Hunger is not always about food.
The house was quiet when Rayyan returned home.
Not the peaceful kind of quiet—but the heavy kind.
The kind of silence that settles into walls and stays there,waiting to be broken.
His father was sitting on the old wooden chair in the living room.The evening light came through the window in a soft orange wash,and in his hands was a stack of old photographs—creased, faded,their edges worn like they had been touched many times.
Rayyan stopped at the doorway.
He had never seen his father like this.
The man who had once roared, shouted, kicked, and slammed doors…looked small.
Not weak.Just… tired.
Like life had taken more from him than he could ever say out loud.
Rayyan's heart beat faster.
Fear first.Then something else.
Something like… longing.
He wanted his father to look at him and see him—not the child who dropped the engine shaft,not the boy who flinched before blows,but the son who tried.Who fought.Who worked.
But wanting that felt dangerous.
He swallowed, gathered his breath, and stepped inside.
"Abah…"His voice was soft, uncertain.
His father didn't look up.His thumb brushed across the photograph.
It was a picture of a younger man—laughing,arms around friends,a face untouched by anger.
And Rayyan realized, suddenly, painfully—
His father had once been happy.
His father had once been someone else.
That knowledge hit harder than any kick.
Rayyan sat down a few steps away, careful not to get too close.
"I… want to continue studying," he said."Private university."
The words sounded too loud in the quiet room.
His father froze for a moment.
Not angry.Not surprised.
Just… still.
Rayyan braced himself.
He lowered his gaze, shoulders tensing—years of instinct preparing for pain.
But it didn't come.
His father finally looked up.
And his eyes—those eyes that once burned like fire—were tired.
Not defeated.Not gentle.
Just tired from carrying a life that never went the way he dreamed.
"If that's what you want…" his father said,voice low and rough,"then… try."
Rayyan looked up.
For a second, something almost impossible flickered between them:
Recognition.And love.And grief for everything they never said.
His father exhaled—slow, shaky.
"You are not me," he said."You don't have to end up like this."
Rayyan's chest tightened.
He didn't know what to say.He didn't know whether to be relievedor scaredor sad.
So he just nodded.
His father returned to the photograph.
The moment passed.But it happened.
And that was something.
That night, Rayyan lay awake.
The house was quiet.But his mind was loud.
He wanted to believe this could be the beginning of something better.
But hope, for him, was not gentle.
Hope was a sharp thing—beautiful,but capable of cutting deeper than pain.
And somewhere inside him,a whisper formed:
What if something goes wrong again?
Because kindness was rare in his life.And rare things were fragile.
Rayyan closed his eyes, but sleep did not come.
He didn't know it yet—
But the road ahead would testfriendship,loyalty,love,and blood.
Even the softest silencecan hide the loudest storms.