He was smiling.
Warm sunlight spilled across his skin, soft and golden like a promise. The air carried birdsong and laughter, wrapping the world in a melody too perfect to be real. At his side, her hand rested in his—warm, delicate, alive. He leaned closer, heart steady, lips just a breath away from hers.
"Finally," he thought. "This is mine."
But the world shattered.
BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!
His eyes flew open. His chest rose and fell sharply as the dream dissolved, leaving only the stale darkness of reality. The walls were damp, cracked, and colorless. The ceiling dripped in uneven intervals, each drop echoing like a cruel reminder. The alarm clock blinked at him in harsh red digits: 6:30 a.m.
It had been nothing but a dream.
Shayan sat up on the thin, uneven mattress. The fabric scratched against his palms, grounding him in a life stripped of warmth. No sunlight. No birds. No laughter. No her. Only the sour air of a room that had long forgotten joy, bills stacked like gravestones in the corner, and that steady, mocking drip from above.
The weight of contrast pressed down on him like a blade. In his dream, he had touched happiness—love, comfort, hope. In reality, he woke to hunger, unpaid debts, and the grinding burden of a family fighting to survive.
He exhaled slowly, expression unreadable. No complaints. No tears. No weakness. Only silence.
The heaviness settled in his chest like a familiar cloak—cold, cumbersome, impossible to shrug off. Depression lived in the small things: the way meals tasted like promises unfinished, the slow blur of days that all looked the same, the quiet that pressed at his ears when the house finally slept. Still, beneath that fog there was a stubborn ember—something raw and private that refused to be snuffed.
He rose not because hope sang to him, but because duty and a personal vow kept him moving: to not collapse where others depended on him, to keep the small light alive even if it only burned for himself. He never spoke of the weight; he kept it folded tight behind a calm face, a practiced indifference that others mistook for strength. Inside, fear and fatigue warred with a quiet, brittle will—an unwillingness to give in, no matter how hollow the days felt.
The shrill ring of his old phone broke the silence. Shayan glanced at the cracked screen, hesitating before answering.
"Bro, we're all meeting tonight," a friend's voice came through, casual and teasing. "Everyone's coming. She's coming too. Don't tell me you'll sit at home again."
For a moment, his chest tightened. Her. Just the thought of being near her pulled him out of the fog. He forced his voice into its usual calm monotone.
"I'll be there."
The call ended.
Shayan sat still for a long second, staring at his reflection in the faintly polished side of a metal pot. His face was pale, eyes sunken, hair messy. He looked nothing like the man he wanted to be in that dream. Still, a restless energy pushed him to his feet.
He dug through his small stack of clothes, pulling out a shirt that had once been white but now carried a dull gray tint. He smoothed the wrinkles as best as he could, running his hand across the fabric with quiet determination. His trousers were old, the seams worn, but they were clean. He combed his hair with his fingers, pressing it down stubbornly, trying to tame the mess.
In the cracked mirror propped against the wall, he studied himself. Shabby, yes. Poor, yes. But at least presentable. At least he could stand beside her without looking completely invisible.
For the first time in weeks, a faint heat stirred in his chest—not joy, not hope, but the raw urge to be seen.
Shayan reached the tea stall where his friends laughed loudly, filling the street with noise. He waited in silence, eyes fixed on the road.
Then she appeared.
The world seemed to pause. Sunlight caught her hair, every step pulling him deeper into stillness. His chest tightened, words slipping away. Somehow, he forced them out.
"H-how are you doing?"
She glanced at him, expression cold.
"Fine."
Nothing more. No warmth. No return. Just a single word that cut deeper than silence.
Shayan didn't flinch. His face stayed calm, unreadable. But inside, the ember of hope dimmed, as if starved of air.
They piled into the old car, laughter and music filling the cramped space. Shayan sat by the window, watching the city blur past. His silence blended into the noise, as it always did.
At one point, two of his friends exchanged glances. One leaned toward him, as if to speak, but stopped. The words hovered in the air, unsaid. Shayan caught it—he always caught these things—but he didn't ask. He never did.
The car rolled on, their voices rising in careless joy, while his thoughts drifted back to the single cold word still echoing in his mind.
They walked through the crowded street, the group buzzing with chatter and jokes. Shayan kept his usual silence, hands in his pockets, listening more than speaking. Yet something tugged at the edge of his awareness.
His friend Alif kept glancing around, his smile strained, his laughter a beat too late. Suspicion crept into Shayan's chest like a shadow.
Then Haward, his closest friend, pulled him aside. His voice was low, hesitant, almost apologetic—but every word landed like a blade.
When Shayan heard it, his heart seemed to stop.
"No…" he muttered, shaking his head. "That's a lie. You're lying." His voice rose, sharper than usual, cutting through the noise of their friends. "Don't say that again."
Haward didn't reply. His silence spoke louder than words.
Shayan stood frozen, the group's laughter fading to a dull echo behind him. On the surface, he wore defiance, clinging to denial. But deep inside, he felt the crack—the awful certainty that Haward's words were true.
The ember inside him didn't just flicker this time.
It broke into ash.