Ryaan's POV

I don’t write much anymore.

There was a time when I believed that writing could save me.

That putting my pain into words would make it smaller.

That if I kept remembering the people I loved, they would somehow still live.

But now… the only thing that lives is fire.

---

I was sixteen when I held her in my arms.

Maryam.

Her face — still.

Not peaceful.

Just… gone.

One second she was laughing at me for overboiling lentils.

The next — silence.

A drone.

A single hum.

Then light.

Then ash.

I screamed her name until I tasted blood.

No one came.

---

The girl who used to draw suns in the dirt,

who used to fall asleep holding a red-and-white scarf,

who once asked if the stars would come back...

She never even got a proper grave.

Only stones.

And me.

---

They said I changed after that.

No.

I didn’t change.

The world did.

Or maybe it always was this cruel — and I just hadn’t fully understood it yet.

---

You want to know how boys become fighters?

Not because they’re born hating.

But because they’re broken by a world that never cared enough to protect them.

Because when a boy loses his mother in one strike,

his father in another,

his sister in the third —

and the world only says, “It’s complicated” —

what is he supposed to do?

When aid stops at borders,

when people debate your humanity on TV panels,

when you bury your childhood under rubble —

what’s left?

---

I remember once — years ago — I saw a man hurt a woman in the shelter.

I threw a rock at him.

I thought: He’s a monster. How can he do that in a place already filled with death?

Now I wonder:

Am I different?

I joined the fighters.

I carry a rifle.

I walk tunnels beneath our city like veins in a bleeding body.

I am seventeen.

And I feel eighty.

---

I didn’t join for glory.

I joined because no one listened.

Because writing names in a notebook didn’t save Maryam.

Because the world forgot us.

And I didn’t want to be forgotten too.

---

Sometimes, I still dream.

In my sleep, I’m back in the alleyway.

She’s holding my hand, pointing at a bird.

And I’m just her brother again.

Not this.

Not… whatever I’ve become.

I wake up crying.

But the tears feel different now.

More like fuel.

---

You asked me why.

Why I joined.

Why I fight.

I’ll tell you:

Because grief with no justice becomes fire.

Because silence is its own kind of violence.

Because when the world lets children die quietly —

some of us decide we won’t die quietly too.

---

But I still carry the notebook.

The one with Maryam’s drawings.

The one with all their names.

Even now —

I want the world to remember

before I, too, disappear.

There was a boy today.

Maybe eight. Maybe younger.

Dirty cheeks. Barefoot.

Holding a broken toy car with one wheel.

He wasn’t crying.

Just standing there in the ruins,

staring at nothing —

like something had already left him.

---

I don't know why I stopped.

Maybe it was the way the dust clung to his eyelashes.

Maybe it was because the rubble behind him looked just like the place I lost Maryam.

I crouched down, looked him in the eyes.

He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t speak.

Just stared.

I asked, “Where’s your family?”

No answer.

I asked again.

Still nothing.

Just that hollow, quiet gaze

that said more than words ever could.

---

Something inside me twisted.

Anger.

No — not just anger.

Grief.

Pity.

Hatred.

But not at him.

At the world.

At myself.

At everything.

---

I wanted to scream.

What are we doing?

What are they doing — the ones in suits, the ones with maps and drones?

What are we doing — with our tunnels and rifles and promises of martyrdom?

What does it matter if we win or lose,

if boys like this don’t even know what a childhood feels like?

---

I should’ve said something kind.

I should’ve given him water.

I should’ve—

But instead…

I just stood up.

Walked away.

Because I didn’t know what I was feeling.

Because part of me saw myself in him —

and I hated it.

Not him.

But that reflection.

That helpless boy with no control,

no home,

no mother to call for,

no sister to hold.

That boy died when Maryam did.

And seeing him —

seeing that boy still alive — broke something.

---

I sat under the tunnel light tonight,

rifle by my side,

heart heavy.

And for the first time in months,

I wished I could go back.

Not to undo what’s happened.

I know that’s impossible.

But to be him again.

The boy with scraped knees.

With a sister tugging his sleeve.

With a mother shouting, “If you don’t eat, I’ll disappear!”

Because the truth is…

she did.

They all did.

---

So maybe that’s why I keep fighting.

Not for revenge.

Not for politics.

But because I don’t know what else to do

with all this sorrow

and all this rage

and all these memories that won’t stop clawing at me in the dark.

---

That boy might forget me.

But I’ll remember him.

Because he reminded me

that I’m not as far gone as I pretend to be.

And I don’t know

if that’s a mercy

or a curse.