Zayan listened in silence as Professor Farooq spoke, his voice calm and steady, so unlike the chaos that lived inside Zayan's head. The professor talked about university—about tomorrow, about applications, about futures that still existed beyond pain. He spoke as if life was something that could be planned, shaped, trusted.
Zayan nodded when he was supposed to. He said yes when it was expected. But inside, his chest felt hollow.
Professor Farooq told him he was talented. That he was capable. That he shouldn't look down on himself the way he did. That he wasn't too broken, or too late, or too damaged to try. He said belief mattered. That faith in oneself was the first step toward survival.
"I believe you can do it," the professor said gently. "You just have to believe it too."
Those words should have comforted him.
Instead, they terrified him.
Because belief meant responsibility. And responsibility meant the possibility of failure. Zayan had failed enough times already—failed to be wanted, failed to be protected, failed to be enough for the people who were supposed to love him.
Still… something shifted.
Not hope exactly—but something close to it. Something dangerous.
For a brief moment, Zayan felt lighter. As if maybe—just maybe—he wasn't completely ruined. As if the future wasn't a locked door but a cracked one. The feeling scared him so much that he almost shut it down immediately.
He had learned what hope did to people like him.
Hope made you careless. Hope made you wait. Hope made you believe someone would come back.
And yet… it returned anyway.
That night, lying alone, staring at the ceiling, Zayan let himself imagine it. University. A different life. A version of himself that didn't wake up every day bracing for pain. The thought felt unfamiliar, like wearing someone else's clothes.
He was scared to hope—but he had no other choice.
So he hoped.
Days passed.
Weeks.
And slowly, that fragile hope began to rot.
He tried to believe in himself the way Professor Farooq had asked him to. He tried to see himself as capable, as worthy, as someone who deserved a future. But every time he tried to hold onto that belief, something inside him resisted.
Because deep down, Zayan already knew.
He knew hope wouldn't last.
He knew it never did.
There were nights when he couldn't breathe properly, when his chest felt too tight, when his thoughts spiraled so fast he couldn't keep up. Nights when he lay awake, staring into the darkness, wondering why he was still trying when the ending always felt the same.
He tried to hope again.
And again.
And again.
Until it hurt too much.
Until hoping felt heavier than despair.
Eventually, he stopped hoping altogether.
He didn't break down dramatically. He didn't cry or scream or rage. He simply… let go. He woke up, did what he had to do, and went to sleep again. No expectations. No dreams. No future he could lose.
He just existed.
And the worst part wasn't that he gave up on hope.
The worst part was that he didn't even know why anymore.
He couldn't explain what was wrong with him. He couldn't point to one moment, one wound, one betrayal. The pain had become too layered, too old, too tangled to separate.
All he knew was this:
Something inside him had gone quiet.
And he didn't know if it would ever come Back
All night, Zayan couldn't sleep.
His body lay still, but his mind refused to rest. His eyes stayed open, fixed on the ceiling, watching shadows move as the night dragged on. Every sound felt louder in the dark — the hum of silence, the distant noise of the world outside, the slow rhythm of his own breathing. Sleep came close many times, brushing against him, but never stayed.
When exhaustion finally pulled him under, it wasn't peaceful.
He dreamed.
In his dream, he was small again — younger, lighter, unaware of how heavy life could become. He saw fragments of his childhood, scattered and incomplete, like torn pages of a book that had been ruined by time. He remembered sitting quietly, watching others, learning things no child should have learned so early. He remembered understanding pain before he understood happiness.
Some memories were softer.
He saw old pages filled with drawings — crooked lines, messy shapes, innocent attempts at beauty. He remembered how his mother used to smile when she saw him drawing, how she would sit beside him, watching carefully, as if his small hands creating something meant everything to her. Those moments felt warm, fragile, like glass that could shatter with one wrong touch.
He remembered being little, peeking through small gaps, seeing the world through narrow spaces, learning to observe before learning to speak. He remembered how Farhan used to teach him things quietly, patiently — lessons about life, about strength, about staying silent when the world was loud. And then, like always, the dream began to change.
Darkness crept in.
The warmth faded.
In the dream, he went to sleep again — but this time, it felt wrong. Heavy. Suffocating. Like the air itself had weight. Suddenly, a sound broke through everything.
A knock.
Sharp. Loud. Unforgiving.
Zayan jolted awake, his heart slamming against his ribs. For a second, he didn't know where he was. His body felt frozen, his breath uneven. The knocking continued — not on his door, but on the door of his memory.
It wasn't the door of his room.
It was the door of his childhood home.
The same door.
The same sound.
The knock echoed in his head as if it had never really stopped. He remembered waking up like this before — sitting up in bed, terrified, listening as voices rose outside his room. He remembered footsteps, hurried and angry. He remembered standing up slowly, barefoot on cold floors, unsure whether he was allowed to open the door or not.
In the memory, the door opened.
There was shouting.
Harsh words thrown like weapons.
A small boy standing still, watching adults fall apart.
No one noticed him.
No one asked if he was scared.
No one told him it would be okay.
Back in the present, Zayan sat up, breathing hard, his chest tight. His hands trembled slightly as he pressed them against his face. The room was quiet — too quiet. But the silence didn't comfort him. It felt heavy, loaded with everything that had never been said.
He realized then that some things never leave you.
They don't fade with time. They don't soften with age. They just wait — hidden in dreams, in silence, in sleepless nights — until you're weak enough for them to return.
Zayan lay back down, staring into the darkness again.
Morning was still far away.
And sleep no longer felt like rest —
it felt like another place where he could be hurt.