I didn't fall.
I drifted.
Like a paper torn from an old letter — slow and soundless — the world slipped away from under my feet, and the ground never came.
I remember a memory
A picture of the past — a nine years old boy stood at the edge of crumbling house, his back to me close but my voice didn't reached him just silence but the bruise on his arm told me new stories each day
would it have been different if i had just asked you that day?
as these thoughts flow through my mind
the color of the sky changed.
The school grounds dissolved.
The breeze no longer smelled like spring, but of rust, and something older — something I thought I'd forgotten.
I was no longer seventeen.
And just like that, I was back there again.
Autumn had painted the streets in soft decay — burnt orange leaves scattered like forgotten words across empty sidewalks, and the fading gold of sunlight rested heavily on windowpanes. The air carried the scent of cold beginnings, and the silence outside echoed louder than any voice inside my head.
I stood by the window, lost in thought, the world beyond the glass blurring into the weight of another goodbye. Then my mother's voice broke through the quiet like a bell:
"The car is ready, Kai. We're leaving. Hurry."
This wasn't the first time we were leaving, and I knew it wouldn't be the last.
My parents' jobs demanded constant movement — different cities, different houses, always temporary, always rushed. I never unpacked completely. What was the point?
My eyes was tired, After several hours on the road,we finally arrived at our new house — a quiet two-story home painted in shades of white and storm-gray. It stood still, as if waiting, holding its breath beneath a sky smeared with twilight.
"Go explore the park nearby," my mother said as she began to unpack. "It'll be good for you."
I didn't argue. I needed air.
The park was silent — too silent for a place meant for children. Rusted swings creaked in the breeze, and yellowed leaves clung to the fence like they, too, were afraid to fall. That's when I saw him.
A boy, maybe my age — maybe younger — sitting alone on the grass beneath the bare branches of a withered tree. His hair was black, messy, and fell into his eyes. His hands were bandaged, streaked with old bruises and quiet pain. He didn't look up. Just stared down at his shoes, unmoving, like the world around him didn't exist.
I hesitated, then took a few careful steps toward him.
"Hey," I called out. "What's your name?"
Nothing.
He didn't flinch. Didn't even look at me. As if I were just another leaf on the ground, destined to be blown away and forgotten. Something cold settled in my chest — disappointment, maybe. Embarrassment. I turned away without another word.
But the next day, he was there again.
And the day after that.
Always sitting in the same spot. Always alone. Always silent.
I told myself I wouldn't care. But something about him kept pulling my gaze — like the stillness in a painting you can't stop looking at.
"Why won't you say anything?" I finally asked, standing in front of him one afternoon.
Still, no answer. Only silence just the furious eyes that looked at me
Days passed. The quiet between us stretched thin, but I kept returning. I didn't know why. Maybe I wanted him to acknowledge me. Maybe I wanted to matter to someone who seemed like he didn't need anyone.
Then came the day that changed everything.
He wasn't sitting upright anymore. He was slumped forward, and there was blood — trailing down from his temple, trickling into his collar. His face was pale, eyes half-shut.
My heart stopped. I didn't think — I ran.
"Mom!" I shouted, bursting into the house. "There's a boy—he's hurt! In the park!"
She didn't hesitate. We brought him home, my mother laying him gently onto the couch, her hands quick but careful as she cleaned the wound. He didn't speak. He didn't resist. He just stared blankly at the ceiling like the pain had already eaten through him.
An hour later, the doorbell rang.
A woman — around thirty-five — stood there. She wore a black cropped jacket and pale shorts despite the chill, her eyes lined with exhaustion and something harder beneath it.
She looked past us and saw him.
"Souh," she said softly, stepping inside. Her voice was both relief and reprimand.
She thanked my mother. They talked for a while — and somehow, just like thathey became friends.
And that's how it began.
Not with introductions.
Not with smiles.
But with silence, blood, and a boy who wouldn't speak —
and a boy who couldn't stop trying to understand why.
And that was how i saw him.