Adolescence faded away before I even noticed. My voice deepened. My back straightened. My playful runs across summer fields turned into steady walks toward something else, even if I didn't know what that was.
When you're young, the world seems endless. As I grew older, I began to see its limits. Bills. Work. Family responsibilities. Whispers about responsibility.
Yet, even at that age, I still dreamed.
I often thought about leaving the small hill. I imagined myself going to the city, where the streets sparkled with possibility. I'd heard rumors from boys whose cousins had gone there—that jobs were abundant, that the lights never went out, and that dreams weren't easily crushed by silence.
At night, when the house settled into darkness, I would slip outside and sit on the slope, gazing at the distant lights of neighboring towns. To me, they were fallen stars, waiting to be reached.
I whispered promises to myself.
"I'll go there. I'll change everything."
But dreams face obstacles. My parents, as firm as mountains, held me back.
"Work here," my mother said. "Help your father."
My father, though kinder in tone, added to the pressure: "The world is harsher than you think. It's better to stick with what you know than to be overwhelmed by the unknown."
I nodded. I always nodded. But inside, I felt restless.
It wasn't rebellion, not in a loud way. It was a quiet rebellion. Those secret moments when I imagined maps in my head, wrote letters I never intended to send, and pictured myself walking streets I had never explored.
Around that time, I took on small jobs—hauling, fixing, tending fields. My body became stronger; the boy who laughed easily in summer was starting to evolve. The money I made was hardly my own, but the sense of control, however delicate, was thrilling.
I also had hobbies—small pieces of my identity.
I loved carving things from wood. Maybe I got that from my father. But unlike him, I didn't carve silence; I carved escape. I made little wooden birds, fish, and shapes of houses I had never lived in. Some I gave to children. Some I kept in a box beneath my bed. They were perhaps the first things in my life that felt truly mine.
Of course, love crossed my mind too. Even though she—the girl by the river—was gone, her absence left a void that needed to be filled. There were other faces now. Smiles at the market. Short chats during chores. Brief blushes under lanterns at festivals.
But none stayed. None struck me with the same lasting impact.
I started to wonder if what I really wanted wasn't love, but an escape. A companion who might lead me away from the small hill that felt like a weight on my ankles.
Maybe that was a selfish thought. But many dreams start off selfishly.
Looking back now, lying on this bed decades later, I see how naïve I was.
I genuinely believed that tomorrow would always arrive. That it would always be brighter than today. That the world was merely waiting for me, patient and forgiving.
I thought the future would be a place of rewards, not the battleground it really is.
Still, that youth, that desire, felt real. Despite all the regrets that came later, I can't dislike the boy I was then. He had hope. He had something I lost far too soon in adulthood.
And hope, even if fragile, is never truly wasted.