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"I have written this story for the first time, and I have no experience in writing stories, and this is my first time, so understand what I've written and tell me how it is, and what I can improve in it."
"This is a short story and I have tried to show expressions and make things understandable."
NOW THE STORY BEGINS . . . . . .
Last night, I saw a dark room. I entered it and noticed someone sitting in the corner, speaking softly to himself. I don't know why, but I felt drawn to listen and talk to him.
As I approached, he turned his back to me. Suddenly, he said, "I've been waiting for you. You've come after a long time." He seemed familiar, like someone I had a deep connection with.
He started asking about my life—what I'd been doing. I answered calmly, "I'm still alive.
"He fell silent, stared at me, and said, "It doesn't seem like you're alive." I didn't reply; I just smiled. The room filled with silence .
After a while, I asked why he was sitting alone there. He replied, "I wanted comfort, so I found this place to sit." But I noticed his eyes were heavy, full of discomfort. I pointed it out: "Your eyes are telling a different story.
"He responded, "You're still the same—you can always tell by looking into someone's eyes if they're lying or telling the truth.
"Then he opened up, sharing all the suffering he'd endured and why he was bearing it. I stayed silent, listening intently, observing his actions and the raw emotions pouring out from deep within. His stories felt familiar, like echoes of my own life.
His voice grew heavier, as if he wanted to scream but couldn't—like his mouth was sealed shut. He seemed desperate to cry but had forgotten how, which only amplified his pain.
I couldn't bear seeing him like this. I tried to comfort and reassure him, but it felt like I couldn't reach him, couldn't bring him peace. Maybe I'd lost my courage. I struggled to understand his pain, but words failed me; I couldn't console him properly.
In that heavy silence, a deep understanding passed between us—he kept talking, and I kept listening.
Finally, I asked, "How do you bear all this? How do you face it? Why not share your sorrow with someone? Why are you afraid?
"Instead of answering, he turned the question on me: "When was the last time you discussed your pain with someone?"
I fell silent again. I couldn't remember.
He continued, "The answer is right in front of you, but you have to listen to accept it. I'm not afraid— I just know no one will understand me, and I won't be able to make them understand my pain."
His words hit me like a shock; goosebumps rose on my skin.
Gathering courage, I asked how he kept his mind off it all. He said he never could, but music helped.
"Does the pain go away when you listen to songs?
" I asked.
"Absolutely not," he replied. "Songs don't erase the pain. But when listen, I feel every word." He explained that people often tease him for always having earplugs in, but it's because music brings temporary peace from the world's noise."
Why are you so lonely?
"I asked.
"I've been hurt too much by people's words," he said. "Now, being alone feels better.
"I wanted to hug him tightly, tell him to release all that pent-up pain, but I couldn't. Then I remembered a line: Khud zakham khaye hue log kisi ka marz nahi bante—"Those who have suffered wounds themselves don't inflict pain on others."
That thought steadied me; I controlled my emotions and held back.
When it all ended, I realized that person was me. I'd met myself that night—a rare moment of such deep helplessness in one's own presence.
The night passed, and I stepped out to chase happiness in this world once again
Written by Shehzan_Yuneeb
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