When I first met Adrian, he was simple—like a clear stream, untroubled, unadorned. Short hair, pale skin that seemed almost translucent in the sunlight, tall and quietly handsome—an unassuming presence that drew attention without effort. The kind of boy who never needed to say much to be noticed. His quiet confidence was effortless, like a shadow that followed but never overwhelmed.
He was good at everything, especially studying. Always low-key, always holding up the perfect image, like a painting no one dared touch. Yet beneath that calm veneer, I sensed something else—an unspoken weight, a flicker of restless longing. But he kept it hidden, tucked away behind a gentle smile and a steady gaze.
Years have passed since those days, and I often find myself wondering how that boy changed into the man sitting across from me now—across a worn café table, in a dim corner of the city that never sleeps. The same city that had witnessed his transformation, quietly and cruelly.
He looked different now.
His eyes, once calm pools reflecting innocence and certainty, were clouded, distant. They stared out the window like he was watching something shatter in slow motion—something only he could see. The coffee in front of him had gone cold, untouched, a mirror of the frozen stillness that had settled over him.
I reached for my cup and took a small sip, pretending I wasn't worried. But beneath the surface, my mind raced. What had changed? What had broken him?
"What happened?" I finally asked, voice low, almost hesitant. The words felt heavy in the air, fragile as glass.
He looked at me then, eyes lingering on my face as if trying to decide whether to tell me the truth. His lips parted slightly, but no words came. Instead, he took a slow breath, then spoke, voice soft but edged with something darker.
"I want to be a doctor," he said. The words hung there, simple but loaded with meaning. He smiled—just a little—like he was trying to hold onto a fragile hope. Then he took a sip of the bitter coffee and winced, as if the taste alone was a reminder of everything he was struggling with.
"Doctor… that's a great idea," I said, forcing a smile, though my brow furrowed. "Then what's the problem?"
He looked away, gaze drifting to the window again, where the city lights flickered against the glass. His shoulders sagged, and I could see the weight of unsaid things pressing down on him.
"My mom... she doesn't want me to be one," he finally whispered, voice barely more than a breath.
I blinked, caught off guard. The words felt like a punch in the gut, sudden and sharp.
"Oh... I see," I said softly, trying to process it. The silence stretched between us, thick and awkward, filled with unspoken questions.
He finally turned back to me, eyes shimmering with a hint of frustration or maybe despair. "It's not that she doesn't want me to be happy," he added quickly. "It's just… she's afraid. Afraid I'll fail. Or that I'll lose myself trying to chase a dream she doesn't believe in."
I reached across the table, hesitating for a moment before placing my hand gently over his. His fingers were cold, trembling slightly.
"Adrian," I said softly, "you're not the boy I used to know. You've always been strong. If this is what you want, you should fight for it."
He looked at me then, eyes darkening with a mixture of gratitude and doubt. "Maybe," he whispered. "But sometimes, I wonder if I'm just fooling myself. If I'm just chasing something that's already out of reach."
The city outside hummed with life—cars rushing by, neon signs flickering, distant sirens echoing through the night. But inside this small café, everything felt suspended, caught between hope and despair.
I knew then that Adrian's journey was just beginning. That beneath his quiet exterior lay a storm waiting to break. And I wondered how much of him was left—how much was real, and how much was just a mask.
Because sometimes, the hardest battles are fought in silence, behind closed doors and in the quiet corners of the mind.
And I was here, watching, waiting to see which way he would fall.
A year passed. Just like that.
Time moved forward, indifferent to the ache in my chest, the weight of unanswered questions. I heard he had gone abroad to study—somewhere far, in a country I can't even remember now. All I knew was that he left. Quietly, like he was slipping out of a room I wasn't allowed to follow.
And when I heard the news, I knew in my heart… his mother had won.
He was her only child—the obedient one, the quiet son who never spoke back. He followed her dreams like a shadow chasing someone else's light. The boy who once seemed so sure of who he was was now a ghost, wandering through distant cities, trying to escape a darkness I couldn't see but could feel.
A year later, I got a call.
Her voice shook when she said it. "Adrian… he's gone."
I thought she meant he moved again. Or maybe that he disappeared from social media, as if that could erase what I already knew—what everyone knew but no one wanted to say aloud.
But no.
He was gone.
They said it was suicide.
He jumped from the 26th floor of a building. Twenty-six.
Can you imagine how scared he must've been? How cold the air must've felt as he fell?
I didn't cry right away. I just stood there, clutching my phone like it was on fire, like it was the only thing tethering me to what was real. The world suddenly felt quiet—not peaceful, just… wrong.
People think fear is the worst feeling. But it's not.
Depression is worse than fear.
Because when you're afraid, at least your heart is still trying to survive. It beats with the hope that maybe, just maybe, things will get better.
But when you're depressed… you start talking to ghosts in the dark corners of your mind. You start listening to them.
And they don't always whisper kind things.
They tell you you're not enough.
That you're a burden.
That the pain will never end.
That the world would be better without you.
I didn't understand it then, not fully. I only knew that silence that followed the news was heavier than any storm. It pressed down on everything—the air, my chest, my thoughts.
I kept asking myself—how could someone so quiet, so seemingly gentle, be capable of such darkness? And why did it feel like I was the only one left holding the pieces of a shattered boy who once smiled so easily?
Sometimes, I catch myself imagining his last moments—what he felt, what he saw in those final seconds. Was he afraid? Was he cold? Or did he finally find peace in the silence?
I wonder if he saw the world in those moments, or if his eyes closed before anything could catch him.
And I wonder if he ever heard the ghosts whisper in his mind, long before he took that leap.
The saddest thing about you is... I can't use present tense anymore.
I can't say, *"Adrian is studying abroad."*
I have to say, *"Adrian was."*
Because now, your name no longer lives in the now.
It belongs to echoes, to empty rooms, to dreams I wake up from with tears in my throat.
I hate how language betrays me.
How even grammar reminds me you're gone.
It's like trying to hold water in my hands—no matter how tight I squeeze, it slips away, leaving only the cold residue of what once was.
I remember the way you used to smile, so quietly confident, like the world was yours to conquer.
But now, I can only remember the shadows behind those smiles—the quiet battles you fought in silence, the ghost of a boy who once believed he could be anything.
And I wonder, did you ever truly believe?
Or was hope just another ghost whispering in your ear?
Sometimes, I catch myself whispering your name into the empty spaces, hoping the universe will listen, that somehow, the echoes will carry a message back to you.
But all I get are hollow echoes, bouncing off walls I can't see.
So I write in the past tense, because that's all I have left—memories sealed in time, fragile and fleeting, like fragile glass catching the light in a broken mirror.
And I hate how language reminds me—reminds us all—that some stories are destined to be unfinished, some voices forever silenced, some hearts forever broken.