Harsh Reality

Lian wandered through the busy streets, the hum of traffic and chatter around him blending into a low, constant buzz. Shops spilled bright light onto the pavement, displays of colorful clothes and shiny gadgets tempting passersby. He wasn’t here to shop. The hum of the city was comforting, in a strange way, a rhythm to match the quiet whirl of thoughts in his mind. But today, curiosity gnawed at him more than anything else.

He walked past a small café, then a bookstore, then paused in front of a bakery. Among the bustling crowd, he focused on a woman who seemed completely absorbed in her own world. Something in her posture—a slight slump of the shoulders, the way her eyes darted anxiously over the shelves—called to him. Lian hesitated for a moment, then, almost instinctively, reached out with his mind.

He heard fragments, impressions, flashes of memory. At first, it was scattered and vague, like a puzzle missing half its pieces. Then the images sharpened, painful in their clarity.

Bills piled on the kitchen counter. The faint stench of a leaking pipe in the bathroom. A persistent worry over rent, over deadlines at work, over the small, ever-growing debts that seemed to swallow her. She moved mechanically, always calculating, always planning, always pretending that everything was fine. But in her mind, there was an undercurrent of panic, a fear that every little mistake might spiral out of control.

Lian felt a pang in his chest. It was not the kind of sadness that came from observing the world, but from seeing someone bear a burden so quietly, so privately, that it seemed almost cruel. He stepped closer, careful not to make his presence obvious, and whispered softly in his own thoughts, “You don’t have to do this alone.”

Her gaze lifted briefly, and Lian could almost feel the hesitation before she tried to mask it again with a polite smile. “It’s nothing,” she said firmly, as if speaking the words aloud would convince herself.

Lian shook his head, gently, a little lost in the weight of it. “It’s more than nothing. You’re worried about your rent, about the repairs, about all of this pressure on your own. I can help, if you let me.”

Her eyes widened just enough for him to see the flicker of alarm. “You don’t know me,” she said quietly but firmly. “I can’t let a stranger get involved in this. It’s not your problem.”

Lian swallowed, feeling the subtle coldness of rejection, not in hostility but in careful, measured distance. He had expected some resistance, but hearing it stung more than he anticipated. He had always hoped that understanding someone’s mind could be a bridge, a way to reach out, to lessen the weight they carried. But some burdens, he realized, were walled off deliberately.

“I understand,” he said softly. “I’m not asking you to trust me blindly. But… you don’t have to carry it alone. Even small help can make a difference.”

She shook her head, turning slightly away, the barrier unmistakable now. “I appreciate it,” she said. “I really do. But it’s… complicated. And it’s not safe for me to let someone I don’t know get involved. I have to deal with this myself.”

Lian watched her for a moment, the light of the bakery reflecting in her eyes, making them glisten slightly. He wanted to insist, to push, but he felt the futility in that desire. The truth was clear: she had built her walls carefully, and no one, not even someone who could see into her mind, could force an entry.

He sighed, the weight in his chest growing heavier. “I wish I could do more,” he admitted, almost to himself. The bustling street continued around him, people laughing, arguing, moving through life in ways he couldn’t touch. And here he was, watching someone struggle silently, knowing he could ease even a fraction of the burden, yet being denied the chance.

For a moment, he considered simply walking away. But he lingered a little longer, giving her space, respecting the boundaries she had drawn. He observed her carefully as she finished her shopping, small, precise movements, a rhythm shaped by necessity and caution. He could sense her mind constantly running through lists, calculations, worries he could never fully remove.

When she finally turned to leave the store, Lian allowed a small, tentative thought to reach her, gentle and unobtrusive: “You’re strong, but it’s okay to accept help sometimes.”

She glanced briefly in his direction, and for a fraction of a second, he thought he saw a flicker of recognition, maybe even relief. Then she walked on, immersed again in her own world, leaving Lian standing there with an ache he could not name.

He realized that some walls were not built to keep others out out of mistrust, but as shields against a world that had already been harsh enough. And as much as he wanted to, he could not tear them down for her. He could only hope that, one day, she might allow herself to lean on someone, even a stranger.

Lian continued walking, aimless now, the city buzzing indifferently around him. His heart felt heavy with melancholy, a mixture of empathy, frustration, and sorrow. He had seen a life too burdened to be shared, and he had felt the sting of rejection not in anger, but in the quiet insistence of someone’s own need to survive alone.

As the afternoon waned into evening, Lian thought of her, hoping she would find moments of peace amid the chaos, hoping that the walls she had built were not so high as to imprison her completely. And though he knew he could not intervene, a quiet determination settled in him: he would continue to walk these streets, continue to watch and listen, ready to offer help should she ever let it in.

But for now, he had to accept the sadness of distance, the melancholy of knowing that sometimes, even when you can see someone’s pain, you cannot reach them.

The streetlights flickered on, casting long shadows across the pavement. Lian walked on, carrying with him the muted echo of a life that might never intersect with his in any meaningful way, yet leaving a mark he could not shake.