One night, I felt this deep ache inside me.
Life, the world…
I was questioning everything.
Why are we even alive? I kept asking. What’s the point?
I didn’t feel like I belonged in this world.
No matter what I did, no matter who I was with, it just wasn’t working.
I couldn’t make anything my own—not myself, not my place, not the world.
My soul wasn’t at peace.
And my inner voice kept criticizing me.
Harshly and ruthlessly.
This wasn’t the first time I had felt this way, but that night, it had become unbearable.
My mind on one side, my soul on the other.
I was stuck.
Then I remembered a prayer a friend once told me to listen to when I felt low. I played it.
As I listened, drops fell from my heart.
And just like that, I fell asleep while listening.
The next morning, my mother told me, “Did you know? You were abandoned the moment you were born.”
There was a pitying tone in her voice, like, oh, you poor thing.
I was stunned. I asked her what she meant.
“When you were born, the nurse had to leave urgently. They didn’t even hand you to me—they just put you aside and left. And they didn’t come back for quite a while.
You were there, in the corner, crying all alone. You cried and cried until you were exhausted.
I couldn’t get up to pick you up. And your father wasn’t there either.”
As soon as I heard that, I couldn’t hold back my tears. I didn’t even know why I was crying.
But I wanted to hold that baby. To say, “Don’t worry, I’m here with you. Don’t cry, okay? You’re safe.”
I didn’t know if it was the prayer I had listened to.
But it felt like my voice, my pain, had been heard.
Because what my mother told me made me determined to show myself compassion.
Not long after learning this story, I met them.
We hadn’t met in person yet, but I had told them this story.
They said, “Wow… that’s such a heartbreaking story. Thank you for sharing something so personal with me. I wish I could hug and kiss that baby.”
And now, here I was—sitting on the curb, staring blankly at the sky.
What difference was there between me and that baby?
When they said, “If you call again, I’ll block you,” my only response was going to be to call.
Was it a threat?
Or were they trying to control me?
Either way, I refused to accept it.
I called.
The moment I did, they declined the call.
Then they blocked me.
I felt a sense of relief in that moment.
I did everything I could. There’s nothing left to do now. It’s over, I told myself.
Not being able to reach them anymore felt like a luxury.
I felt like a little kid who had misbehaved.
For a moment, I even laughed.
I got up from the curb and went home.
I’ll just go on with my life like nothing happened. That’s it. So this is how the story ends, I told myself.
But that’s not what happened.
The very first second I opened my eyes the next morning, I started crying.
No. It couldn’t be.
I wanted them back. Right now.
Because it hurt too much.
We had to talk.
They had blocked me on both WhatsApp and phone calls.
But there was still one last way I could reach them.