I always wonder if my people — my family, neighbors, and friends — actually like each other, or if it's all just a mask to avoid judgment. Fear makes the rules here, fear born from society itself. We hate, we judge, and then we hide because we're afraid the very next person will do the same to us. Nobody likes being hated, nobody likes being judged. In our own eyes, we are always the good ones.
The people in my town celebrate festivals, rituals, and all sorts of gatherings. Laughter, music, food. Yet behind it, judgment sits at the table like an uninvited guest. I saw it on my sister's birthday, my own family mocking neighbors while eating cake. That's human nature, I suppose. Everyone has an opinion, and most opinions are built on a quiet assumption: I am better than you.
People think their perspective is the right one — even if they don't say it out loud. But the irony is this: the more someone claims to know the truth about others, the more they reveal about themselves. Judgment is a mirror. It reflects their fears, their values, their hidden desires. A man who mocks another's intelligence usually trembles at the thought of being seen as a fool. The one who calls others weak might be fighting his own private war with weakness. Maybe all this judgment is nothing more than a way to assert dominance, to build a fragile throne made of other people's flaws.
My father is a good trader, as most men here are. Our village is cut off from the cities by the great dense forest. Now it's snowing. Children play, schools are closed, and the world looks beautiful. The authorities call it a safety measure, but I think they just want an excuse to stay home with their families in this white winter. Snowballs and snowmen are fun, I suppose. But never for me. Not because I lack friends — I can charm anyone with sweet words. But I still don't know what friendship really means. I only adapt. My father left three nights ago and hasn't returned. I'm not surprised. Sometimes his trade takes that long. But in the winter, each extra night feels heavier. In that forest, risks grow with the snow.
I don't know why I'm writing this in my school notebook. I never opened it before. It was empty. Not anymore. It's rare for me to waste energy on something I know will end in vain. My mother and sister will probably use these pages to light a fire someday. That's how it goes.
My mother — sweet, loyal, devoted to her idols. My sister, thirteen, is still loud and careless. Unlike our neighbor aunt. Her husband trades with my father in the city. She cheats on him with the shopkeeper down the road. No one knows this but me. I saw it last month while bathing. From our window you can see into their kitchen — not fully, but enough. I heard a strange sound, climbed up to the window ledge, seven feet high, and there it was. Just a glimpse. But enough. Her naked shoulder, his face, the window shutting. That was all.
My mom isn't like her. She's genuine. At least I believe she is. She fears the idols. She prays with her whole heart. Villagers worship these idols, since—I don't even know when. When this small religion began, I never cared to find out The priest too — he's kind, or so it seems. I once saw him rescuing a cat from a tree near the road to the forest. I didn't bother to help. He isn't old, he can climb himself. Maybe that's kindness. As for kindness, I am not sure if I've ever known the real thing. Perhaps because kindness born from greed for heaven, or fear of hell, never impressed me. It always felt like an act, a performance to please idols who can't even speak. I'm not sure if I'm an atheist—maybe I am. But the words of priests and the rituals of my own family have never made sense to me.
It is finally my final year of high school. Academically I'm not weak — I score well, the teachers like me, and so do most of the students. It's been ridiculously easy to get people to like me: show up, talk sweet, give them what they want. Help the weak students, thank the class teacher for… whatever she calls teaching. People fall for a pleasant smile and a good face.
The most stupid guy I know is my only friend since kindergarten. People call him Big Eyes because he cries at the drop of a hat. In middle school he bawled at an abandoned kitten. I'll never forget how he cried like a newborn when that kitten died a few months later — not of starvation, but probably killed by a dog. A proper cry-baby. But for me he is the Big Mouth. Whenever he's not crying, he's laughing — flashing those ugly white teeth that are all crooked. I stick with him not because he's my friend but because our mothers are literal best friends; I've been stuck with the Big Mouth since childhood. It's almost four. He said he'd come to take me out to play in the snow. I have no choice but to go — his grin will persuade my mother to drag me out of this messy room.
I close the notebook and slide it under the pillow as Big Mouth appears at the door. I tell myself it's nonsense — by the time I return these pages will be gone, used to light a fire by my mother or my sister. That's the real reason I pretend to write: an excuse to let my maniac, curious mind whisper on paper without anyone seeing. Still, I tuck the page in like a secret.
Big Mouth arrives with his usual gust of noise, cheeks pink, breath steaming like two small lamps. He drags a plastic sled and wears a cap with a pom-pom that bobs when he laughs. He hugs me like it's a ceremony — the kind you perform to prove you belong — and then pulls me outside before my mother can change her mind.
The village looks different from the lane: broader, as if the snow has softened all the edges people use to hide behind. Children are small bright things, running with scarves trailing like flags. The Boy with the Red Scarf is there already — he has made a lump of snow and named it "Old Man Snow." He speaks to it like it understands him, gives it a crooked carrot nose and ties his own scarf around its neck as if lending it a life.
He laughs like a bell. Not the teasing laugh of boys who know how jokes work, but an open laugh that believes the
world will answer in the same tone. He offers me a handful of snow like an offering. "Look," he says, eyes wide, "it's perfect." His face is clean, as if the cold has scrubbed off any worry. I feel something odd in my chest — not pity exactly, more like the ache of borrowing warmth. I let him talk while I watch the way his fingers move, smaller than mine, trusting the night and trusting men who walk under lanterns and say prayers. For a moment I let his light sit on me. It is easier that way.
If you saw Big Mouth and the Boy with the Scarf together, you'd swear they were brothers. The dumb duo—I call them.
The snow bites, of course, but their warm smiles only make my chest feel colder. I wouldn't know what that kind of warmth feels like. Not that I care.
I join them with the same prison-face I always wear to pass as likable—but they don't even notice. Hard to believe we're sixteen, the way we're acting. All this stupid silliness. I half-expect one of them to suddenly yell "thief!" and bolt through the snow, and then we'd all give chase after some invisible criminal. Such a pathetic, childish game. And I already know my idiot Big Mouth will sprint before his brain even catches up.
At least the snow is soft. Nothing bad will happen. Not yet.