It's been a long time since I've truly been myself.
I lay back on my bed, staring at the ceiling, lost in the weight of memories. When was the last time I felt alive? I couldn't remember. My eyes drifted toward the corner of the shelf, where a dusty frame held a photo of my childhood. I reached out, picked it up, and smiled faintly.
That was it.
Back then, I did what I wanted. I spoke freely, laughed loudly, and moved through the world with curiosity and boldness. I was clever too—always a step ahead, always asking questions.
But it didn't last.
Somewhere along the line, my parents clipped my wings. I wasn't allowed to crack jokes at relatives' houses, not that I visited them often. I couldn't play outside freely. They said I'd get hurt. As if no one else in the world ever got hurt. And if I ever asked to go play, they'd throw a slip test my way—"Submit this first, then you can go."
So I did. Every time. I finished the tests as quickly as I could. But it never mattered. By the time I was done, the games had already started, and I couldn't just walk into the middle of them. I was always late. Always left out.
Eventually, after enough pleading, they gave me one hour of playtime—with conditions.
1. Only after 5 p.m., once the sun had started to set.
2. Back home before dark—before 6 p.m.
3. And absolutely no injuries. Not even by mistake.
Those rules weren't fair. Most of my friends played either before 4 p.m. or after 6. I was stuck in between—an hour no one else shared. Sometimes, by luck, I got to play.
But then, one day, I got hurt. A minor injury on my head during a game. That was the end of it.
My parents created a scene with the neighbors. Accused them, blamed them, scolded them. From that day forward, no one played with me again. I became a burden to everyone, a symbol of trouble.
At school, the teasing started. Then came the beatings. I still remember the day they surrounded me—classmates I barely knew, fists raised, anger in their eyes. I took it all. The bruises didn't show, not on the outside. They were deeper than that.
And I didn't tell anyone. Not even my parents. Maybe… maybe I thought I deserved it.
After that, I stopped going out.
The isolation grew. I began slipping into something I didn't understand back then—something hollow, quiet, and heavy. Depression.
Parties became unbearable. I didn't talk, didn't play, didn't join the games. I just stood at the edge of things, watching life happen from behind a glass wall. My parents always insisted on politeness. Never joke with them. Never tell them they were wrong.
Bit by bit, I lost touch with the emotions that once made me human—joy, love, friendship. And in their place grew fear, anxiety, guilt. The worst part? They never let me do anything. And now… now they say I'm lazy. That I'm useless. That I should go out, talk to people, play again.
How can they expect me to change overnight?
I want to change. I do. But how?
Tears rolled down my cheeks.
I wiped them away with the back of my hand and tried to smile. A small one. A fragile one.
Then a thought came to me—warm and clear.
God always gives a second chance.
And in my life… that second chance is Chaitanya.
He never looked at me the way others did. He didn't see a broken boy or a failure. He saw me. He encouraged me. He trusted me. And without even realizing it, he brought me back to who I once was.
He's my positive energy.
And as I smiled—really smiled—for the first time in what felt like years, I knew…
I was ready.