The Boy Who Collected Lost Souls

The First Time I Saw Him

The first time I saw the boy, he was sitting on the edge of the school playground beside a kid who was crying.

It was lunchtime. Everyone else was loud and fast—running, shouting, trading snacks and secrets. But he sat there quietly, legs crossed, not saying much, just passing tissues from a crumpled packet in his pocket.

He didn’t try to cheer the kid up with jokes. He didn’t tell him to “stop crying” or “be strong.”

He just sat with him. Present. Calm. Steady.

I remember thinking, Who does that?

Who chooses the shadows when there’s so much noise and light to hide in?

That was the first time someone whispered to me,

“That’s Ayan. He collects lost souls.”

They said it like a joke.

But it didn’t feel like one.

The Quiet Collector

Ayan was the kind of boy most people forgot to notice.

He wasn’t the loud one.

He wasn’t the class topper.

He wasn’t the troublemaker or the clown.

He was just… there.

Last bench, near the window. Always with a small notebook. Always with a pen behind his ear. Always listening more than he spoke.

If you looked quickly, he seemed ordinary. But if you watched a little longer, you saw it:

• He sat with the kid who never had lunch.

• He walked slowly with the boy who limped, matching his pace.

• He stayed back after school to help the girl who was scared to cross the road alone.

• He asked the janitor how his day was—and actually waited for the answer.

He moved through the world like someone walking through a library, careful not to disturb the stories around him.

People called those kids and grown-ups “weird,” “problematic,” “too much,” or “too quiet.”

Ayan had his own word for them.

“Lost souls,” he said once, with a small smile.

“The ones who feel invisible, or broken, or left behind. I like them.”

What He Kept in His Notebook

One day, curiosity finally won.

We were sitting under a tree after school, waiting for the rain to stop. His notebook was next to him, and the corner of a page was sticking out.

“What do you write in there?” I asked, trying to sound casual.

He hesitated for a second, then slid the notebook toward me.

“Go on. Just don’t laugh.”

Inside, I expected to see homework, doodles, or random scribbles.

Instead, I saw lists.

Names.

Short descriptions.

Small details.

Rafi – likes green. Misses his grandma. Hates loud noises.

Samra – laughs a lot but cries in the bathroom. Loves drawing birds.

Uncle Kareem – sits alone at the bus stop every day. Talks about his late wife. Loves mango ice cream.

Page after page, there they were: tiny snapshots of people.

“You’re… writing about them?” I asked.

He shrugged.

“I don’t write everything. Just one thing I want to remember about them. Something that makes them more than their pain.”

“Why?” I pressed.

He thought for a moment, then said something I’ve never forgotten.

“Because when people feel lost,” he said softly, “they forget they are still people. I don’t want to forget them too.”

He wasn’t collecting their sadness.

He was collecting their humanity.

Their favorite colors.

Their small habits.

Their hidden talents.

Their quiet dreams.

He called them lost souls.

But in his notebook, they didn’t feel lost at all.

The Day I Became a Lost Soul

Back then, I didn’t think I needed him.

I had friends. I had grades. I had jokes, confidence, and a version of myself that looked perfectly fine from the outside.

But life is funny. It doesn’t always knock before it walks in and rearranges everything.

A few years later, my world quietly fell apart.

Nothing exploded. No huge drama. Just… pressure. Expectations. Fights at home. A sense that I was never enough, no matter how hard I tried.

I started waking up tired.

I started losing interest in things I used to love.

I started feeling like I was watching my own life from a distance.

One afternoon, I found myself alone on the same school bench where I’d once seen him with someone else. My chest felt heavy. My throat tight. I felt like I was disappearing, even though I was still sitting there.

And then I heard his voice.

“Hey,” he said, sitting down beside me, not asking for permission. “Are you okay?”

I almost lied. I almost said, “Yeah, I’m fine,” like everyone always does. But something about his tone, his presence, made the words fall out differently.

“I don’t know,” I whispered. “I just feel… lost.”

He didn’t give me advice. He didn’t tell me to be positive. He didn’t start listing solutions like a self-help book.

He just nodded, as if being lost was a perfectly normal, acceptable state of being.

“Okay,” he said gently. “Then let’s be lost together for a while.”

We sat in silence for a long time.

No fixing. No forcing. Just sharing the space.

Later, when I got up to leave, he didn’t say, “You’ll be okay,” or “Cheer up.”

He just said, “If you want, I’ll add you to my notebook.”

I laughed weakly. “What would you write about me?”

He thought for a second.

“I’d write:

‘Tries to act strong, but cares deeply. Laughs loud, worries quietly. Still searching, but hasn’t given up.’”

That sentence held me together for months.

Because it reminded me that someone saw me—not just my grades, my image, or my mistakes.

Me.

Growing Up, Growing Out, Growing Back

Life moved on, as it always does.

We graduated. People scattered. Some left the city, some got married, some vanished into jobs and responsibilities.

Ayan and I lost touch for a while.

Years later, I walked into a small community center in a quieter part of town. I was there for a volunteering event. People were sitting in circles—some sad, some tired, some angry, some just lonely.

And there he was.

Older, a little taller, still carrying a notebook.

He was leading a support group. Not as a therapist or a coach—he wasn’t wearing any kind of official badge. Just as a human who cared enough to show up.

He listened more than he spoke.

He remembered their names.

He asked about their week, their little victories, their worries.

I waited until everyone left, then walked up to him.

“You’re still collecting lost souls,” I said.

He laughed, the same soft laugh from school.

“Maybe,” he replied. “Or maybe I’m just making sure people know they’re not really lost. Just… wandering.”

He didn’t call what he did a gift or a mission.

He called it “paying attention.”

“Most people don’t need someone to fix their life,” he told me that day.

“They just need someone to notice they exist.”

The Lesson I Still Carry

I used to think “lost souls” were broken people. People with big problems, messy lives, or hidden scars.

But the boy who collected lost souls taught me something different:

A lost soul can be anyone.

The friend who always makes jokes but goes home to cry.

The colleague who stays late so they don’t have to go back to an empty room.

The neighbor who smiles at you every morning but hasn’t had a real conversation in weeks.

The kid who gets labeled “difficult” because no one has time to listen.

And sometimes, a lost soul is you.

Me.

All of us, at different times.

You don’t have to be perfect, fixed, or successful to be worthy of care.

You are worthy—while confused, while healing, while searching.

Even when you feel like you don’t belong anywhere, you still belong to life.

Conclusion — We Can All Be Collectors

I don’t know where Ayan’s notebook is now. I don’t know how many names are written in it, how many stories he’s held quietly in his hands.

But I know this: his way of moving through the world changed mine.

Now, when I see someone sitting alone, I don’t just walk past.

When a friend says, “I’m fine” with tired eyes, I stay a little longer.

When a stranger looks like they’re carrying too much, I offer a small kindness—a smile, a kind word, a moment of real attention.

I don’t have a notebook like his.

But I carry people in my memory. In my heart. In the way I choose to treat them.

You don’t need to be a hero to help.

You don’t need professional training to care.

You don’t need all the answers to sit beside someone who feels lost.

You just need to notice.

To listen.

To stay.

Maybe that’s what being human really is—a quiet collection of souls we’ve touched, even for a brief moment, by reminding them:

“You’re still here.

You still matter.

You’re not as lost as you think.”

And maybe, without realizing it, you’ve already been collecting lost souls too.

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Thank you for reading...

Regards: Fazal Hadi