The room was too small for a man who thought too much.
A narrow bed, a cheap wooden desk, books stacked without order, and a single window overlooking a city that never cared whether he existed or not. Outside, the noise of cars mixed with distant voices. Inside, there was silence… except for the soft sound of a cat jumping onto the desk.
Minto Sareth.
The only living creature who knew he existed.
"I don't even know why I named you that," he muttered, his rough voice breaking the quiet. "You didn't choose it… just like I didn't choose this life."
Minto stared at him with indifferent eyes, then sat on top of his translation books as if mocking them.
He was a university student at the Faculty of Languages, majoring in English translation. A poor young man from the countryside who had come to the big city believing foolishly that dreams grow faster there.
He was tall, almost 1.90 meters, with black hair, black eyes, and an ordinary face that people forgot easily. Nothing about him screamed special. Nothing except his mind.
That was the problem.
Are you looking for your essence?
Your world?
Your interests?
The reason for your existence in this life?
Most people don't ask these questions.
Ninety-nine percent of people live easily. They wake up, eat, laugh, complain a little, dream a little less, and sleep peacefully. They live in luxury—not of money, but of ignorance. No heavy past. No frightening future. No exhausting thoughts.
But the remaining one percent…
They suffer.
They think too much.
Will I become what I want to be?
Am I even capable of choosing my life?
What is my dream?
What is my favorite specialty?
What is my hobby?
Why am I here?
He laughed softly. A tired laugh.
"I study translation," he said to the cat, "yet I can't translate my own existence."
He could translate texts, cultures, meanings between languages—but not the distance between who he was and who he wanted to be. He could explain words like identity and purpose in perfect English, yet he didn't know what they meant in his own life.
Poor.
From the countryside.
Living in a city that moves too fast for people who hesitate.
"What is my existence… and my non-existence?" he whispered.
Minto flicked his tail.
"Yeah," he sighed. "I know. Even that question sounds stupid."
No one knew him. No one waited for him. No one would notice if he disappeared tomorrow—except a cat who only stayed because the food bowl was full.
And yet…
Somewhere inside him, something refused to die.
A quiet belief.
A stubborn thought.
That maybe these questions were not a curse.
Maybe they were jewels.
Hidden, painful, heavy jewels—waiting to be discovered.
He leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling.
"This is my game," he said.
"A beautiful one… or a cruel one. I still don't know."
Minto closed his eyes.
And the city outside kept moving, unaware that a poor university student was quietly questioning the meaning of existence—one thought at a time.