A 24 Year-old boy lay on the hospital bed, his eyes fixed on the cold, white ceiling—silent, still, and full of thoughts no one could hear
"Ahhh… life.
They say life is a journey — a climb, a race, a dream worth chasing. So I chased
Eighteen years in school —
Uniforms, exams, dreams written in margins of notebooks.
Then six more, chasing degrees that promised a future.
Six years in college --
Post-grad, pressure, placements.
No sleep. No peace.
But hope? Always."
He thought
They said, "Work hard now, and one day, you'll be successful "
So I did.
I gave it everything.
Missed birthday, skipped sunsets, traded laughs for lectures.
And then... this room.
This ceiling.
This silence.
This report.
The doctor didn't even flinch — just read it out like a weather forecast.
"Stage this, grade that."
I didn't hear much after the word cancer.
My brain just… stopped.
Is this the prize?
After all that effort?
After giving life everything — it just gives me this?
No warning. No mercy.
Just a white paper And a countdown.
You know what's funny?
I spent years preparing for a life I might never get to live.
And now, suddenly, I have time to feel.
To think.
To fear.
Maybe that's the cruelest part —
Not dying.
But realizing I never truly lived....
But the part that breaks me the most…
Is not the report.
Not the diagnosis.
It's the look on my parents' faces.
They don't cry — not in front of me.
They sit there, quietly, holding my hand a little tighter than usual.
But I can see it.
In their eyes.
That heavy mix of helplessness and hope, both choking at once.
I don't know exactly what they feel —
But I know that look.
That look of someone who gave you everything…
And now they have no idea how to save me.
They gave me their love, their care,
All the money they could afford — and more than they should have.
They're not rich.
Not poor enough for pity either.
They're those forgotten people — the middle class.
The ones who dream silently and sacrifice loudly.
They raised three of us.
Three children.
I'm the middle one.
Not the first miracle, not the last hope —
Just the one in between.
And now, here I am…
Lying in this hospital bed,
Knowing they did everything for me…
And I might not get to give anything back.
That's what hurts the most.
Not the pain.
Not the sickness.
But that look on their faces —
Like the world has betrayed them… through me.
Cancer.
For the rich, it's a battle.
For the poor, it's a death sentence.
And for people like us — the so-called middle class —
It's a quiet war we can't afford to fight,
But we fight anyway… bleeding silently.
I know what's coming.
I know the money my parents are going to borrow,
The gold they'll sell,
The house they'll mortgage,....
Just to keep me breathing one more month.
One more test.
One more injection that costs more than their monthly salary.
But.....There's no guarantee I'll live.
Not even hope dressed in sugarcoated lies.
Just… chances. Percentages.
Numbers written in hospital ink.
And what if I do survive?
What then?
I'm supposed to feel grateful.
But how do I carry the weight of knowing
My life came at the cost of theirs?
My father — who worked overtime,
Who skipped new shoes every year just to buy us books.
My mother — who smiled even when her clothes were torn..
And my siblings…
They won't say anything now.
But I know — in one year, two maybe —
The cracks will show.
Their life paused… because of me.
I didn't ask for this.
But now, I carry it.
Not just the disease —
But the guilt of becoming the reason my family breaks.
Sometimes I wonder…
Would it have been better if I had just…
faded away quietly?
If there is a God…
Or some force floating in this endless universe…
Something — anything — that listens between the billionaires of thoughts flying through the sky,
Please…
Grant me a wish.
Not a miracle.
Not a cure.
Just… let me disappear.
No noise.
No pain.
No goodbyes or pity-filled stares.
Just gone — like mist at sunrise.
I know my parents will cry.
They'll break when they don't see me.
But at least they won't go bankrupt trying to keep me alive.
At least they won't spend every night whispering prayers to a god that stays silent.
This, I believe, is the best ending I can give them.
Not years of watching their child slowly fade,
Not the endless loans,
Not the family breaking apart under hospital lights.
Just absence.
Quick. Quiet. Final.
Because I love them too much to watch them suffer.
I'd rather become their memory
Then their burden.
And if anyone — any god — is really listening…
Please....
*************
But even that isn't the whole story.
There's something else. Something that stings more quietly.
In my 24 years of life,
I never felt love.
Real love.
Not even a passing look that made me feel seen.
I wasn't the charming type. Not the kind of guy who got noticed.
My face — awkward, uneven, forgettable. My confidence? Broken.
My voice? It worked around friends, sure. But when it comes to girls? I shattered.
There was one girl. Not the prettiest, not the most popular. Just... kind. Warm.
The kind of girl who smiled even when no one noticed.
And I ruined it.
Not with honesty,
but with pride,Ego
I made jokes. I acted tough. I insulted her just to get laughs from my friends.
And she doesn't even notice
Of course she did not...
I wasn't brave enough to even say hello.
Looking back, I wonder what if I had just been myself?
But then again… what did I have to offer?
No looks. No money. No clever lines.
Before I ever let myself feel something for a girl, I'd always stop and ask:
"If I were her… would I like me?"
And I always knew the answer.
But that's all past now.
She's living her life, probably smiling at someone who had the courage to speak.
And I'm here — in this cold room, with fading light and ticking machines — wondering if I ever truly lived...
And now I think this is the best thing I give her ....
Maybe this is how my story ends.
Not in fire. Not in glory.
Just… in silence.
With regrets I carry alone.
The room was still"
*****
"I never really believed in God.
Not in the way people do — with folded hands and closed eyes.
But every morning- night I watched my mother pray.
Hands trembling, eyes shut tight, whispering the same words over and over again —
As if she could bargain with the universe.
And for a long time, I let her carry the faith for both of us.
Maybe I thought it would be enough.
Maybe a small flame of her belief could light something inside me.
And for a while… it did.
A flicker.
A faint hope I didn't dare speak aloud.
But today, I looked at her again.
Kneeling. Praying.
Tears running down her cheeks, but lips still moving like the words had become a habit, not hope.
And that's when I realized —
She doesn't believe anymore either.
She's just afraid to stop.
Because what's left, after hope?
Me. That's what's left.
Not God.
Not angels.
Just me —
24, scared, sick, skin wrapped around bones…
And still breathing.
So no.
I won't wait for a miracle anymore.
I won't sit in this bed and count down seconds like they're prayers..
" I must do it on my own."