Rafiq stood beneath a flickering streetlamp in a quiet corner of the city. In his hand was a plastic bag containing just half a kilogram of rice and a single egg—the entirety of today's budget. He reached into his pocket and found only five taka remaining. A crease formed on his forehead as he tried to solve the impossible math: should he use this for tomorrow morning's tea, or buy a small candy for his little daughter?
Rafiq was a son of the middle class, and his life was a constant tug-of-war. On one side was his father's medical prescription; on the other was the debt ledger gathering dust in the corner of the room. Every time he looked at that book, his heart skipped a beat. He was learning the hard way that borrowed money is a curse that bleeds you dry, drop by drop, through the hands of those heartless creditors.
On his way home from the office, Rafiq saw a man in a luxury car casually tossing around thousand-taka notes. He wanted to scream, "Brother, just one of those notes could buy my rice for an entire month!" But his middle-class pride kept him silent. He simply let out a heavy sigh and kept walking, dragging his worn-out sandals behind him.
When he reached home, he found his daughter fast asleep. Her school diary lay open near her pillow, with a bold reminder written inside: 'Tomorrow is the last day to pay the tiffin fee.' Rafiq's eyes welled up. He opened his old laptop, where the page of his 'WebNovel' flickered on the screen. He began to write.
He didn't write about princes or fairy tales. He wrote about people who forget the need for new clothes because they are too worried about their next meal—people who are too ashamed to beg, yet are slowly crumbling inside. As he wrote, it felt as if his ink was running dry. He whispered to himself, "Let the ink run out, but let the fire of my struggle never fade."
It was 2:30 AM. Rafiq noticed his laptop battery was dying, but one chapter of his story remained unfinished. He knew that maybe no one would read this, or maybe it would never bring in any money. Yet, this writing was his only lifeline.
He looked out the window at the dark sky. Life was hard—unbearably hard. But Rafiq refused to surrender. He knew that as long as he drew breath, he would have to keep writing his life's story with his own blood on these white pages.
Perhaps one day these clouds will clear. Perhaps one day his daughter's school fees will no longer be overdue. Driven by the hope of that one day, Rafiq began to type again. Nothing but death would stay his hand.