political gridlock. The usual background radiation of our current world. It felt like everything was coming unglued lately, and here I was, standing in my Aunt Martha's aggressively humid kitchen on a Tuesday afternoon, trying to force fruit to obey a printed recipe. My Aunt, who is seventy-two but still possesses a kind of terrifyingly perfect posture, was completely unbothered by the state of the world. Or the state of my phone, for that matter. She was humming something unrecognizable, her silver hair pinned up haphazardly with a yellow No. 2 pencil. We were standing together after so long, trying to make blackberry jam. It was supposed to be our grand, anchoring project for the week. Or something wholesome and tangible to quiet the persistent anxiety sitting right behind my ribs for some reason. “You're hovering,” Martha said, without looking up from the boiling water bath. “The jars won't seal any faster just because you're glaring at them.” “I'm just checking the timer,” I muttered, though my phone actually showed a half-read, doom-mongering article about an impending economic crisis. I felt a little ridiculous. Actually, entirely ridiculous. Why was I so intensely wound up about a few glass jars of fruit? Was it because in a world where you can't control the macro, the inflation, the global tension, the sheer, staggering complexity of human conflict, you desperately want to control the micro? I wanted the sugar to bind with the pectin. I wanted the vacuum seal to pop. I just wanted something to go exactly the way the manual said it would, for once. But the universe, or at least her highness, the blackberries, had other plans. Because after hours of sterilizing glass, mashing berries until my wrists ached, measuring sugar with a level of precision that felt almost clinical, and testing droplets on a frozen spoon, the jam simply refused to thicken. It remained a stubborn, bubbling, glossy syrup. It was, essentially, hot purple soup. “We did everything right,” I said, looking at the runny liquid in profound frustration. I felt this ridiculous surge of irritation, far out of proportion to the actual situation. It felt like a tiny, deeply personal betrayal by the cosmos. “We boiled it for the exact eight minutes. The pectin wasn't expired. I checked the date twice.” Martha leaned against the laminate counter, looking at the large steel pot, and then at my heavily smudged phone. She reached over, took a clean wooden spoon, and dipped it into the warm, runny syrup. She tasted it, blowing on it first with a soft whoosh. “Well,” she said, the corners of her eyes crinkling. “It's terrible jam. It'll run right off a piece of toast and absolutely ruin your shirt.” “Should we re-boil it?” I asked, already reaching for the backup box of pectin in the pantry. “We can probably fix it if we add more acid.” Martha shook her head. She walked over to the freezer, pulled out a thoroughly dented tub of cheap vanilla bean ice cream, and scooped a generous mound into a cracked ceramic bowl. Then, she ladled a heavy, steaming stream of our failed, runny blackberry syrup right over the top. The deep purple ran into the melting white crevices, looking incredibly rich and violently bright. She handed me a spoon. “Try it.” I hesitated. I really wanted the neat little jars lined up in the pantry with handwritten, aesthetic labels. I wanted the satisfaction of a completed, perfectly executed task to prove I had control over my afternoon. But I took a bite anyway. It was, honestly, spectacular. The sharp warmth of the syrup against the freezing cream, the wild, earthy tartness of the summer berries cutting straight through the heavy sweetness of the vanilla, it almost felt alive. “Sometimes,” Martha said, sitting down at the creaky kitchen table, “we spend so much time trying to make things set that we forget to enjoy them when they run.” I sat down opposite her, the wooden chair scraping loudly against the linoleum, looked at my phone, still sitting on the counter with its sticky purple smudges. Maybe she's right. We can't really force the world into neat, predictable jars. But we can still scoop the ice cream. We can still try and find the sweetness in the runny, ungelled middle of things. Martha reached into her apron pocket and pulled out an unopened packet of fruit pectin. "I was supposed to add this while you were sterilizing the jars," she whispered conspiratorially. "But my phone buzzed, and I forgot." I was speechless, yet an uncontrollable, deep laughter sprung up from my throat. My jam hadn't set, yet everything felt perfectly balanced now.

The world ground to a sudden, unexpected halt in the spring of 2020. What began as a distant news headline quickly transformed into a global reality that confined billions of people to their homes. Streets that were once bustling with commerce and laughter turned into silent, empty concrete pathways. Windows became our primary lenses to look at the outside world, and digital screens became our only bridges to human connection. At first, this sudden confinement felt like a prison. However, as the weeks turned into months, the period of isolation revealed itself to be something entirely different: a profound, collective pause that forced us to re-examine what truly matters in life. In the initial days of the lockdown, the psychological weight of the pandemic was heavy. The constant influx of breaking news, rising infection statistics, and the pervasive fear of an invisible enemy created an atmosphere of intense anxiety. Simple daily routines, like grocery shopping, suddenly felt like high-stakes missions. The academic and professional worlds scrambled to adapt to remote setups, turning bedrooms into offices and classrooms. The boundaries between public productivity and private rest blurred completely, leaving people exhausted yet physically stationary. However, human beings possess an extraordinary capacity for adaptation. Once the initial shock wore off, a quiet transformation began to take place inside our isolated spaces. Without the distractions of daily commutes, social obligations, and the frantic pace of modern life, people were left alone with their thoughts and families. This forced stillness opened the door to domestic creativity. Kitchens filled with the aroma of freshly baked bread, and long-abandoned musical instruments were wiped clean of dust. People realized that productivity did not always have to be tied to economic output; it could also be about personal growth and emotional survival. More importantly, the lockdown served as a powerful mirror for our relationships. Before the pandemic, superficial interactions often took precedence over meaningful connection. Isolation changed that dynamic entirely. The phrase "Stay safe" replaced standard greetings, carrying a genuine weight of care and empathy. Digital platforms became lifelines for emotional support. Families separated by oceans gathered for virtual dinners, and friends checked in on each other with a frequency that was rare in the pre-pandemic era. We quickly learned that physical distance did not mean emotional detachment. This solidarity was most visible within local communities. Individuals stepped up to support the most vulnerable. Young people organized volunteer networks to deliver groceries to elderly residents who could not risk stepping outside. Every evening, citizens emerged onto their balconies to applaud the healthcare workers fighting on the front lines. These moments of collective gratitude were deeply moving. They reminded us that even in our darkest and most isolated hours, we belong to a larger human family. The crisis stripped away the superficial divisions of status and wealth, exposing our fundamental interdependence. On an individual level, the period of confinement forced an internal inventory. In a society that constantly urges us to achieve faster, the lockdown demanded that we look inward. Many individuals confronted feelings of loneliness that they had long avoided through constant busyness. This confrontation, though difficult, was deeply therapeutic. It taught us the art of mindfulness and the value of being present in the moment. We learned to appreciate small victories: a beautiful sunset, a good book, or a deep conversation. The pandemic taught us that true contentment is found in internal peace and meaningful connections. Furthermore, the environmental impact of the global shutdown provided a stark lesson. As factories closed and traffic diminished, skies cleared of smog in major cities. The planet seemed to take a deep, much-needed breath.This temporary environmental healing demonstrated the profound impact of human activity on the Earth. It served as a powerful wake-up call, showing us that our previous way of living was unsustainable and that a more conscious, harmonious relationship with nature is entirely possible if we choose to prioritize it. Ultimately, the storytelling of the pandemic is not just about a virus; it is about how humanity rediscovered its core values in the absence of noise. It taught us that health is a fragile gift, that community is essential for survival, and that compassion is our greatest currency. As we move forward into the future, the true test will be whether we retain these lessons or slip back into the mindless rush of the past. The legacy of the lockdown should be a renewed commitment to a kinder, slower, and more connected world.

If someone had asked me in 2023 what major I wanted to study at university, I would have answered without hesitation: Economics! I had imagined my future in that field and believed it was the right choice for me. However, life had a different plan. Because of the opinions of people around us, my plans changed. Instead, I chose English Education, the same field my older sisters had studied. It was not a dream I had carefully planned. At that moment, it simply felt like the best decision I could make. Looking back now, I realize that this unexpected choice became one of the greatest blessings of my life. The first weeks at university were far more difficult than I had expected. I have always been an introvert. While everyone around me was introducing themselves, making new friends, and laughing together, I struggled to start even the simplest conversation. Every morning, I quietly walked into the classroom, hoping no one would notice how nervous I felt. Most of the time, I chose a seat where I could simply observe everyone else. My English was another reason for my silence. Many of my classmates spoke confidently, and I constantly compared myself to them. I worried that my English was not good enough and feared making mistakes. Instead of speaking, I stayed quiet. During my first semester, I became friends with a classmate named Saira. She was one of the strongest English speakers in our class, and I admired her confidence. Although English came naturally to her, she sometimes found mathematical and logical questions difficult. Those happened to be subjects I enjoyed, so I was always happy to help her. In return, simply being around her encouraged me to believe that I could improve my English too. At the end of our first year, Saira was accepted to the University of Arizona and continued her studies there. I was genuinely happy for her. But after she left, I felt alone once again. For a while, I wondered if university would always feel this lonely. Then something changed… Instead of waiting for confidence to find me, I decided to build it myself. I began studying harder. I practiced English every day. I challenged myself to speak even when I was afraid of making mistakes. Progress was slow, but every small step gave me a little more confidence than the day before. Around that time, another classmate gradually became one of my closest friends. There was no special moment when our friendship began—it simply grew little by little. She encouraged me without even realizing how much her words and support meant. Whenever I doubted myself, she reminded me that I was improving and that I was capable of achieving more than I believed. Today, I have completed my third year and am preparing to begin my fourth. When I walk into the classroom now, I no longer look for the quietest seat. Instead, I look for my friends. Sometimes I think about the path I wanted to take. What if I had studied Economics? Perhaps my life would have been completely different. But I don't regret the path I didn't choose. If I had studied something else, I might never have met Saira. I might never have met the friend who quietly helped me believe in myself. I might never have experienced this warm and supportive environment or made the friendships that have become one of the greatest gifts of my university life. Most importantly, I might never have discovered a different version of myself. The quiet girl who once avoided conversations is now the one who starts them. People often say that everything happens for a reason. I didn't always believe that. Now I do. Sometimes life quietly closes one door so that it can open another we never expected to walk through. Choosing English Education was never part of my original plan. Yet it gave me something far more valuable than a degree. It gave me confidence. It gave me unforgettable friendships. And it helped me become the person I am today. Sometimes, the life we never planned becomes the life we were always meant to live…

She was ten years old the first time she understood that wanting something badly enough could make your hands shake. The acceptance letters didn't come like that. They came quietly, one after another, landing in her inbox like small answered prayers she hadn't dared say aloud. Twenty-three universities. Most of them said yes. She would read each one twice, then a third time, her lips moving slightly — making sure something was real. The Ohio State University said yes too. She printed that one. The visa eligibility letter arrived on an unremarkable Tuesday. She held it with both hands, edges creased where her fingers pressed too hard without realizing. For the first time in months, something in her chest unclenched. Then her father looked at her and said, quietly, almost gently: "If only you were a boy. Things would have been much easier." He was afraid. Any father would be — his daughter, alone, in a foreign country with no one beside her. But fear dressed as love still closes doors. She didn't drop the paper. She folded it instead, crease by crease, the way you fold something you don't know what to do with. Went to her room. Sat on the edge of her bed and stared at the wall until it blurred. Then she cried. Quietly. Girls who love their fathers learn early to cry that way — pressing the sound inward, keeping it small, not making it anyone else's problem. Her father had sold his car to fund the applications. Two thousand dollars. Gone — paid into fees and documents and the particular cost of chasing something enormous. She thought about that number for weeks afterward. Not with bitterness. With a grief that had no clean name. He had believed in her enough to sell something he loved. It still wasn't enough. Her teachers had been watching. Her friends had been waiting for the ending they expected. She'd been waiting too — had almost started packing in her mind. She had to unpick all of it. Watch people's faces rearrange into something careful and kind, which is its own particular grief. She sat for DTM instead. But she had spent her sharpest months chasing a different future, and the gaps showed up exactly where she needed them not to. She chose one university in the capital almost without thinking. Fate chose the capital. She packed anyway. She had always been the kind of person who packs anyway. The first morning there, she woke to an unfamiliar ceiling and lay still, listening. The sounds were wrong. The light was wrong. She had left a stable job — and been mocked for it. Left her best friends. Left her mother's kitchen, the specific smell of it. The friendships she'd left behind thinned slowly — message by message, until silence stretched long enough to mean something. She grew thin that year. Financially and otherwise. Some weeks she calculated meals the way she once calculated deadlines — carefully, no room for error. She was lonely the way only people who have always been surrounded can be lonely: acutely, constantly aware of the absence. Then she met her. A girl who didn't fix anything. Just sat with her in the difficulty like staying required no explanation. That kind of friendship doesn't announce itself. It just appears — and then you cannot imagine before it. She enrolled in accounting. Always wanted to. There was something in the order of it, the way numbers answered to logic, that steadied her. She built a routine. Then a life inside the routine. She called her mother more. That was the quiet revolution nobody saw. Distance did what proximity never could — made her reach, made her say what she'd kept folded up for years. Later had finally arrived. She is not the girl who held that letter anymore. That girl thought Ohio State was everything. This one knows it was a door — and when it closed, loudly, in a way she didn't deserve, she was pushed down a narrower path that led somewhere the wider one never would have. She found accounting. A friend who became home. Her mother, again. And slowly, without ceremony — herself. The version that existed before everyone else's expectations reshaped her. Some losses don't stay losses forever. What once felt like an ending slowly became something else—something I didn't have the words for at the time. My dream didn't disappear. It changed shape, and I learned how to live inside the new one.

Every night at exactly 11:47 p.m., Liana became someone else. Not louder. Not braver, not in the ways people could see. But behind the soft glow of her phone screen, in the quiet that wrapped around her room, she became real. By day, Liana was forgettable. She sat in the third row by the window, where sunlight touched her desk but never quite reached her. Teachers described her as “good” — the kind of word that meant quiet, obedient, invisible. At home, it was no different. Her parents spoke in expectations, not conversations. “Study more.” “Your cousin got a higher score.” “You can do better.” Liana nodded, always nodded. Her voice had long learned to stay where it was safest — inside. But at night, she wrote. Under the name Midnight Truths, she told stories people were too afraid to say out loud. Secrets about pressure. About loneliness. About pretending to be someone acceptable just to survive. She never used real names. Never details that could trace back to anyone. Except feelings. Those were always real. And people noticed. What started as a quiet page turned into something bigger. Messages flooded in from strangers. “It feels like you're writing about me.” “How do you understand this so well?” “Thank you for saying what I can't.” Liana read every message in silence, her chest tightening in a way she didn't understand. It felt like being seen… without being exposed. For the first time, her words had a place in the world. Then one night, everything shifted. A new message appeared. “You shouldn't have written that.” Liana stared at the screen, her fingers hovering but unmoving. Another message followed. “I know who this is about.” Her breath caught. That night's post had been different. Too close. Too honest. She had written about a girl whose life was measured in grades and comparisons. About a home that sounded full but felt empty. About love that came only with conditions. She hadn't meant to write about her own life. Not directly. But truth had a way of slipping through. Her heart pounded as more messages came in. “Take it down.” “This isn't just a story, is it?” For the first time, Liana felt something unfamiliar. Fear. Not the quiet, familiar fear of disappointing someone. But the sharp, rising fear of being known. The next day at school, everything felt louder. Glances lingered longer. Whispers seemed heavier. Did they know? Or was it just her? By the time she got home, her hands were shaking. She opened her laptop. The post was still there. Thousands had read it. Hundreds had shared it. Her truth was no longer hers alone. Liana sat there, staring at the blinking cursor. Delete it. Pretend it never happened. Go back to being invisible. Safe. Her fingers moved. But not to delete. Instead, she opened a new post. For a long moment, she couldn't breathe. The silence in her room felt heavier than ever before. Then, slowly, she began to type. “I never meant for anyone to recognize themselves so clearly. I thought if I hid behind a screen, I could tell the truth without consequences.” She paused. Her heart was racing now. “But the truth is… these stories come from somewhere real.” Her hands trembled, but she didn't stop. “They come from me.” She stared at the words. There it was. No hiding. No distance. No second life. Just her. She hit publish before she could change her mind. The silence that followed was unbearable. And then— notifications. Dozens. Then hundreds. But this time, they were different. “Thank you for being honest.” “You're not alone.” “This made me feel less invisible.” Liana blinked, her vision blurring. She wasn't exposed. She was understood. For the first time in her life, being seen didn't feel like something to fear. It felt like something she had been missing all along. Outside, the night stretched on as it always did. Quiet. Endless. But inside, something had shifted. Liana set her phone down and leaned back, her chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. She wasn't two people anymore. She didn't have to be. For the first time, one life was enough.

Introduction Every particle in the universe has its place, and every event has its order. Creation began with the very first "script." Every invention and emotion takes shape as thoughts before they touch paper. We are made of writing—from DNA codes to the lines of destiny. Man is the most intricate masterpiece in the library of the universe. Every breath is a comma, every decision a new sentence. We are born to write, leaving indelible lines for the future. I. The Inequality of the "Starting Line" The book of life doesn't begin on the same page for everyone. Some start at point "100" with ready-made wealth; others start at "0" without even a pen. Is this a predefined "System" or a test of resilience? What matters isn't where the book began, but what is written within. Writing an epic of heroism from zero is more sublime than leaving blank pages from a hundred. We cannot choose our starting line, but what we write on that field is our own will. II. Human Nature: The Unchangeable "Code" Human nature is our internal law. I believe it is unchangeable. We don't learn goodness; we are born with it—the "signature" of the Creator. This world balances light and dark. Even "monsters" are characters in a script designed to test our virtue. The greatest art is to remain an "innate good person," regardless of the world's destruction. If our nature is gold, it remains gold even in mud. A writer must not change their style, no matter how much the world tries to edit them. III. Destruction and the Technological Trap Humanity is both creator and destroyer. In a world of "mega" and "premium," we lose our time and the meaning of life. Technology was meant to lighten burdens, but it has made us busier and distanced us from one another. We complete "tasks" but forget to "live." To reach spiritual maturity, we must slow down. If greed continues to prioritize profit over the soul, the world will end before our spiritual eyes truly open. True progress is returning to the value of human connection. IV. The Philosophy of Distance Society is a system of mutual benefit, but for spiritual survival, distance is essential. Helping others is a debt, but maintaining distance is mental security. Like letters on a page, meaning only emerges when there is a space (a gap) between them. Human relationships are the same: only those with healthy distance remain meaningful. We cannot abandon people, but we must ensure their chaos does not infect our nature. Solitude is the workshop where our script is refined. V. Destiny and Responsibility Being born a writer is a mission. It is about perceiving life with depth. My destiny is to witness injustice, remain human among "monsters," and leave these experiences as a "script" for future generations. We leave behind the "path of life" we have written. Others should read our scripts to learn how to remain good in a difficult world. We are the guardians of meaning. Conclusion Humanity may end before reaching maturity, but this is just a transition to the "next level." If we live worthily and keep our "writing" pure, we fulfill our duty. The Creator is the Supreme Reader waiting for the conclusion of a great work. We are the pen, life is the paper, and every step is a letter. Until the final page, let us compose every line with humanity, patience, and wisdom. Only what we have written—love and truth—will remain forever.

Ten-year-old Diwa sat folded into the quiet corner of her room with her back pressed against the cool, unyielding wall as if she needed something solid to lean her small world against. In her hands, two dolls dangled, one in each palm. She lifted them gently and her lips parted without sound, shaping the words she wished they could speak. Diwa didn't like making noise. Not because she disliked her voice, and not because she was shy. Simply because silence was the safer option. “PUTANGINA! GAGO KA?” Diwa froze. The dolls slipped slightly in her hands and a tight feeling bloomed in her chest. She didn't think. Her body moved before her mind did. She set the dolls down with trembling care and pushed herself up from the floor, leaving the wall that could no longer anchor her. Diwa was scared, but only the words scared her. She wasn't scared to walk towards the sound, nor was she scared to help her mother. She creaked open the bedroom door and saw what she was used to seeing. It didn't happen every day, but it happened enough for Diwa to know her “routine”, the one she never named but had memorized in her bones. She slipped through the doorway and rushed forward. She grabbed the nearest pillow with both hands and darted towards her mother, holding it up like a fragile shield. It wasn't much, but it was what she had learned to do. Diwa wasn't the type to fight back. She didn't have the confidence to raise her voice or her hands, especially not against her own father. But it wasn't only the lack of confidence that held her still, it was belief. Belief that her father wasn't truly like this, that he didn't mean to be. That the man behind the fists and violent words was someone gentle, someone she could someday have a real relationship with, like the kind all her friends seemed to have without trying. And despite everything, she still loved him. Despite the cruel words, the sharp corrections or the way he struck her hands with the edge of a pencil whenever she wrote the wrong answer. She still opened her math books with hope, reading her science chapter carefully hoping to see a once in a blue moon smile, and a soft, “Good job, Diwa.” It never came. Now, Diwa was seventeen. Her relationship with her father hadn't gotten much better but it hadn't gotten worse either. She was applying to college now, a milestone she had imagined would feel freeing. But there was one problem, Diwa didn't want to major in STEM like her father demanded. She sat with that truth for weeks, the question pressing her mind, How do I tell him? Do I even tell him at all? But Diwa had a stubborn mind, one that refused to spend the rest of her life trapped into her father's idea of a “perfect child.” So she told him. “I want to major in English.” The outburst was immediate, exactly what she had imagined would happen. “I didn't raise you like this, anak.” Surprisingly, Diwa remained calm. “Why can't you be more like your cousins?” he snapped. “They do what they're told without being asked.” Diwa steadied herself with one breath, then a second, her frustration slowly easing. “Every child has their own capabilities,” she finally said. “Their own desires. Their own dreams.” She held his gaze. “And if you're so fond of people who aren't your children, why have children at all?” She paused, letting the weight of her words settle. “If you want something you can control so badly, then breed horses. Why have children?” Her father didn't say another word. Diwa turned and left the house, her steps echoing in the hallways she had known for all her life. Weirdly, she felt like she had “won”, even though she now had to face college tuition and finding some sort of shelter on her own. She knew life would get impossibly harder after cutting off her only source of family. Happiness had seemed unreachable with no money, no home, no freedom. But maybe that was the point, to take the first step toward a life that belonged entirely to her. With no hope, she reached out to friends she hadn't spoken to in months, due to being locked in her home under study and expectation. Unexpectedly, they welcome her in. Diwa was surprised at how forgiving people could be. They welcomed her back as though no time had passed, as though distance and silence could be erased with simple kindness. For the first time in years, Diwa also got to visit her mother's grave. Forbidden for so long, she now stood before the moss-covered stone. Strangely, she didn't feel sadness, only relief. Relief for herself and her mother. Both had escaped the “hell” they'd been trapped in. Reconnecting with friends and meeting new people, she discovered life brimming with possibility. Diwa even found love, a guy named Max, who reminded her the world was bigger than fear. She had left the cage, the mold and for the first time, she felt the exhilarating truth, she belonged to no one but herself.

I remember how she looked down without a hint of uncertainty; she just looked there before giving it all up. I can't forget how quiet it was after she had done it. Everyone just stared……. 24 of September 2021. It was a Friday. The day I started to like speeches…. Why? No idea. I was 13, I didn't use to pay attention to any speech before but that exact day I wanted to listen, we can say the speech itself kinda pulled me. Anyways, that exact speech was about suicide, It was the first time I felt that weird feeling… fear?.... sadness?.. No, it was a mix of disgust, surprise, horror. It was something I can't really call. After like ten minutes of that speech at my home I decided to go look out of the window which was a decision I will regret for the rest of my life; I saw people walking here and there until I saw them…. two kids were looking out of their window and playing… then they just fell….I wanted to yell, scream, tell anyone but I couldn't I was just freezing looking down seeing the two kids lying in their own blood. People were rushing there but they couldn't do anything except watch, covering their kids' eyes and rushing to their own homes. Five minutes later the mother of the two kids was freaking out, where her precious kids could disappear, she looked through the window seeing them down there I didn't catch her look clearly, but I can imagine how desperate she looked, how she wanted all of this to be a dream. In the blink of an eye, she went inside and came back standing on the edge of the window. More people started gathering screaming telling her not to do it. But no one dared to go up the stairs and save her, they didn't even try to gather down there holding anything to catch her. All they did was scream, did they really want her to be saved? Or they just wanted to make themselves feel like they did anything good. That doesn't matter, they all got quiet the moment she jumped, no one of them dared to move, to even put a hand to catch her, they just froze and covered her face after she died and left. Was this all a show to them to just watch and leave? Or just 3 minutes advertisement for death. How the people that wasn't even there dared to help victimized the only one who ran upstairs and tried to save her “HER HUSBAND”. It made me realize how selfish people are, how all they care about is how they look, how desperate they want to make their brain think they did enough while they didn't. Now I am 17 and I still can remember clearly the full accident when I look through that exact window at my house, I just remember the exact thing that happened, and I can't forget it. Sometimes I wish I just slept late that night and woke up late that day.

Vivid imagery and descriptions in a story will remain in your mind long after reading. While dialogues make a statement to ignite your understanding, descriptive language makes a story come alive to leave a lasting impression. A story should feature dialogues complementing great narratives to make it an immersive read. How does a story capture the interest of a reader? The first few lines in a story are important elements to attract a reader to pick up your book. Readers are interested in reading a story until the end when the descriptions are clear, concise, and engaging enough to pull them into the story. While poets often leave the interpretation of a poem to the reader, narratives must be imparted effectively for understanding. When I delve into a book, I am drawn by the vivid imagery and descriptions in the narratives. If an author has painted a captivating, relatable picture of what the book represents, it would interest me to read the whole story. Here's an example: 'Witnessing their love for each other, were the blue corals and pebbles that lined the seabeds, while the rays from the sun glistened like pearls on the shimmering waters.' Dialogues are important structure-building elements of a story. Dialogues add depth, and realism, and are a vital component to effective storytelling. However, stories can be told without them if the imagery and descriptions ignite an interest in a reader's five senses. ‘The Road' by Cormac McCarthy is a fine example of a successful fiction novel without dialogue that won the Pulitzer Prize in 2007. McCarthy concentrates on rich descriptions to attract the reader's senses, adding depth and rhythm to the story. He was so good that his book exemplified the power of descriptive language to pique a reader's interest and win the coveted title. A dialogue-free novel conveys a character's thoughts and reflections through internal monologues that will provide motivating insights into the story. Descriptions expressed profoundly empower a story. To engage your readers use aesthetic language and metaphors. ‘The lush, breathtakingly beautiful green landscape starkly contrasted the blue of the turquoise waters.' When describing an emotion, make sure the reader feels the story as it unfolds. In a reader's mind, he should be able to see, hear, taste and smell. This way you will engage a reader's senses to respond to your descriptions as you want them to. It is in the hands of the author to align a reader's thoughts with his. For instance, if you are talking about the sea, describe how deeply connected you are to the beauty and vast expanse of the ocean. How do the lapping waves affect you? Or the tides as they rush ashore? Use metaphors to describe nature's phenomenal wonder. ‘The translucent waters covered her feet in lyrical movements.' Write different descriptions of the scenes so you make the story intricately variable. They work wonders to create a lasting impression in the reader's mind. ‘The vivid imagery and descriptions in her writing capture the beauty and magic of the sea, likening the eyes to the breathtaking turquoise waters and exploring the wonders of the underwater world, including the delicate anemones.' In the above description, by referring to the anemones as delicate, the sea creatures' strength, vulnerability, beauty, and resilience are explained as they survive a rough underwater habitat. Through creative figures of speech, the readers will imagine and discover the magic of enchantment and intrigue in the words. ‘With eyes as breathtaking as the turquoise waters of the sea, she discovers the true magic of the island.' Textures, colours, sounds and smells are sensory details to focus on to build a rich setting for a story. Create an awesome emotional experience and add authenticity to your stories so readers will never forget how your book made them feel. Some of the stories I have read have impacted me emotionally to a great extent, and the words and imagery still evoke the same feelings as when I first read them. Authentic writing involves properly researched and truthful narratives incorporated into the story to create a deeper connection with the characters and themes. Storytelling is the ability to emotionally engage the reader and leave them feeling contented with your book at the end. Not only do vivid imagery and descriptions emphasise enrichment and broaden perspectives, but they also inspire personal growth. As an author, your goal is to impress a reader so that he will return to read more of your stories. Isn't that the dream of an author? To have his book recognised as a compelling read so that he attains credibility and is renowned as a writer. Storytelling is the art of weaving narratives and dialogues masterfully to enliven a reader's mind with a well-crafted story. Cheers to the great storytellers of all time.

My grandma has always been the glue that has stitched our family together. She is that tall tree whose roots are so sturdy they cannot be cut down. She is the reason we want to visit home during the holiday season. She is a reminder that though we no longer have our parents, God had purposefully placed her in our lives for such a time as this. It could be her contagious laughter that changes any atmosphere or her mischievous gaze that lets you know she has been around the world for some time. Her hugs let you know that she is in love with you, and her cooking, though not the best conveys a sense of home. My relationship with Grandma was rocky for a long time. We could not see eye to eye on certain things. I blame it on our similar traits of hot temper and stubbornness. After my grandfather passed away when I graduated high school and turned nineteen, things took an even darker turn. He had left a business with no will, and per tradition, the oldest of the siblings inherited the responsibility. My mother, at the time, could not care less, so the weight fell on my shoulders. The business was in so much debt, which made it difficult to revive for an inexperienced high school graduate. After several attempts to save the business, it continued to drown in debt. I had borrowed some money from several people with a promise of reasonable interest, but I could not pay it back. Needless to say, we had to close the business. The people I owed money to were banging down our throats, leaving my grandmother in shame and embarrassment. A few months after the business had closed, my grandmother and I had a talk in which she requested that I leave home and stay with my mother for a while. I took this demand to heart as a form of abandonment and rejection. I obliged her wish, but I could not erase the brokenness and disappointment in her gaze. Our relationship was bad, but it had taken a crack for the worst. It was difficult to forgive myself. Years had passed, and I had not set foot at home, even for the holidays. I found a job and proceeded to pay off my outstanding debt. I did not dare to return home and face her. The wound of not being able to forgive had caused a deep rift between my family and me. I lived in isolation, away from them, as a way of self-punishment. I would later lose my mom to AIDS, but even that would not repair our relationship. It had been years since my mom's passing, and my siblings and I kept in touch. I would ask about her well-being but end there. One random day, I received a call from Go-go (translation: grandma). She proceeded with the greetings, and I replied with a sceptical tone, "I'm okay." I can't describe to you how surprised I was by our next conversation. “Sneh, why have you not home?” I thought to myself, has old age taken her memory hostage? “Are you still angry with me?” Nope, she still remembers. “Don't you know how much we have missed you at home?” The shock had silenced my tongue. She continued to express her concern for me and her desire to see me before she dies. Bear in mind, this was just the old people's way of quilting you, not a declaration of a terminal illness. While she talked, a stream of tears came pouring down my cheeks. I felt a lump that had suffocated me for years releasing. It was the first time I let go of the guilt I carried for so many years. I realized that I had imprisoned myself in this self-imposed cell, and only I had access to this key. You know that infamous saying that being unforgiving is like someone taking poison and hoping someone should die. I had been poisoning my soul with bitterness and hatred. My grandma opened the door to healing. I decided that the next step would be to return home. Little did I know, that a lockdown would be implemented. Because of the pandemic, I realized that the anger I carried would amount to nothing. All of a sudden, the senile remark about her dying could become true. During the months of lockdown,I fell into a deep state of depression. By grace, the lockdown restrictions had been eased, and I returned to work. After many months, my finances settled, and in August 2022, I went back home. When I arrived, there she was, my old lady, seated outside her muddy kitchen hut. Her body was frail and wrinkled but still beautiful. Her left eye was near blindness. “Who are you?” I blamed her eyes that had given up on her sight. “Again, she asked, "Who are you?" I replied, "Go-go, it is me, Sneh." She could not contain her joy and hastily cupped me in her arms, joking about my weight gain as if we were old, lost friends. It was foolish of me to think that love, coupled with wisdom, could not forgive a multitude of mistakes. After a couple of days at home and we became friends. She would, like all seniors, question my marital status and my capacity to conceive great-grandchildren. I still wonder if I deserve her, but I believe God had placed her in my life intentionally for such a time as this.

CORNERSTONE Years on, he graduated the best and began working at a reputable hospital as Head of General Doctors. Unknown to me, I was admitted into the same hospital he worked. “Ma'am, I'm sorry but you will have to stay till you are okay to leave,” the nurse said to me, diagnosed of Diabetes. “I am the mother of the worst kid on Earth. I am so unfortunate,” these I said soliloquizing. My son who walked at 3 and spoke at 5, made me realized fate had something wonderful in store for me. “I'm damn tired of this whole situation. I am filing a divorce against you,” these my husband said in fury. I had to take up a job as a cleaner to fend myself and my son. My son's dream was to study in one of the prestigious school in the world, ranked high in medicine. He once told his friends but they laughed him to scorn. They had the belief only the wealthiest gets in. “Mom, my friends said I can never get admitted into my dream school,” he cried home from school one day. I encouraged him to get off their myopic views of success and aim for the top. The more his friends and many other persons discouraged him, the more I encouraged but when I do the opposite, there was none to encourage. This was hard for him as I was his strength and at same time, weakness. I considered my financial capacity and the bad though of accepting a loan. A year later, his gap year took off. Unknown to me, he had been ruminating on what to do as the next phase of his life unfolded. He couldn't afford not resuming the college he was going to commit to the next year's fall. “You can't get into Harvard. It is very expensive. It has a very low acceptance rate. There are no college upfront costs programs to aid your application.” These statements made by his friends got him encouraged instead of the opposite. He began researching free programs, discovered the best fit for him, applied and was luckily selected. “Honey, where are you packing your luggage to?” I asked in surprise. “I'm leaving to my friend's place,” he replied. “What will you get yourself doing? Who is this friend? Where exactly does he lives?” I asked thousands of questions he had to answer. “Mom! Mom! Mom! I want to go hustle and make my living on this terrestrial ball an impactful one,” he replied. “Don't weep as I won't change my mind,” he commanded on seeing my teary eyeballs. After his departure, I busted out in tears that could fill a 50 liters bucket. He worked hard, applied. It was enigmatic for him to believe he got accepted into his dream school on full ride scholarship. Then I realized the saying “Diligence with resilience is really the gateway into success” and “Luck is not by chance but preparations meeting opportunities.” There was this practice in the hospital where the H.G.D. as referred to, visits all patients through a particular week in a month. I was lucky to be admitted during this period. On the third day of that week, it was my ward's turn. He came in, asked how I was feeling. I had a second look at him and discovered the tall handsome doctor was Brian. “Dr. Brian Rowland Adrian” I called out his name, in bewilderment. He was surprised to have a patient know his full name. I introduced myself and busted out in tears immediately. “Mum, is this you?” he replied in shock. We hugged for so long and shed tears of joy. He was happy to behold his father's bride after nine years of separation. Coincidentally, there was a male patient who was diagnosed of high blood pressure. As usual, he went in to ask the man's wellbeing. “This patient's face is familiar” he said to himself. “Sir, have we met before?” he asked. “I don't know you,” he replied. He could recognize the old patient's face as his father's but the patient couldn't. “Are you not Mr. Rowland Brown, the father of one Brian Rowland Adrian?” “Yes, I am but who are you? I don't know you before. How did you know the full name of my son? Have you been monitoring my family since I married?” he replied questioning. “I'm the son you left to die. The main reason you divorced my mum”, Brian replied. Immediately, tears flowed down his cheeks as he couldn't stand the shame of being treated by the same person he left untreated. “My son, please forgive me ,” he pleaded agonizingly. Brian left in anger and came show me to Rowland. “Dad, meet mum you left to suffer. I'm the product of only her pain and suffering,” Brian said in tears and rage. He promised not to forgive him. I had to intervene by begging Brian's forgiveness which took weeks for him to consent. A few days later, we both got discharged. Brian moved us to the house he had built. While having a reconciliation dinner together, I tapped Rowland and said, “Indeed, the stone the builders rejected is now the cornerstone,” rotating my eyeballs and neck round the whole beautiful paradise.

I looked out the window and looked at the beautiful blue sky and then thought to myself, “What a wonderful world.” I decided that I would go for a walk to a cafe and come back later. I ordered a cappuccino with extra whipped cream and took it to go. I shortly left and just went to the park and read for a bit and got tired and started my walk back home. As I was walking, I heard screaming. Not the good kind of screaming but the bad. I walked towards the sound of the noise and found three goon men beating up a guy who was bleeding profusely and DEAD. I gasped and I started running. Not the little jog that I do when people chase me for fun, I was full-on sprinting. So many thoughts were running through my mind. I heard men screaming after me but that gave me more morale to run even faster. At some point, I went into an isolated area and hid. One of the goons caught up to me and started searching for me. The goon that came for me with a scar on his lip shot at the sky and I cringed. I thought I was going to die. As if my silent prayers were answered, the other goon came running and said, “I think little princess girl is gone, let's head back to the boss.” I don't know why, but I started crying. I had a death scare and I'm still alive. I cried so much, my eyes turned bloodshot red, my nose was running and probably red too and I was shaking. I decided to run back home. I was traumatized, that was for sure. I couldn't talk or eat properly. I would skip school and not go out of the house. I felt so trapped in my mind and body. I would lock myself in my room with my back to my door and just look into space and do nothing but breathe and think. “Honey, you have to get out of there at some point. You can't stay in your room your whole life. When will you graduate if you plan on dying in there,” my mom said with a sad voice. The day I came back from the incident, I didn't talk to anyone. It's been a week and I hadn't left my room. She left after some time, probably waiting for my response which she didn't get. “Darling, Adrien's here and he wants to talk to you,” Mom said. I was tempted not to open and let them in but I love Adrien. He's my big brother and my best friend and I couldn't just not see him. After a lot of contemplation and thinking, I opened the door. I hadn't stood for a week because I was sitting the whole time. My legs were wobbly but Adrien caught me and hugged me for the first time in a long time. He had moved to California for uni and I hadn't seen him in almost a year. “You smell, bug,” Adrien said and I laughed. I missed him so much. I was out of my room but I still wasn't talking. I hadn't talked in some time and it was weird. Adrien and Mom tried talking to me but I wouldn't speak. I refused every time they tried and they gave up and decided to leave me. My mom tried asking if I would like to talk to a therapist but I gave a pained look. She must have thought that there was something wrong with me. I was watching Friends when Adrien came with popcorn from the kitchen and sat next to me. “Hey,” he said with his perfect smile, and I couldn't help but smile. He looked at me with a look of happiness then pity. I looked away because if I saw that look in his eyes, I would start crying and I didn't want that, for him to see me cry. “You know, if I didn't leave the house that day, I would be fine,” I said, but since I hadn't talked in quite some time, my voice was hoarse. He nodded until he realized that I had just spoken. He called Mom and she came running from wherever she was from and screamed, “What, what happened?!” “Hazel, she just spoke,” Adrien said with the hugest smile I've ever seen. Mom smiled too and it was nice, to cause someone's happiness. “My baby, she's speaking,” Mom said with tear-filled eyes. After what felt like a zillion years of telling them what happened that day, I like a heavy load was lifted off my shoulders and I felt good inside, to not suffer alone. Everything changed when I read the book, “Girl, wash your face” by Rachel Hollis, and was moved when I read the part which said a lot but when summarised said, “Girl, get a hold of your life. Stop medicating, stop hiding out, stop being afraid, stop giving away pieces of yourself, and stop saying you can't do it. Stop the negative self-talk, stop abusing your body, and stop putting it off for tomorrow or Monday, or next year. Get up right now. Rise up from where you've been, scrub away the tears and the pain of yesterday, and start again… Girl, wash your face!” To say I was moved was an understatement, I was touched to the core. I told myself that I would rise up and be better because what I went through and what caused my depression and anxiety doesn't define me but what does is how I move on and become the better me.

On a rainy day, the drivers hooked their horns while waiting for the traffic to flow again. Nearly 45 minutes to 60 mins of cars backed up from the highways, and the drivers began to be impatient with each other until the patrol police officers controlled the traffic, allowing people that get to their destination. Over by the pizzeria, Nicholas' Seeker, I begin my work shift by checking to see if screens need to sort out, restacking the boxes, grabbing sauces from the coolers, and refilling the parmesan and powder sugar shakers. As hours pass through the evening, orders flood the screens within minutes; Simon, the general manager, told us to kick into high gear. When I saw the food items flowing out from the oven, I suffered from a panic freeze and silently imagined daydreaming. Rosa and Lisa saw me freeze in my imagination and woke me up with a musical shake on my body. Immediately I woke up and witnessed food items dropping on the ground like a gumball machine. While they work on new and remake orders, Lisa, Rosa, and I speed us boxing orders as road runners dodge the coyote's traps. After four to five hours of rush orders, the screens started to clear, and everyone took a short break while eating, snacking, or drinking. While some days can run smoothly, there are days where it's out of control and let course take its wheel. That's why I kept pushing and let my mind run free. Next time we have rush orders, I'll bring my lucky pants and hat.