Chapter 3: Him
1571 Words
Riyan had never imagined his life would become a collection of borrowed things.
Borrowed rooms. Borrowed time. Borrowed hope.
He came from a small town where the roads ended abruptly and everyone knew everyone else’s failures before they became stories. A place where ambition was admired from a distance but rarely forgiven when it dared to leave.
At twenty-eight, he arrived in the city with a single backpack, an engineering degree folded carefully inside a plastic sleeve, and the quiet confidence of a man who believed effort alone could bend fate.
He was wrong.
His cousin’s house smelled of reheated food and resignation. The couch he slept on sagged in the middle, as if it too had given up expecting better days. Every morning, Riyan woke before dawn, ironed his one good shirt, and stepped into the city with his CV clutched like a prayer.
Receptionists smiled politely.
Managers nodded without listening.
Emails went unanswered.
Weeks became months.
Engineering positions demanded experience he wasn’t given the chance to earn. Entry-level roles somehow required five years of work history. By the time rejection became routine, hope had thinned into something fragile and dangerous.
At night, he walked home to save bus fare, the city transforming under darkness into something sharper, less forgiving.
That was the night everything shifted.
---
The alley was loud with cruelty.
Riyan heard the shouts first—drunk laughter, mocking taunts—then the sound of a body hitting concrete. He slowed, instinct warring with fear.
Three young men surrounded an old man, pushing him, rifling through his pockets.
“Please,” the old man rasped. “Take it and go.”
Riyan’s heart hammered.
He could have walked away.
Instead, he stepped forward.
“Enough.”
The word surprised even him.
The attackers turned, sneering at his thin frame, his hesitation.
“Mind your business,” one said.
Riyan didn’t know where the courage came from—only that something ancient rose in his chest.
He didn’t fight well.
But he fought hard.
By the time they fled, cursing and limping, Riyan’s knuckles burned and his breath came in ragged gasps.
The old man sat against the wall, trembling.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
Under the flickering streetlight, Riyan noticed the scar at the back of the man’s head—a thick, pale line, old and permanent.
“I’m Dan,” the man said after a moment. “I drive the seventeen.”
Riyan blinked. “The bus?”
Dan smiled weakly. “For twenty-six years.”
---
Friendship came easily after that.
Dan was a storyteller, his voice rich with the weight of years behind the wheel. He spoke of passengers born, married, buried along the same routes. Of days when the city felt kinder. Of regrets that lingered like exhaust fumes.
Riyan listened.
Sometimes Dan bought him tea. Sometimes Riyan helped with errands. The bus depot became a place of familiarity, of purpose.
On the morning everything aligned strangely, Dan looked exhausted.
“My daughter, Zee,” he said, fingers tightening around his mug. “She’s going in for surgery today.”
Riyan nodded, concern settling in.
“I can’t miss the shift,” Dan continued, voice low. “But I don’t trust just anyone with my bus.”
He looked at Riyan.
“You want to drive?”
Riyan froze.
“I’m not licensed for public—”
Dan waved him off. “You know the route. I’ll handle the paperwork. Just for today.”
Riyan hesitated.
Then he agreed.
---
That was how he found the bag.
Left behind on the seat, sketchbook peeking out like it wanted to be seen.
He flipped through it carefully, respectful—until the drawing stopped him cold.
A man.
No eyes.
Something about it struck deep, unsettling and familiar. When he asked Dan about the owner, the conductor mentioned a name casually.
“Zulei.”
The name stayed.
After his shift, Riyan searched.
The park was crowded, colorful, chaotic. He asked vendors. Parents pointed. Children ran past.
“There,” someone said. “The girl laughing.”
And then he saw her.
Zulei.
Light-skinned brown, laughter alive in her eyes, presence undeniable.
Riyan forgot how to breathe.
She felt unreal—like someone imagined too vividly.
He watched, waiting for the right moment, rehearsing explanations that dissolved under her gaze.
When he finally spoke her name, the world turned on him.
Suspicion.
Fear.
Anger.
He saw the shift before it exploded.
When hands reached for him, survival took over.
He dropped the bag.
Ran.
Mounted the bike.
As he fled, one thought burned louder than fear:
---
Night found Riyan tired in a way sleep could not fix.
By the time he reached his cousin’s place, his body ached and his mind refused to slow down. Laughter spilled from inside the house before he even opened the door—high-pitched, careless, unfamiliar.
The living room was crowded.
Two girls sat on the arm of the couch, drinks in hand, legs crossed, music playing louder than necessary. His cousin lounged comfortably between them, already halfway into a story that made all three laugh.
“Riyan!” his cousin called out. “You’re back early.”
Riyan forced a nod. “Long day.”
One of the girls looked him over openly. “Your cousin never told us you’re handsome.”
Riyan gave a polite smile that did not reach his eyes.
He slipped past them, uninterested in conversation, uninterested in performance. The noise felt intrusive, almost offensive after the day he had lived.
In his small room, he shut the door gently and leaned against it, exhaling.
His phone buzzed.
He looked down.
Her name.
The ex.
A familiar tightening settled in his chest—not longing, not anger, just exhaustion. She had called three times in the past week. Always late. Always nostalgic.
He let it ring.
The screen went dark.
Riyan dropped onto the bed fully clothed, staring at the ceiling. The laughter outside blurred into distant static. His thoughts circled, restless.
Then—
Her face.
Zulei.
Not as she stood frozen in fear.
But as she laughed in the park, sunlight brushing her skin, eyes alive with something unguarded and rare.
The image came uninvited, sharp and vivid.
He closed his eyes.
Still there.
A strange calm settled over him, threaded with something dangerous.
Riyan turned onto his side, heart beating steadily now, deliberately.
He did not know her story.
But somehow—
She had already entered his.
And sleep finally came.
He hadn’t imagined her.
And next time, he would do it right.
---
---
The music was too loud for a children’s party.
Bright balloons bobbed against the ceiling, their strings tangled like unfinished thoughts. Laughter spilled everywhere—shrill, careless, unchecked. Paper plates littered the tables, smeared with cake frosting and fingerprints.
Riyan stood near the edge of the room, half-hidden behind a plastic chair.
He was younger then. Much younger.
His spectacles were too big for his face, thick lenses slipping down his nose no matter how often he pushed them back up. He wore a neatly tucked shirt his aunt had insisted on ironing twice, and shoes that pinched his toes.
Across the room, the birthday girl glowed.
She wore a pink dress with glitter that caught the light every time she moved. The crown on her head tilted slightly to the side, as though even it knew she was important today.
She laughed loudly, confidently—especially around him.
The other boy.
He was taller, louder, already comfortable in his skin. The birthday girl hovered near him, touching his arm, pulling him toward the cake table, whispering things that made him grin.
Riyan watched quietly.
Then it happened.
One of the birthday girl’s friends—bold, careless—leaned in suddenly and kissed the boy on the cheek.
It was quick.
But it was enough.
The room went still in a way only children noticed.
The birthday girl froze.
Her smile cracked, then vanished completely. She turned and ran, pushing past balloons and laughter, her crown slipping off as she disappeared behind the couch.
No one followed.
Except Riyan.
He hesitated only a second before moving.
He found her crouched near the back door, knees pulled to her chest, shoulders shaking. She didn’t look up when he approached. Didn’t wipe her tears. Didn’t want to be seen.
Riyan stood there awkwardly, fingers curling around the small paper bag he had been holding all along.
Inside were chocolates.
He cleared his throat softly.
No response.
He knelt instead, placing the bag gently on the floor beside her.
“I—I brought these,” he said quietly. “For you.”
She didn’t look up.
Didn’t say thank you.
Didn’t say anything at all.
For a moment, he thought about leaving.
Instead, he pushed the chocolates a little closer to her, then stood up.
That was when a man’s voice called out from the front of the house.
“Riyan! Time to go!”
Another boy answered too—the same boy from before.
Riyan glanced once more at the girl.
Still crying.
Still not looking up.
He adjusted his spectacles, turned, and walked away.
As he stepped outside toward the waiting car, he didn’t know why his chest felt heavy.
He only knew that sometimes, kindness didn’t need an audience.
And sometimes, it didn’t need acknowledgment either.
- Writer
