Silent Weigh

There was once a boy who loved his father more than anything. He grew up surrounded by both his parents, feeling the warmth of a home that, for a while, felt, whole. But life changed too soon. When he was only eight years old, his father took his own life, leaving behind a silence that the boy never truly understood, but always carried.

From that moment on, he tried to keep moving forward. He found comfort in his grandfather became his guide, his safe place, the person who gave him a sense of direction when everything else felt confusing. But even that love couldn't heal the wound he kept hidden deep inside.

As he grew older, the pain didn't fade. It transformed. It became a shadow that followed him everywhere. At thirteen or fourteen, he finally opened up to a girl at school. They weren't close friends, but he trusted her enough to share the thoughts he had been carrying alone for years. She didn't have all the answers, but she listened. She words might help him see himself differently, even if just for a moment.

Still, he remained guarded. He acted like nothing mattered, like no one could reach him. He pushed people away, got into trouble, smoked, and behaved recklessly. On the outside, he looked tough, angry, unreachable. But behind that attitude was a boy who missed his father, a boy who didn't know how to live with so much pain, a boy who had never been taught how to heal.

Then life struck him again. His grandfather -the man who had held him together when everything fell apart- passed away unexpectedly. Another loss. Another piece of his heart gone. Losing his grandfather was like losing the last bit of stability he had left. After that, his path grew darker, heavier, harder to navigate.

I only spoke with him that one time, when he shared what he felt inside. We weren't close, but I always knew he was a good person. Not because he's gone now, but because even then, I could see it. I saw the pain in his eyes, the kind doesn't come from being bad, but from being hurt too deeply, too young. He wasn't cruel. He wasn't lost by choice. He was a child trying to survive wounds that would have broken anyone.

Years passed. I left that school, and we lost contact. Then one day, I heard the news. He had died. A tragic, painful death that no one deserves. His life had taken a difficult turn, shaped by grief he never learned to manage. Even though he had his mother and people who cared about him, he still felt alone, empty, trapped in memories that never let him breathe.

When I found out it was him -the boy who once trusted me with his truth- I felt a deep sadness. It didn't seem real. It hurt to know that he child who once reached out for help, who carried so much love and so much pain, ended up overwhelmed by the very things he never knew how to let go of.

I don't tell this story to judge him. I tell it to remember him.

To remind myself -and anyone who reads this- that behind every troubled child, every troubled child, every angry teenager, every person who seems unreachable, there often a heart carrying more than it can hold. He was not defined by how his life ended. He was a boy who loved deeply, who lost too much, who tried to be strong, who asked for help in the only way he knew how.

And he deserved a kinder world.