𝘉𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘊𝘪𝘵𝘺’𝘴 𝘚𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘚𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘵𝘴

𝘏𝘰𝘰𝘬 — 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘎𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵’𝘴 𝘏𝘪𝘥𝘥𝘦𝘯

Sometimes the quietest places hold the loudest truths.

I learned that the night I wandered into the old tunnels beneath the city—

a place most people pretend doesn’t exist.

I wasn’t looking for adventure.

I wasn’t even looking for answers.

I was simply trying to outrun the kind of loneliness that follows you even in crowds.

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘛𝘶𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘭𝘴 𝘕𝘰 𝘖𝘯𝘦 𝘛𝘢𝘭𝘬𝘴 𝘈𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵

The entrance wasn’t hard to find.

It was a cracked stairway behind a closed-down café, the kind of forgotten corner you only notice when you’re paying attention to everything except your own life.

I had walked past it for years.

But that night, curiosity tugged at my sleeve like a child asking to be heard.

The air changed the moment I stepped down.

The city’s noise—cars, voices, music—muffled into a soft hum above me.

Down here, it felt like the world was holding its breath.

The walls were covered in old paint and faint words, as if countless strangers had tried to carve out proof of their existence.

Messages, dates, small drawings—tiny fingerprints of lives that had once passed this way.

I remember running my hand along a faded sentence:

“𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘴, 𝘸𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳.”

It stopped me.

Not because it was poetic, but because it felt like someone had written it for me.

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘎𝘪𝘳𝘭 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘛𝘪𝘮𝘣𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘏𝘦𝘳 𝘝𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦

I wasn’t alone.

Near an old maintenance room, I heard music.

Soft, trembling music—like someone singing to themselves when they think no one is listening.

Her voice echoed through the tunnels, fragile but steady.

That’s when I found her—

a girl sitting on the ground with a small battery-powered lamp beside her, sketching in a notebook.

She looked up, surprised but not scared.

“People don’t usually come down here,” she said.

I shrugged. “I could say the same about you.”

She smiled.

A real smile, not the kind people give just to be polite.

Her name was Lina.

And she told me the tunnels were her “quiet place.”

“A place where the city stops shouting,” she said.

“A place where my thoughts finally line up instead of crashing into each other.”

I understood that more than she knew.

We talked for a long time—about life, about getting lost, about trying not to fall apart in a world that moves too fast.

Every word she said felt like a soft light in a dark hallway.

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘚𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘉𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘥 𝘉𝘦𝘕𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘜𝘴

As we walked deeper into the tunnels, she showed me things most people would never see.

Old murals painted by artists who didn’t care if anyone ever found their work.

Rusty pipes humming softly like they were singing their own secret lullaby.

Hidden rooms filled with forgotten objects—photographs, ticket stubs, trinkets.

“This place is like the city’s memory,” she said.

“All the parts it doesn’t show to the world.”

And she was right.

In those dusty corners, the city felt more human.

We even found an entire wall covered with small paper notes stuck with tape and gum.

Messages from strangers—hopes, heartbreaks, little confessions.

I read one:

“𝘐’𝘮 𝘰𝘬𝘢𝘺, 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘥.”

Another:

“𝘞𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘐 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘦 𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘷𝘦.”

And another:

“𝘚𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦. 𝘐 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬.”

It felt like standing inside a beating heart.

For the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel invisible.

𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘞𝘦 𝘊𝘭𝘪𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘥 𝘉𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘛𝘰 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘔𝘶𝘳𝘮𝘶𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘭 𝘓𝘪𝘧𝘦

Hours passed without us noticing.

Eventually, we found ourselves climbing up another hidden stairway that opened into a quiet alley behind a bookstore.

The city lights greeted us like an old friend—warm, lively, familiar.

Lina looked around and said, “Funny how loud the world feels after a little silence.”

I nodded.

But I also felt something new stirring inside me.

Something peaceful.

Something steady.

Meeting her—meeting that place—didn’t solve all my problems.

It didn’t erase the loneliness I had carried for so long.

But it shifted something.

Reminded me that there are layers to this world, to people, to ourselves.

Layers worth exploring.

Layers worth understanding.

Layers worth giving a voice to.

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘓𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘐 𝘍𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘉𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘚𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘚𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘵𝘴

I still go back to the tunnels sometimes.

Not to escape—but to remember.

To remember that even in a city full of millions, everyone is carrying something quiet, something hidden, something fragile.

And sometimes, the most beautiful parts of people live in those hidden spaces.

That night taught me a truth I carry everywhere now:

𝘚𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘪𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘵𝘺. 𝘐𝘵’𝘴 𝘧𝘶𝘭𝘭 𝘰𝘧 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘸𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘯’𝘵 𝘵𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘺𝘦𝘵.

And beneath the city’s silent streets, I finally heard mine.

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Thank you for reading...

Regards: Fazal Hadi