Where It All Begins

They say a person who has a reason to live can endure almost anything. “He who has a why to live can bear almost any how...” and it's true. Give someone a why, and they’ll walk barefoot across broken glass if they have to. They’ll endure silence where words should be. They’ll keep moving—even when their legs tremble—not because they’re fearless, but because something, somewhere, still waits for them.

But take that reason away… and even the strongest heart begins to falter. Not all at once. Not with a dramatic crash. But quietly.  Life, without something to hold on to, becomes heavy... in a strange, invisible way. Like walking through fog with no end in sight. I learned this not from books or wise old men, but from the quiet fall of my own steps when I no longer knew where I was going—or why.

It was the first semester of the year. The bells sliced through the usual buzz of the hallway, swallowed afterwards by a low rumble of hundreds of voices talking at once. I as walking down the hall, feeling alone like a small boat in a rushing river of backpacks and talking students. Names floated around me – parties, bad grades – but they felt distant, muffled, like voices bleeding through a wall in the next room. I kept my eyes down, watching my footsteps over the scratched floor, the peeling paint on the walls covered in posters that were once bright. A group of girls zipped past me. Their perfume smelled like candy, then faded away quick. A tussle of hair snagged on to the corner of my eyes for a second as the current of the hall swept them away. I reached up and brushed it off. 

Following the hallway, I found my classroom, the second door on the left. The heavy wooden door stood in front of me, the kind of door that always creaked, no matter how gently you pushed. I paused. Took a deep breath. The air tasted stale, like paper stored too long in a box — the scent of old books, unwashed desks, and the tired energy of too many teenagers pressed together.

Then I stepped through.

And slight creak, then just like it, I disappeared into the hum — another blurred face in a crowd.

Homeroom began as usual. And as it was the first day of the year, just like any year prior, our teacher moved through the rows, distributing the handouts among us. 

It has remained the same since middle school. I still remembered it clearly: the way the classroom quieted just enough to let the rustling pages speak. The handout always had the same bold title, stamped across the top like a headline announcing something grand:

“Dream in Life.”

It demanded attention, even if it didn't really deserve it. It was one of those exercises we could do with our eyes closed. Write what you wanted to be. Doctor. Pilot. Astronaut. Every school did it, but at our school, this wasn’t just a throwaway task. It was a tradition. The kind that pretended to mean more than it did. They believed that writing down our dreams and watching them evolve over time served as a reminder of our personal growth, and the value of pursuing those dreams.

Like drawing a map of where you wanted your life to go.

However, in the end, the contents of our dreams often boiled down to something simple and predictable — I want to be a doctor, or a pilot... or an astronaut... the usual fare. Safe words. Dreams that came with uniforms and instructions.

But kids aren’t built to dream with their feet on the ground. Not like adults. We don’t balance dreams with practicality. We just leap.
And that’s how it was — for all of us.
For me too.

When I was still a kid, my father would always bring me toy airplanes for my birthday. I remember my first one — I must’ve been seven, maybe a little older. It was a sleek, silver model, although the rest of it's a little fuzzy. But I remember loving that plane. After that, nothing else ever came close. I didn’t want action figures or video games — just more planes. And every time that handout came around, I’d write the same thing with steady confidence:

Pilot.

Dreaming big mattered, how foolish it may sound though sometimes. It gave life direction, a faraway star to steer by. It kept the world from feeling so shapeless. But what no one tells you is how quietly those dreams can disappear...

Like breath on a mirror.

Those paper maps I used to draw of my future? One by one, they faded — the ink smudging, the lines losing shape. And with each passing year, I drifted further away from ever finding them again.

High school arrived like a train on time. Everyone around me seemed to know where they were headed. They were sailing — smooth, fast, purposeful — and I, for the first time, felt like I was sinking.

It wasn’t because I didn’t try. I did. But my results always sagged away under the weight of my efforts. Consistently below average, no matter what I touched. That strange kind of failure that doesn't come from laziness, but from something you can’t quite put a finger on. Since childhood, my mother had pushed me to try everything — painting, music, chess, swimming — hoping something would stick. I’d start each new thing like a match being struck, and then quietly fizzle out.

And then there was my brother. Older by several years, and in every way, my opposite.
Polished. Disciplined. Effortlessly capable.

He didn’t just succeed — he did it with such ease, it made you wonder if he ever stumbled. A picture-perfect example of how things were supposed to go.

This year’s paper felt different.

The title wasn’t bold or dreamy anymore. It didn’t shout. It sat there instead — quiet, plain, but with a kind of pressure behind it.

“Future Plans.”

It didn’t ask for dreams...

It asked for blueprints.

The page was broken into neat boxes — college major, job choice, income range, where we’d live, what kind of life we wanted in five, ten, twenty years. Like a questionnaire for a life I hadn’t begun to imagine.

No more wide-eyed wishes. Just concrete decisions.

The kind you were supposed to be ready for.

I stared down at the paper, my pen feeling like it was stuck in glue. My hand wouldn't move, not even a little scratch on the blank page, not even to pretend. I put the pen aside, as my hands reached for my forehead before brusing my hair.

But now, looking closer — really looking — I started to wonder... how much of that dream was ever mine?

Was it just because of the toy airplanes my father gave me? 

Maybe.

Back then, I was barely taller than the planes themselves — small arms, messy hair, eyes always looking up. And from that little body came a decision that would follow me for years: I wanted to fly.

Except... those planes weren’t toys. Not really. They weren’t things I played with that much. They were trophies. Each one a little badge of honor. Proof that I was trying. Trying to be the kind of kid my parents believed I could be. Trying to be enough.

But the older I got, the more that story began to split at the seams. The cracks showed in quiet places — in the way I stopped asking for more planes, in the way I stopped flying them around the room.

I lift the pen again, hold it tight between my fingers. But just as I’m about to write, a thought rises like static in the back of my mind — sharp, interrupting.

These dreams… They weren’t even mine. They were stitched together from scraps of other people’s hopes. From kind smiles and bedtime stories. From report cards and family friends saying, “He’s got such potential.”

My imagination — once endless, wild — began to shrink. It used to stretch out like a wide, open sky. Now, it’s just fog. Thick. Heavy. White noise behind my eyes. Whether they're open or closed, it doesn’t make a difference. Nothing comes to me anymore. I'm like a blank canvas someone forgot to paint. Or worse — one that was painted over too many times.

The colors now are washed out shades of what if and maybe not. Nothing sticks. Nothing shines.

Where did that kid go? The one who dreamed in color, who believed the future was something you could reach out and hold? I still see him sometimes — small, bright-eyed, arms spread like wings. He’s not lost in time.

He’s just… missing.

And I don’t know why. It’s not about growing up. It’s not about age. So what is it? What happened?

In the end, I filled out the boxes. All of them. Checked the boring “yes” answers, like I was solving a puzzle. And for the final question — career choice — I wrote down “pilot.”

Again.

I could already hear the voices in my head:

“Reol? A pilot? Seriously? "Have you even looked at yourself?” “Pick something realistic, man.”

The laughters were all my imagination, but it still stung. Still echoed. But my mind was blank. And "pilot" felt like the least wrong answer. Just a placeholder for a dream I no longer understood. Does it even matter what I write? It feels like, no matter what I choose, it won’t be enough. Like... I won’t be enough.

"Hey, pesk, you can't avoid this," Hugh yelled, cornering the boy against the wall. The boy coughed violently, his shoulders jerking with each breath, as if his body was trying to shake him free from the moment. He stood his ground — barely — trembling.

"Just hand over the money."

“I… I told you, I don’t have any today...” The words spilled out in a whisper, thinner than air. Barely louder than the pounding in my chest.

“What’s that?” Hugh roared, slamming his foot beside the boy’s shoulder with a sickening thud. The impact echoed off the lockers like a warning shot. The boy flinched hard, arms curling up around his head like a broken umbrella.  Leaning in close, Hugh's face twisted into a snarl that didn't reach his cold eyes, Hugh hissed, "I said, I WANT THE GODDAMN MONEY!" Loud and clear, with a sharp edge. "Do you honestly think you have any say in this situation?"

Just like those handouts I was talking about, this is also another one of the regularities of our school; actually, it happens everywhere... really. 

Two sides of a coin. The haves. The have-nots. We all started the same — blank slates breathing the same air. But somewhere along the line, invisible lines got drawn. And once they were drawn, they stuck.

Some were lifted. Most were pressed down.

A few guys stayed on top, not because they earned it, but because they clawed and kicked hard enough to keep others beneath them. Like standing on a ladder made of people’s backs. Hugh was one of them.

And me? Somewhere in between. Too scared to climb, too scared to fall. Hugh turned his glare on me. "Reol, check if he's holding out on us. He's nearly done for. No point in beating him senseless." 

My body moved before my thoughts could catch up. Knees down, hands searching — pockets, bag, books. Everything trembling beneath my fingers. I tried not to look him in the eye. Tried not to breathe in the smell of fear on his shirt.

No cash. Just an ID card. Kit Turner. Class C. Same grade. Same building. 

Different world.

“I… I think he’s telling the truth, Hugh,” I said, standing slowly. “No money on him.”

Hugh didn’t answer. Instead, he turned and kicked a chair that went crashing into another desk. I flinched. Hard.

“Um… l-let’s leave him be,” I stammered, instantly regretting the words. “Another beating won’t—”

He shoved me. A sharp, angry shove that made my breath catch.

“HUH!? Leave him be?” he snapped, eyes widening. “He needs to learn a lesson! I can’t let him think he can get away with this!”

I staggered back, heart climbing into my throat. I wasn’t the one getting hit. But I felt bruised all the same. The sick feeling in my gut wasn’t from the violence — not entirely. It was from the silence. From my silence. From knowing I was part of this. Even without throwing a punch, I was just another gear in Hugh’s machine. And if he snapped, there'd be no escape for me too.

"Reol, you must have some cash on you, right?" Hugh's voice was low and dangerous. My breath stopped.

“W-what are you talking about?” I tried to laugh, though It came out as a wheeze. “I don’t have anything…”

His eyes narrowed. The tone shifted. “Don’t play dumb. You always have something.”

I opened my mouth. The words were slow, hesitant. “But I already lent you money—” I shouldn’t have said it.

As the second the word “lent” left my lips, I felt his grip on my shoulder, sharp as a vine.

“Lent?” he echoed. His voice had gone dangerously quiet. Then he leaned in, the way fire leans into paper. “You call that lending?” His hand squeezed harder. The pain shot down my arm like electricity. “Aren’t we friends, Reol?”

The way he said “friends” — soft, sarcastic, poisoned — made me shiver. It wasn’t a question. It was a leash.

It all disgusts me. How did things end up like this? I never wished for getting entangled in this mess. All I wanted was to stay out of trouble, to avoid getting hurt. But somehow, I got dragged in anyway, and now my name was stuck with something I barely had anything to do with. I never meant to be a bother, if anything, I'd rather just melt into the background, be invisible. That would be perfect. But now, everyone was staring – classmates, parents – and I couldn't look any of them in the eye.

If only I had a little more courage, there would've been so many things I could've done right. I want to look back at them straight, and not divert my gaze away. I want to let them know that they're getting everything wrong. But each time, the weight of all the mistakes from before weighs down on me, a heavy burden that wraps around my chest and squeezes until it's suffocating. The gazes of those around me feel like hot needles, piercing right through me, as if they can see every flaw, every insecurity. But never the pain inside. Never.

Standing there, any flicker of courage to change felt like a single grain of sand on a beach – nothing compared to the crashing waves of everyone's opinions. It's like... you know those pictures where the faces are covered in black ink scribbles all over. It's really frightening, that sensation of being the only one unable to grasp anything about them. And it goes both ways. Those scribbles are like walls, or maybe even chains, keeping me stuck as this messed-up version of myself. I would press my nails into my palm, hoping a little sting might wake something brave in me. But nothing did.

I knew I couldn't allow myself to be swayed by the opinions of others, but I didn't have enough courage to spare on that too, making me feel so restless... and in unease. My voice was killed and lowered, as I thoughtlessly nodded to things I'd never wanted to do.

"Pathetic!" 

"Keep your head down! Don't even glance our way!" The words echoed in my mind, pushing me further down. It was too much to bear.

It was all just so draining.

And amid this chaos, there was only one thing on my mind...

How many times have I stood at the edge of change, thinking—maybe this is it? That this is the moment I’d finally wake up and not hate the reflection staring back at me. I’ve lost count. Each time, I tell myself I’ll be better—stronger, sharper, braver. But I end up right back here. Same sinking pit in my stomach. Same stammering voice.

A part of me wants to scream. To break something—anything—just to feel like I’m not the one being broken for once. But all I do is stand there. Still. Breath shallow. Eyes blurry but dry. What can I even do now?

My fingers twitch by my sides, like they’re reaching for something they can’t quite find—an answer, maybe. Or someone. Is there anyone—just anyone—who can tell me what the hell I’m supposed to do? Because I’m tired. So damn tired of pretending this is fine. Of watching the world move forward like a river I’m too scared to wade into.

I glance around. Laughter spills from the classrooms, carefree and loud. It cuts deeper than any insult Hugh’s ever thrown at me. Their joy — it doesn’t comfort me. It mocks me. Like they’re living in another universe altogether, one where storms don’t exist. How do I make them see the fire that eats at me every day? How do I tell them I’m not okay without sounding like I’m asking for pity? When will someone look at me and see the weight I carry — the cracks in the glass before it shatters? Not with sympathy. Not with judgment.

But with understanding.

I don’t need saving. I just… I just need someone to reach into this suffocating fog and remind me... I’m not invisible.