Sohel stood on the mess balcony, gazing at the sky. Clouds were gathering above, mirroring the heap of anxieties piling up in the corners of his mind. In his hand was a cigarette burnt down to the filter; with every puff of smoke, he seemed to be trying to exhale the unspoken cries of his life.
He hadn't been able to send money home since last month. His father didn't say anything over the phone, but his voice sounded unusually heavy. Sohel knew his father had likely taken a loan from a moneylender. Now, that mountain of debt was crushing their small family. When his mother said, "Son, take care of your health, make sure you eat," Sohel looked down at his plate of plain rice and lentils, hiding his tears. He knew exactly how hard he had to fight just to put that simple meal on the table.
With a heavy sigh, Sohel opened his laptop. The 'Webnovel' page glowed on the screen—a living, breathing witness to his struggle. He didn't know if these fictional characters would ever guarantee him two square meals a day. Sometimes, he felt like breaking his pen and begging a middle-man for a job. But then he remembered—this pen was his only weapon.
That afternoon, he had gone to the market. While counting twenty taka at a stall for cheap rice, a wealthy man nearby looked at him with sheer contempt. Sohel wanted to scream, "Do you have any idea how many sleepless nights went into earning these twenty taka?"
Back home, he sat down to write again. No fairy tales this time. He wrote about the vultures who profit from people's poverty. He wrote about the ledgers where interest is calculated not in numbers, but in human tears. As he wrote, the ink from Sohel's pen seemed to bleed onto the page like drops of blood.
The night deepened. Sohel kept typing. Outside, the distant barking of dogs echoed through the streets. The city slept soundly, but Sohel's eyes were wide awake. He was fueled by a singular, stubborn resolve: "I must succeed. This story cannot just be a story—it must become the tool that brings a smile back to my family's face."
He knew that nothing but death could stay his hand. His life was now a living novel, where every day was a new battle. He might be penniless today, but the power in his pen was something no middle-man's money could ever buy.
Sohel looked out the window and smiled faintly. The darkness would eventually give way to the dawn—it was this tiny spark of faith that kept him alive.