It was a lovely morning. After waking up from his sleep, he opened the curtains to let the fresh air in. Birds chirped cheerfully in the trees, but as he looked up at the sky, questions flooded his mind—unanswered ones that had haunted him for years.
He was a pleasant, likable soul—perhaps a little irascible at times—yet genuine. He had helped others selflessly, even when he knew they had nothing to offer in return. Despite this, many despised him, some admired him, and most simply overlooked him. No matter how much he tried to be seen, to be understood, he felt invisible—like he was always stuck in the same place, misunderstood and unheard.
“Is this why I’m here?” he wondered. “To be where no one understands me?”
His frustration boiled over. He loathed what he had become and longed to run away from the life that suffocated him. People mocked his kindness, labeled him an "unnecessary helper." Some pretended to love him, but their contempt surfaced in the shadows. At night, his past, present, and future collided, leaving him restless and anxious.
His friends were no comfort either. Their opinions shifted daily, making him feel like even they were lost. He felt small, insignificant—just another nameless figure in a crowd.
All he wanted was to pack up and leave—to explore new cities, climb mountains, follow rivers, and search for meaning. And so, he did.
He found work in a shop where he met hundreds of people each day. He used his wit to entertain them, finally gaining the attention and affection he had craved since childhood. But despite having everything he thought he wanted, he lacked the one thing that mattered most—home. His village. His roots.
Then, one ordinary day, while he stood in the shop lost in thought, a customer placed a hand on his shoulder.
“What are you thinking about, dear?”
“Nothing, sir,” the boy replied. “I left my village to chase love. But being here among these people reminds me of home.”
The man smiled. “You will find love in many places. But in the end, you must return to those who truly belong to you—your village, your family, your people.”
“But I don’t have a family. I left because no one cared. I live alone now,” the boy confessed. “Sometimes, I even hate myself. I feel strange, like a stranger to myself.”
“Have you found the one you were looking for?” the man asked gently.
“No... but I’ve met people here who care, or at least they seem to.”
The stranger nodded, stepped away, then returned. “Let me share something with you, if you’re ready.”
“I’m listening,” the boy said.
“You must cross a desert. It won’t be easy. Keep your cash—it might come in handy. But understand this: no one will walk it for you.”
“Then who will guide me?”
“That’s up to fate. You may find a caravan... or you may walk alone.”
Determined, the boy packed his bag with everything he had earned, and set off toward the desert. But when he arrived, he saw no caravan. He waited. Nothing came.
Just then, a man on a camel approached—grinning, eccentric, and wildly talkative.
“Are you here to cross the desert too?” the boy asked.
“No, I’m here to meet you,” the man laughed.
“This isn’t a place for jokes,” the boy frowned.
“Actually, I am crossing it too. Let’s go together.”
“I’ll wait for the caravan, thanks,” the boy replied coldly.
“There’s no caravan this week,” the man said. “And you don’t have the supplies to go alone. Come with me.”
“I’ll manage. I have cash and some essentials.”
“Money doesn’t matter in the desert,” the man said with a grin. “And your opinion won’t shape the sand. Come.”
The boy hesitated. Something about this man irritated him... and intrigued him.
“Why does everything feel strange to me?” the boy asked, more to himself than anyone else.
Then came an unexpected message—spoken not in words, but in insight—from the old man beside him:
“An unexpected message changed everything. What will you do next?”
The boy fell silent. Something within him stirred—something deeper than fear, stronger than loneliness. The question echoed through his soul.
The old man continued:
“People love stories of hardship, of love, of overcoming pain. But when someone near them suffers, they laugh, mock, and dismiss. They fear their own reflection in another’s pain.”
He paused.
“Never be ashamed of helping others, even if people laugh at you. You are giving someone hope when no one else does. That makes you more human than they’ll ever admit.”
The boy looked down, heart aching.
“I’m tired. Those who claimed to love me abandoned me. Those who mocked me are now searching for meaning themselves.”
“That’s because they ran from the very thing that makes life real—pain,” the old man replied. “They thought it belonged to you alone. But pain visits us all. It becomes a shadow we carry and a story we must live.”
“Is that why they hated me?” the boy asked.
“They hated you because you loved differently. And that scared them. But love—real love—isn’t about being understood by everyone. It’s about living with depth, even when others float on the surface.”
He continued, “You are not strange. You are gifted—with love. And that is a rare gift.”
“But I’m scared,” the boy whispered.
“Of course you are,” the old man said. “Sometimes, a smile hurts more than a frown, because it hides all the fear underneath. But remember this—those who are kind are often the loneliest. Not because they are unloved, but because their hearts beat louder than the world can handle.”
The boy wept softly—not from weakness, but from release.
Then the old man said, “Now go. You are ready. Not to escape—but to live fully. To walk through the desert not to survive... but to become.”
And with that, the boy looked toward the horizon.
The desert had not changed.
But he had.
React
