LOST

I grew up surrounded by noise—not the comforting kind, but the kind that made you want to disappear into yourself. Arguments behind closed doors. Shouts that started at dinner and ended in silence that lasted for days. And yet, no one ever spoke of it afterward—as if pretending was the cure. At school, I wasn’t the loud kid or the bright one. I wasn’t the troublemaker. I was just there—a shadow in the back of the classroom, always trying to become invisible. Teachers rarely called on me, classmates rarely remembered my name, and that suited me fine. Because whenever someone noticed me, it never led to anything good. The only time I truly looked at myself was in the mirror. And even then, I didn’t recognize the boy staring back. There was no light in his eyes—only questions. Why don’t they love me? What’s so wrong with me? Is this all there is? I remember once hearing, “Children who aren’t embraced by the village will burn it down to feel its warmth.” But I didn’t want to burn anything down—I just wanted to feel something: a hand on my shoulder, a “Well done,” even a gentle “How are you, really?” Under my mattress lived a tattered notebook. Page after page of scribbled thoughts, imaginary conversations, and dreams that never saw the light of day. In those pages, I wasn’t silent. I wasn’t awkward. I wasn’t broken. I was simply—me. One rainy Tuesday, everything changed. She arrived in my life like a ray of sunlight through gray clouds. Her name was Amina. She sat beside me in English class and slipped me a folded note: I see you. You’re more than the quiet boy in the corner. My heart pounded so loudly I was sure the whole room heard it. No one had ever said anything like that to me. Weeks passed, and each day she offered me a bit more kindness: a smile in the hallway, a thumbs-up on my essays, a shared umbrella. Slowly, I learned her laugh—light, easy, genuine. And for the first time, I felt seen. Amina believed in me in ways my father never could. She listened when I spoke of stories I wanted to write, never mocking or dismissing. She sat with me under the jacaranda tree at lunch, coaxing my walls down with her warmth. For the first time, I discovered my own voice—not the echo of disappointment, but a whisper of hope. I fell in love with her steadily, quietly, as one learns a song by heart. It wasn’t fireworks or grand confessions. It was a glance that lingered, a shared joke, her hand brushing mine as we reached for the same book. In her presence, I felt a spark I had never known: the possibility that I mattered. But hope is delicate. In the hush of my bedroom each night, I wrote of Amina’s smile and my longing to be worthy of it. I dared to dream of a life where love wasn’t an alien concept but a simple truth: that I could be loved, too. That chapter of my life didn’t erase the past. My father’s stern voice still echoed in my mind, my mother’s distant silence still lingered at home. But with Amina’s belief pushing me forward, I learned to look beyond the mirror’s lie. I started to see in my own reflection someone worth believing in. And so, with a heart both tender and brave, I stepped into possibility—ready to discover who I might become when someone finally chose to see me. And so, with a heart both tender and brave, I stepped into possibility—ready to discover who I might become when someone finally chose to see me. But stepping into something new doesn’t mean you leave the old behind. I still walked through the same front door every evening. Still ate at the same dinner table where silence was louder than conversation. Still watched my father read the newspaper with his jaw clenched, as if the world had personally offended him. I had changed. But the world around me hadn’t. That contrast was sharp. It made everything harder. The moments with Amina became a breath I held onto all day — and everything else felt like drowning. At night, I would lie in bed and replay our conversations like prayers. Her laugh, that spark in her eye when she spoke about the future, her quiet way of noticing me — really noticing me. She asked me questions no one else did. “What makes you happy?” “When did you stop believing in yourself?” I didn’t always know how to answer, but she waited. She made space for my silence. And slowly, I started filling it. I found myself looking forward to mornings, just to see her across the school yard. Even if we didn’t speak that day, just knowing she was there made me feel less invisible. That feeling — being seen — was addictive. Not in the way people crave attention, but in the way a starving person craves bread. I’d never realized how hungry I was for connection. For kindness. For someone to believe there was something in me worth loving. But part of me didn’t trust it. A voice deep inside kept whispering: “She’ll leave too.” “She’ll see how broken you really are.” “She’ll choose someone better.” That voice sounded a lot like my father. Still, I kept moving toward her — scared, unsure, but drawn in. And in that confusing season of almost-healing, I discovered something else: books. It started with a novel Amina lent me — a story about a boy who didn’t fit in, who lived more in his head than in the world. I devoured it in two days. Then another. And another. Every story felt like a window — a glimpse into people who felt things like I did. And the more I read, the more I started to write — not full pages yet, just thoughts. Scraps of dreams. Lines of poetry scrawled on the margins of homework. A single sentence on the back of a receipt that simply said, “I wish I knew what it felt like to be enough.” It wasn’t much. But it was something. And in a life where I often felt like nothing, “something” was sacred. The more I read, the more I understood that writing wasn’t just a way to escape — it was a way to remember. To process. To reclaim the parts of me I had hidden just to survive. But still, I didn’t call myself a writer. That word felt too bold. Too big. Like something meant for people with real talent and confidence. Not for boys like me. Yet somehow, Amina knew. One day, after school, she turned to me and said: “You should write a book one day. I’d read it.” I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. But I remember how my chest tightened — like her words had cracked something open in me. That night, I stared at the blank page for a long time. Pen in hand. Breath shaky. And for the first time, I didn’t write for a grade, or to impress anyone, or to be good at it. I wrote because I wanted to feel less alone. Because I wanted to tell the truth — even if no one else ever read it. Even if it hurt. Even if it exposed everything I had spent years trying to hide. I wish I could say it got easier after that. That the words flowed and the world softened and I finally felt whole. But that’s not how healing works. Sometimes it moves forward, and sometimes it loops back. Sometimes hope is loud, and sometimes it’s barely a whisper. But in those early days — with Amina’s voice echoing in my memory and the pages slowly filling with parts of me I was just starting to understand — I felt something close to peace. Maybe not freedom yet. Maybe not joy. But peace. And when your life has been full of noise and fear, even peace feels like a miracle. For the first time in my life, I started to feel a strange, quiet stillness—like maybe I was finally stepping into something close to peace. The noise in my head softened, and the ache in my chest began to ease. I was learning to breathe without feeling like I was drowning. But peace, I would soon learn, can be deceptive. It doesn’t always announce when it’s borrowed time. Sometimes, it only settles long enough to make you believe you’ve escaped the storm—right before the next wave pulls you under.