They say when you're truly lost, the world keeps turning—but something inside you stops.
Every morning, I wake up to the same ceiling, breathe the same air, wear the same smile. I laugh when I'm supposed to, nod at the right times, eat, walk, talk, sleep. Routine is my mask. It hides the scream beneath my skin.
But today, something feels different.
It's faint, like the brush of a cold fingertip down my spine. Something inside me is shifting—heavy and aching, like an old scar reopening. I feel it creeping in, coiling in the hollow behind my ribs. A quiet, gnawing darkness that whispers things I don't want to hear.
I don't know when it started—maybe in my teens, when emotions began to blur. I'd smile at birthday parties, surrounded by people who claimed to love me, but inside, it felt like I was fading. Laughing and crying at the same time. Joy and sorrow living inside me, strangling each other.
At first, I thought it was normal. Everyone has bad days. But this wasn't just a day. It became a constant. Like I was split in two—one version of me smiling in the light, the other curled up in the shadows.
Was this even my pain?
Sometimes I wonder if I'm haunted by something that doesn't belong to me. A sorrow that seeped into my soul like ink through paper. Invisible to others, but screaming loud in my chest. And the more I ignored it, the louder it became.
Still, I learned to live with it. To pretend.
Until now.
Now, the darkness feels stronger—colder, like standing barefoot on ice. It clings to me like a second skin, whispering, You're not meant for this world.
But I want to live.
I want to feel light again. To breathe without drowning.
So I run—not from people, but from the weight pressing down on me. I pack my camera, a few essentials, and sweets I don't really crave. I tell myself it's just a break. Just a trip. But deep down, I hope this is more than that. I want to find something real. Something that makes the ache inside me make sense.
I choose Sahana—a mountain range most call ordinary. During spring, it's lush and full of life. But in the summer, the colors fade. Most travelers skip it, calling it dull, barren.
But not me.
I see beauty in its fading greens and sunburnt browns. In the cracked earth and windblown trees. There's something raw about it—like the mountains are shedding something they no longer need.
Maybe I am too.
I arrive late in the afternoon, the sky a lazy wash of grey-blue. The town is quiet, the streets warm beneath my soles. Most tourists have gone, leaving behind only silence and open space. It's perfect.
The hotel is simple. My room overlooks the edge of the mountains—hazy outlines carved against the sky like the breath of sleeping giants. I stand there for a while, letting the wind kiss my skin. It smells like pine and something old. Something forgotten.
Tomorrow, I'll begin my project—The Beauty of Sahana: The Art of Nature. My camera has always been more than a tool. It's my translator. It speaks when I can't. It captures what words cannot hold.
I sleep lightly. The silence of the mountains seeps into my dreams.
In the morning, I rise with the sun. The breeze outside is soft, brushing my cheeks with the warmth of summer, yet carrying a chill that feels familiar—like an old friend I never really knew. I sling my camera over my shoulder and head into the wild.
The mountains stretch before me—vast, open, breathless. I let the wind guide me along a narrow path, pausing to capture every curve, every texture, every story whispered in the rustle of leaves.
Hours pass, or maybe minutes—I lose track of time.
Then I see him.
A lone figure standing at the edge of a rocky ledge, back to me, face tilted toward the sky. His red hair catches the sun, flickering like flame. But it's his posture that draws me in—still, sharp, like he doesn't belong to this world. Or maybe, like he's trying to leave it behind.
There's something about him—an energy, a sadness—that strikes me like lightning to the chest. My fingers move on instinct, lifting my camera.
Click.
The shutter breaks the silence.
He doesn't move. Not at first.
Then, as if he feels me watching, he slowly turns.
Our eyes meet.
Silver. Cold. Haunted.
I forget to breathe.
In that moment, it feels like something ancient awakens in me. A wave of emotion crashes through my chest—familiar and foreign at once. My hands tremble. The camera hangs limp from my fingers.
I don't know this man.
But I feel him.
A flicker of something—recognition? No. Something deeper.
Pain?
The wind swirls around us, carrying dust and silence. He doesn't speak. Neither do I. But I feel it—the weight of everything unsaid, everything broken.
Suddenly, the darkness in me surges, ripping through my chest like a scream.
No.
Not now. Not here.
But the tears come anyway. Hot. Raw. Unstoppable.
Why? Why now? Why him?
I wipe my cheeks, ashamed. I don't even know what I'm crying for.
The man watches, unmoving.
And then, softly, barely audible over the wind—
"Why are you crying?"
His voice is rough, like it hasn't been used in a long time.
I open my mouth to answer, but the words don't come. Only silence.
Only pain.
Help.
Who are you?
Why does it feel like I've known your sorrow forever?