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

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

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

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

Frank Alvarez had worked nights in the Halloran Building for eleven years, since before it was the Halloran Building, back when the name on the lobby wall was still Petrakis Group. Nobody remembered that name now except him. He came in at eleven, when the last stragglers were peeling out of the parking garage, and he left at seven, when the coffee machine in the lobby started grinding its first pot. In between, he saw the building the way nobody else did; the version that existed when nobody was performing for anybody. The executive on nine who cried at her desk on Thursdays, always Thursdays, always for exactly as long as it took him to do the floor. The intern who ate a cold sandwich alone in the stairwell because the break room felt worse. The security guard, Desmond, who read paperbacks with the covers torn off so nobody would ask him about them. Frank didn't pry. Prying wasn't his job. But he left things. He fixed a lamp. He wiped down a keyboard that had coffee dried into the keys. Small repairs nobody asked for and mostly nobody noticed. Mostly. There was a woman on the fourteenth floor, Maya, said the nameplate, who'd started staying past midnight. Untouched coffee. A wedding ring she took off and put back on, off and on, like she was rehearsing a decision. He left her a flower once, from the bodega on the corner, in the empty vase she kept on her desk for no reason he could see. She never mentioned it. He didn't know if she'd noticed or thrown it out with the rest of the trash. He left a note another night—Don't forget to eat. The job will still be here tomorrow—and the next week HR sent an all-staff email about unauthorized items left on desks, and for a month he didn't leave anything on fourteen at all. Some things you did weren't received the way you meant them. He'd learned that a long time ago and it hadn't gotten easier to remember. The contract ended in March. Building was changing management, changing cleaning companies, changing everything down to the soap in the dispensers. Frank's last night was a Tuesday. Nobody announced it. Nobody was supposed to know. He was almost through with the ninth floor when he found the ninth-floor conference room open, lights on, a cake on the table that said, in shaky icing, THANK YOU FRANK with his name slightly too big for the space they'd left for it. Desmond was there. So was the woman who cried on Thursdays, looking startled to be somewhere with her makeup still on. A few others he half-recognized, faces attached to desks, not to conversations. It was Desmond who'd organized it, it turned out. He'd asked the new building manager for Frank's schedule, put a sign-up sheet in the break room that maybe fifteen people saw. It wasn't a production. Half the building didn't know it was happening. The cake was from the grocery store two blocks down, not even a real bakery, and someone had clearly written the message in a hurry. "I heard you're the one who fixed my chair," the crying woman said. "The wheel that used to stick." Frank hadn't touched her chair. That had been someone from the day crew, probably, or maybe it had just worn in over time. He didn't correct her. It didn't seem worth it, and some part of him understood that she needed the story more than she needed the fact. Desmond clapped him on the shoulder. "You always thought you were cleaning this building," he said, like he'd practiced it. "But..." "I was cleaning the building, Des," Frank said. "That was the job." Nobody laughed, exactly, but something in the room loosened, like he'd given them permission not to make it into more than it was. Maya wasn't there. He noticed that, the way he noticed everything. Maybe she had a meeting. Maybe she'd never known there was anything to come to. He never found out if she'd kept the flower or thrown it away, and some part of him decided he preferred not knowing. A mystery was better company than a disappointment. He ate a piece of cake standing up, the way he'd eaten most things in this building for eleven years. Then he finished the floor, because the floor didn't know it was his last night either, and it deserved to be done right regardless. At seven, he walked out past the coffee machine just starting to grind, into a sunrise he usually missed by an hour. He didn't feel discovered, exactly. He felt like a man who'd been part of a room nobody quite remembered accurately, which was, he thought, probably the truth of most rooms. He didn't have another shift to start. He stood there a minute, working out what that was supposed to feel like.

From Learner to Leader: Shreekant Patil Featured as MEPSC's Master Trainer Success Story Honored to be featured by the Management & Entrepreneurship and Professional Skills Council (MEPSC) in their latest feature on building India's ladder of leadership! Becoming a certified Master Trainer (NSQF Level 6) allows me to scale my impact—moving from guiding students and entrepreneurs to now training and mentoring the next generation of trainers nationwide. A big thank you to MEPSC for this recognition. Let's keep building a self-sustaining skilling ecosystem for India! 🇮🇳 Read More: - https://www.linkedin.com/pulse/from-learner-leader-how-mepsc-builds-its-own-ladder-leadership-d2jzc/

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…

Though it doesn't always feel like it, today is a fresh day. The world might feel weighty at times. People quarrel, the news is noisy, and issues appear to go on forever. It is simple to feel insignificant and helpless in situations like these, as if our actions are meaningless. However, I've discovered something straightforward and significant: even the little deeds can have significance. I saw an old man straining to cross the street with his goods one morning. Without slowing down, cars raced past him. I paused for a second. I had my own plans and was rather occupied. However, an inside voice told me to "stop." So I did. I approached him, said hello, and assisted him in carrying his baggage. It wasn't a major issue. It was just a few minutes. However, his grin and his humble "thank you" stuck with me. My day was altered by that event. It served as a reminder that kindness can be strong without being ostentatious. We frequently believe that in order to make a difference, we must address significant issues, yet sometimes all it takes is observing someone, paying attention, or providing a modest amount of assistance. These little deeds are like light in a world that seems divided and overpowering. They are important, but they don't solve every problem. They bring us together. They serve as a reminder that we are not alone. I've made an effort to pay more attention to my surroundings ever since. I make an effort to look at individuals rather than just walk past them. And every time I make the decision to be kind, even in a tiny way, I experience an internal victory. Perhaps we can't alter the entire globe at once. However, we can make a quick alteration. And sometimes that's sufficient.

Here I am. Another way to express myself and share my writing. Another app my ADHD will quickly allow me to forget and eventually feel horrible about when thrown in my pile of “crap I started wanting to be known OR a successful, writer” and was set on fire by the friction of unopened emails and notifications. I'm wondering if I'll ever catch up with life. I started out as a 14 year old adult. I had my pregnancy at the same time i was being prescribed the addiction. When that got used against me because I wanted to go into treatment and get better… the sky fell. Not all at once. I'll give it to you in chapters. If I remember to do that. I still have to find the money and a ride to get cat litter before I suffocate. My fuel pump went out and I'm procrastinating finishing the repairs since I couldn't afford car insurance therefore lost my license again. I actually had it for 3 months this time! Here's my point… I was sentenced to poverty by a judge. He likely wasn't aware of that finality, but if you ask me that's EXACTLY the problem. Or at least the snake head. Nobody knows what REALLY happens when certain labels or words get added to our lives. Nobody believes they can be untrue or inaccurate. Nobody wants to think we live in a world without civil rights and protections. Well.. I've had my custody taken without knowing I was losing it. I've been thrown on the streets with a minutes notice and no eviction process or time required notices. Twice! I've had employers keep my pay for themselves. I've had cops put me in a pose and use personal cells to take pictures of me in handcuffs to laugh at me. I've been bitten by a dog and refused an ambulance by the same sheriff who never wrote a report up and inevitably prevented my claim. I've been told what I could own and made to rehome pets immediately for a changed policy. But then I got housed after homeless years on the waiting list. Then I got a laptop. And I've decided… I'm telling! If I can get my shit together enough to do it.

2020. Covid spread around the world. I returned from Tashkent. Ancient Bukhara. What a beautiful city - but now a cage. Living with grandma. She is alone. It could be cruel to leave her in such a situation alone. But I missed my mother; her voice was weird last time. I feel worried, should visit her. But how? We are locked in our own homes. *** I came, ma! Father did not allow me to enter the home. Why? Strange. I insist. Mother came, did not go out of the home, just said at the door, “Bye", without greeting. She is ill. I swear she is ill, but she did not admit it. Father says, " She is just tired, but I am sure she is ill. 100%. I am sure. Father says, “Go, your grandma alone, just go”. *** The taxi is waiting. I went, couldn't get into the car, and I looked back. Dad says, “Go, bye”. I looked back, looked at ma, she is pale, looks exhausted. I looked at the car, looked back at ma, could not get into the car, ran back, hugged her, she hugged back. I felt like she waited for this hug so long, father got angry: “Why did u hug?” shouted. I felt comfort. If that is the case, let's die together! *** When my mother got pregnant with me, she was not in good health, everyone was against my birth, and she had doubts too, but could not abort, took a risk, and now we are alive in 2020 with Covid. My whole body, each inch, is aching. I feel like I am dying today. 2026. We are both alive. We survived, like before when she gave birth in 2001, like in Covid 2020 after a little hug, and now in 2026. I am relieved we are even. We went through all these together, like in the past, like in Covid, like now.

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

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.

In the small, rain-kissed town of Bellhollow -- where thunder spoke louder than people did, and time always seemed to walk instead of run -- there lived a boy named Elias who collected sounds. Not music. Not voices. Not even the usual sort of noises people notice. Elias collected moments: the pop of a soap bubble bursting, the hush of snow settling on a roof, the squeak of old library drawers. He caught them in glass jars -- clear, delicate ones -- and stored them in rows along his bedroom walls like stars in a private galaxy. To most, the jars looked empty. But Elias could hear what others couldn't. With a careful twist of a cork, he could summon the clink of a marble dropped in a tin can, or the fading echo of a bicycle bell turning the corner. "Odd little thing," the townsfolk would murmur, though never unkindly. Bellhollow was full of quiet people and quiet lives, and Elias's habit of chasing invisible sounds down alleyways and under staircases was just another oddity folded into the town's rhythm. He was content in his orbit -- until the boy arrived. It was on a fog-laced morning when the clouds sat heavy, as if listening. Elias had just captured the sound of dew slipping off a leaf when he saw him -- a boy no older than himself, standing by the old clock tower in a soaked sweater and bare feet. His name was Cael. He didn't speak. Not a word, not even a whisper. But his eyes said everything: storm-gray, curious, and ancient in a way that didn't make sense. Elias tried asking where he was from, what he needed, if he was lost -- but Cael only tilted his head, like he was listening to the questions rather than trying to answer them. So Elias brought him home. They didn't need to speak to understand each other. In Elias's room, Cael traced the shelves of jars like reading Braille. Elias uncorked one carefully, and the sound of a paper boat being folded whispered into the air. Cael smiled -- not with his mouth, but with the corners of his soul. Elias tried again. A cork popped. The low thump of a skipping stone across the lake echoed softly. Cael touched the jar, then pointed at Elias's chest. And for the first time, Elias understood: Cael wasn't just listening. He was searching. Over the next few days, they explored Bellhollow together -- collecting. They gathered sound like treasure hunters gather clues. The ping of wind chimes, the thud of a closed book, the slow whirr of a moth's wings. Cael followed Elias everywhere, his silence filled with wonder. But Elias noticed something strange. Every time Cael held a new jar, he'd shake it gently, listen, and then sigh. It was never quite right. Not yet. One evening, as dusk dyed the sky lavender and gold, Elias asked the question out loud: “What are you trying to hear?” Cael didn't answer. But he reached into his coat and pulled out a single jar. It was glowing. Elias stared as Cael handed it to him. Inside, there was a sound Elias didn't recognize -- soft and warm, like dawn stretched into a melody. It was… kind. It felt like fingers threading through tall grass, or the pause before someone says, I'm proud of you. He uncorked it. The sound of his laugh floated out -- not the laugh he used around others, but the unguarded one that escaped when he was truly, fully himself. It made his eyes sting, though he didn't understand why. “How did you -- ?” he began, but Cael was already nodding. That was the sound he had been looking for. The next morning, Cael was gone. No footprints. No jar. Only the faint scent of petrichor and the tiniest hum in the air, like a tuning fork settling into silence. But something had changed. Elias stepped outside, and Bellhollow felt different. Not louder -- but more alive. A woman on her porch was humming an old lullaby. A boy tossed a pebble into a drain just to hear the plunk. The postman whistled. The town had begun to listen. And Elias? He kept collecting -- but now he also shared. He left jars on windowsills, in school desks, on park benches. Sounds of laughter, of hope, of things people had forgotten how to hear. And sometimes, when the wind was right, people swore they heard a voice among the echoes, saying not a word, but a feeling. Thank you.

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

I never dreamed of much. All I wanted was a place where I could work honestly, where my silence was respected, and my effort seen—without needing to shout. I entered the factory with a quiet but sincere hope. I believed that calmness was a virtue and that discipline would be appreciated. But I was about to enter a world that didn't reflect who I was. I moved like a light shadow between machines. I completed my tasks in silence. I smiled sometimes and often swallowed my breath—but never showed a thing. They thought I was quiet, but inside, I was singing… Singing to myself, so I wouldn't break. Every flower that isn't watered by words sings from thirst. I wasn't like the others. I read, noticed the smallest details, loved order, adored learning, and searched for meaning amid the factory's mechanical noise. But this place didn't read. It didn't open a book, hear a song, or ask "Why?" Everything was mechanical: Movements, time, responses—even the smiles. Life was performed here, not lived. And whenever I reached toward the light, A curtain would quietly be drawn. It's as if the world fears those who see deeply. As if knowledge threatens those who've learned to walk in straight lines. Weeks passed in silent repetition. I learned to roam as someone skilled in vanishing. I lowered my gaze, shortened my steps, and hid my thoughts. Not because I had stopped dreaming, but because I could no longer bear seeing dreams crushed beneath collective silence. During breaks, I returned to a tiny notebook. I would write a phrase, record a feeling, borrow a line that sounded like me. One day I wrote: "When no one sees you… learn to see yourself." Then I closed the notebook like I'd signed a secret confession. The factory produced boxes, But I was producing questions. They counted time in minutes, I counted it by the weight it left in my soul. Yes, one day—I cried. Not out of weakness, but out of transformation. And for the first time, I heard my own voice. I knew I'd never return to who I had been. I was not a machine. I was the girl who tried to read… In a place that doesn't.