The train hummed beneath him, a low mechanical lullaby. Its rhythm wasn't soothing, not really–but it was constant. And these days, constancy was the closest thing to comfort.
He leaned against the window, head pressed to the glass. Outside, a blur of buildings passed by without hurry or interest. It was nearing dusk, though the dying sun managed to cast a light across him, just short of his eyes.
He didn't watch the scenery. He barely noticed it.
He was just tired.
Not from the internship, though that had its share of long hours and silent commutes. Not from the travel either–two trains, a crowded bus, and this final stretch back home. No, his weariness ran deeper. It sat in his bones, his breath, somewhere between the mind and the soul.
He was twenty, and he felt like he'd lived far too long already.
His hands rested loosely in his lap over his bag. Callused, knuckles dry. He hadn't taken care of them lately. He hadn't had time. Or maybe he had, and just hadn't cared. He couldn't quite tell anymore.
He closed his eyes, not to sleep, but to rest from the act of existing. Just for a minute.
And in the stillness behind his eyelids, memories rose like mist.
----
There was a time when life had been simple. Happy, even.
He remembered laughter in the living room. A warm hand ruffling his hair. A younger voice – his brother's – squealing with delight as their father chased them around the sofa. Their mother's voice calling them for dinner, always the same tone of mock scolding and real affection.
They'd never had much, but they'd had enough. Enough food, enough warmth, enough hope. It had been enough to feel safe.
But then came the first slip. His father's company shut down. Layoffs. Promises of severance that never arrived. At first, it was framed as a break. "I'll find something new soon," his father had said. "I just need time."
Weeks passed. Then months.
They cut expenses. He remembered hearing arguments through thin walls–money, bills, the mortgage. He never understood the numbers, just the tone.
Then came the partnership. A friend from his father's past. A business opportunity. It cost what little savings they had left, but it was supposed to fix everything.
It didn't.
And then came the real cracks.
---
He had always been a bright child. Smiling. Eager. Asking questions that made adults pause before answering. He had learned to read earlier than most and devoured everything he could get his hands on–encyclopedias, mythology books, old novels from local libraries.
His parents had noticed. They were happy, proud.
But while they tried to shield him from the weight they carried, he saw it anyway. The stress in their eyes. The too-quiet dinners. The whispered conversations that stopped when he entered the room.
They succeeded in protecting his younger brother. But not him.
He grew up too fast. Learned not to ask for things. Learned how to translate doctor bills into worry lines on his mother's forehead. Learned to keep the house quiet when his father was in bed with a headache that lasted days. Learned that kindness was sometimes all you could offer when money wasn't an option.
He couldn't help financially, not yet. But he could be good. He could support them in other ways–clean the house, help his brother with homework, always do well in school. Be the one thing his parents never had to worry about.
He had given up his childhood not in some grand, sacrificial moment–but in hundreds of small, invisible choices.
And over time, it wore him down.
---
School had not been kind.
He was smarter than the other kids, and that was enough. But he was also kind. Too kind. Too trusting. He spoke with sincerity, shared too much, gave people second chances they didn't deserve. He wanted to belong.
But that wasn't what they wanted from him.
They mocked his earnestness. Laughed when he showed enthusiasm. Twisted his honesty into arrogance. His kindness into weakness.
He didn't understand it at first. He cried once, quietly, after a group of classmates laughed at him for bringing a handmade project to school. He'd been proud of it. Thought it might make them like him. His teacher hadn't intervened. His parents told him to ignore them.
So, he learned. It didn't happen all at once. There was no grand vow or cinematic transformation. Just small, subtle decisions. A shift in tone here. A joke instead of a correction. A shrug instead of an answer.
He began to notice what worked–what made people back off, what made them laugh instead of sneer. Sarcasm helped. Humor helped him even more. Agreeableness made him invisible.
And so, piece by piece, he built it: A persona. A mask.
Not a lie, exactly. More like a filtration system. He still spoke–but only what they wanted to hear. He still smiled–but only when it meant something. He learned to give just enough to be tolerated. To be overlooked.
Because being seen–truly seen–meant being hurt.
And he'd had enough of that.
The mask became habit. Then instinct. Then identity. Over time, even he couldn't remember where the performance ended, and the person began.
He became the "chill guy." The one with a clever line ready, the one who kept his real thoughts locked away behind a laugh. People liked him now, or at least, they didn't target him.
At first, he hated it. Laughing at jokes that punched him down. Letting things slide that once made his blood boil. Becoming someone he wouldn't have trusted.
But somewhere along the way, he started to like it. Not because it was true – but because it worked.
People started including him again. Laughing with him, instead of at him. He wasn't alone in the corner anymore. He was part of something–even if it was only surface-deep.
Because beneath all the bruises, all the bitterness, there was still a part of him that wanted that.
Wanted to be seen.
Wanted to be let in.
The mask let him pretend he was.
And he liked that. He liked not being vulnerable. He liked being unreadable.
But there was a side effect. Something no one warned him about.
The mask didn't blind him.
It made him watch.
It made him see.
People thought he was distracted–goofy, aloof, harmless–but he was always observing. Always reading between the lines. Facial tics, tone shifts, dodged questions, rehearsed laughs–he saw it all. Their intentions. Their selfishness. Their double meanings. He learnt their body language.
Some might've called it cynical.
But it wasn't.
Not when he was right, time and time again.
It wasn't bitterness. It was clarity.
And from the day he learned to watch the world like that, it never failed him.
He saw people for who they were. Often before they even knew themselves.
And that–that was power.
The scariest part?
He started to enjoy it.
There was power in not feeling. In being impossible to read. In smiling at someone while knowing you'd already decided they wouldn't get the real you.
It became a game.
He watched people make assumptions. Build stories around the version of him they thought they saw. And he let them. Because he knew better.
He wouldn't call it cruelty. Not quite.
But there was a quiet satisfaction in turning cold. A private thrill in being unreachable. Inknowing no one could touch what was real anymore–because no one even knew whereto look.
A small, dangerous part of him wanted the world to pay.
Maybe not with violence. But with success.
With silence.
With survival.
Yet, it came with a price.
He didn't feel much anymore. The highs dulled. The lows grew quiet.
Every now and then, he still wished someone would call the bluff. See through his mask. Say, 'I see you anyway.' But no one ever did.
It wasn't quite depression–not numbness, exactly–but something else. Like moving through life in a room with soundproof walls. He could still see joy. Still recognize sorrow. But he no longer experienced them as his own.
He learned to mimic the emotions he was supposed to feel.
This should make me laugh.
This should make me angry.
This should hurt.
So he reacted. Said the right things. Played the part.
But nothing really touched him.
Not because he couldn't feel it–
But because he wouldn't let it in.
Because he couldn't let in it, not anymore.
And, if was honest, there was a part of him, that didn't want to.
Feeling meant risk. Meant exposure. Meant handing someone else the knife and hoping they didn't twist it.
He wasn't willing to do that anymore.
So lived like that. Sharp. Quiet. Untouched.
It was sustainable. Manageable.
Until it wasn't.
Because the silence he's built around himself – layer by layer, year after year – had become heavy. Not Loud. Not violent. Just... constant.
He went to sleep with it. He felt its weight the first thing in the morning when he woke up.
Carried it everywhere like a second skin. Like an armor.
But even an armor wears thin.
And sometimes, on long rides home, face half-lit by the window, city lights flickering past like ghosts, he'd feel the cracks.
Not enough to break.
Just enough to feel how tired he was.
How long he'd been carrying the weight of pretending.
---
The only real escape was in stories.
Books became his refuge. Fantasy, especialy. Stories of other worlds where people could fly, cast spells, defeat monsters, be free. Where rules could be broken, and hope was naive – it was powerful.
Harry Potter was his favorite. Not because of the Boy Who Lived, but because of the world. The magic. The friendships. The freedom. In that world, he didn't have to be tired. In that world, he could breathe.
He read fanfictions late at night, sometimes until the sun rose. Not because they were always good–but because they were alive. In those stories, he could imagine what it was like to be something more. Someone who could do anything.
Someone who wasn't bound by the weight of responsibility.
Someone who wasn't tired.
---
But stories didn't last forever. He grew older. He tried for the competitive exams–put his soul into it, just for one shot at a better life. It didn't work out. He hadn't been lucky. He never was.
So, he joined a private college, because he couldn't bear to waste a year. The fees were high. His parents never said it, but he saw the strain it added. That invisible pressure never left his shoulders. He wanted to be a researcher, to research sciences, but couldn't, as he realized that there was no scope in research, not for a stable living. So, he took a different route. Working for a degree in a subject that he never wanted, only because he was good at it. Because it would provide. Every grade, every placement test, every internship–it wasn't for himself anymore. It was for them. They needed him to succeed. They had no one else.
So, he kept going. One foot in front of the other. Assignment after assignment. Day after day.
He didn't hope. He didn't dream.
he just functioned.
---
"Nice watch," a voice said from his right. He turned, confused.
He was sure there had been an old lady sitting beside him earlier. But the voice wasn't hers. It was a man's voice–low, steady, and unmistakably deep.
And indeed, a man now sat beside him.
"Uh… thanks," the young man replied, his eyes scanning the stranger.
The man was dressed entirely in black–black shirt, black pants, black shoes. Even sitting, he was taller than the boy by at least half a head. There was a certain bulk to him too; the faint outline of muscle beneath his clothes. His face was mostly obscured by a black mask, but his eyes–dark brown, nearly black under the coach's dim lights–looked strangely familiar.
He followed the man's gaze, which had settled on his watch. It was the boy's favorite. His only one, really. But he cherished it all the same.
"You know," the man said, still eyeing it, "I once had the same kind of watch. Though I didn't know it came with that kind of strap."
"It doesn't," the boy said. "I had a leather strap before. But it broke. I just got it replaced a few days ago."
He kept staring at the man, trying to figure out why he looked so familiar. That's when something else caught his eye.
The man's wrist. Or more accurately–what was on it.
He was wearing a watch, yes. But not just any watch.
It looked exactly like the Omnitrixfrom Ben 10: Alien Force. Same raised dial. Same glowing green circle in the center, outlined in black and silver. Same strange, angular alien-tech look.
It was uncanny. Too perfect.
If the boy didn't know better, he'd have thought it was real.
"The Omnitrix?" he blurted before he could stop himself, blinking. "That's insane. It looks–so real."
The man chuckled. A low, resonant sound that rumbled in his chest. "It does, doesn't it?"
"How much did that custom job cost?" the boy asked. "It has to be custom, right? I've never seen anything that accurate."
The man turned slightly, as if thinking. His gaze drifted to the floor, then out the window–though there was only darkness beyond the glass. A faraway look settled over him, like he was remembering something from long, long ago.
"Not as much as you'd expect," he said finally, with a faint smile. "You could say it was a gift. Its maker–an acquaintance of mine–was bored. So he made it and gave it to me."
The boy blinked, trying to process that. A gift? Something so detailed, so flawless, made on a whim and given away like nothing? If he was telling the truth, someone out there had not only the skill to perfectly recreate a fictional device… but the detachment to give it away, just because.
Still, he didn't pry further.
He had just turned back into his seat when the man asked, "So where are you going?"
The boy raised an eyebrow but answered. "Home."
The man hummed softly. "And where are you coming from?"
A stranger asking that would've normally made him uncomfortable. Suspicious, even. But not now. Not from this man.
It didn't feel invasive.
It should have.
Logically, he knew that. The man was still a stranger. Hidden behind a mask. But there was something… steady about him. Solid. He felt trustworthy in a way that didn't make sense.
"Coming from my internship, in Noida," the boy replied, still trying to figure out why this person seemed so familiar… and why he felt so easy to talk to.
The man nodded again. And then, to the boy's mild surprise, he kept going.
"What kind of work?"
"Cybersecurity," the boy answered after a small pause. "Well, sort of. Intern-level stuff. Logs, scripts, packet captures. That kind of thing."
The man hummed thoughtfully. "Do you enjoy it?"
That question caught the boy off guard. Enjoy?
"I guess it doesn't matter," he said. "I'm good at it."
"Not what I asked."
The boy looked at him. The man's eyes weren't judging–just watching.
"Yes," he admitted, looking away. "Yeah, I do. The technical stuff… it's cool. Breaking things down. There's a kind of clarity in it. A flow."
"But," he added, "I didn't exactly choose it. Not at first. I wanted something else–research, maybe. Pure science. But that didn't seem realistic. Not for someone like me. So I took the safer road."
The man's gaze didn't falter.
"And now?"
"Now…" The boy exhaled. "Now it's mine. Even if it wasn't the dream. I've made peace with that."
The man nodded once more, saying nothing. Then, after a beat, he asked more.
Sometimes the questions were focused–about cybersecurity, the tools, the tasks. Other times, they drifted to life in general. His schedule. The pressure. What he thought about when he couldn't sleep. Just quiet, curious inquiries. As if the man was trying to understand the shape of his life.
And the young man answered. Every time.
Each time, he thought, I shouldn't be telling him this.
But the words just kept coming.
It didn't feel like explaining himself to a stranger.
It felt like…finally letting something out. Something that had been locked away for too long. And the strange man didn't feel strange at all. He felt like him. A soul just like him, who had felt it, all just as him.
The train rocked gently along the tracks. The sky outside had faded to deep orange, bruising into indigo. A few scattered lights blinked past the window.
The conversation wound on, calm and strange. Almost peaceful.
Then, just as the train began to slow at the next station, the man stood up. He smoothed hisblack shirt, adjusted his sleeves, and slung a small bag over his shoulder."This is my stop,"he said.The boy looked up, surprised. "Oh. Uh… alright."
The man turned toward the door. And then, just before stepping off the train, he paused and glanced back over his shoulder.
There was something different in his expression. A softness. Maybe sympathy. Maybe reassurance. "Don't worry," he said, smiling faintly. "Go on and live. I'll take care of them."
The boy blinked. "What?"
The man was already stepping down. He stood up, confused. "Wait! What do you mean? Take care of who? Who are you?"
The man looked back one last time, just as he vanished into the crowd on the platform.
"Don't worry," he repeated, softer now. "I think you'll figure it out soon. You're a smart one, after all."
And then he turned and melted into the crowd.
No hesitation. No goodbye.
One moment he was there, the next, he was gone.
He sat back in his seat, staring at the door, trying to piece together what had just happened.
What was that? Take care of them? Take care of who? And what did he mean by Go on and live?
I replayed the conversation in my head, but it didn't help. If anything, it made the whole thing feel even stranger. His words. His questions. That ridiculous watch.
And the way he looked at me–as if he knew me.
It was weird. All of it.
But not unpleasant.
In fact, it had felt… nice.
Nice to just talk. About his work, his days, his frustrations. To not have to carry it all alone in silence for once. No judgment, no expectations–just space. Room to be. He hadn't realized how badly he needed that.
His gaze drifted to the window, where only the faintest reflection of the coach's interior stared back at him.
It felt like something out of a book.
One of those strange, fleeting encounters–an enigmatic stranger who appears out of nowhere, listens without interruption, and then vanishes with cryptic words before you can even ask for a name.
He'd read scenes like that before. Hell, he'd written them in his head during sleepless nights.
And now… it had actually happened to him?
He shook his head softly, almost smiling.
What were the odds? It had to be coincidence.
Just a once-in-a-lifetime oddity. A fluke. A momentary blip in the quiet, grey pattern of his life.
And yet…
He placed his handover his chest. His breathing was steady. His shoulders–lighter than before.
He hadn't noticed it at the time, but now he did. For the first time in a while, he felt… unburdened.
The weight wasn't gone–but it had shifted. Like he'd been allowed to set it down for a moment, to stretch and breathe.
It wouldn't last. He knew that. Even now, he was going back now. Back to expectations. Back to pressure. Back to the life that had wrapped itself so tightly around him that he'd forgotten how to stand up straight.
But still, that had happened. And it was enough.
As so, now, on this train, with his bag tucked under the seat and the sun dipping low in the sky, he closed his eyes once more.
Not to sleep.
Just to exist without demand.
Without expectation. Without weight.
He was just tired.
He exhaled softly. Let the motion of the train carry him forward, wherever it was going.
He didn't hear the final announcement.
He didn't feel the slight jolt as the wheels shifted on the track.
His breath slowed, as if even that was optional.
And somewhere, far from the station, the fates took a breath.
A child would fall and rise.
And the world would begin again.