A stood by the balcony, gripping the broken iron grill. Outside, a steady drizzle was falling, soaking the dusty city streets. To Akash, his life felt just like those streets—covered in the dust of humiliation all day, longing like a thirsty bird for a single drop of peaceful rain at night. But even that rain tasted like salt today.
He reached into his pocket and found a crumpled twenty-taka note and a few loose coins. He was caught in a soul-crushing calculation: should he buy a strip of his father's medicine tomorrow morning, or a small portion of rice for his mother?
He was a son of the middle class—trapped in a world where he could neither beg for help nor lay bare his soul to show his scarcity. Earlier that afternoon, his younger sister had asked, "Bhaiya, can my college fees be paid tomorrow?" Akash had only managed a faint smile and a nod. Only he knew the depth of the agony and helplessness hidden behind that smile.
On his way back from the office, he had seen a man the entire neighborhood knew as a "vulture." A moneylender. He was clutching a rickshaw puller by the collar, screaming over a few measly coins. The rickshaw puller's tears were merging with the falling rain. Akash felt a desperate urge to protest, but the emptiness of his own pockets turned him to stone. His middle-class pride wouldn't let him reach out for help, yet his poverty wouldn't let him sleep in peace.
He returned to his room and opened his laptop, where the page of his 'WebNovel' flickered on the screen. 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.
He began to write. No fairy tales this time; he wrote about his own caged life. Each word fell onto the digital page like a silent scream. He wrote about people who forget the need for new clothes because they are too consumed by the worry of 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."
As the night faded and the first light of dawn broke, Akash 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.
Perhaps one day these clouds will clear. Perhaps one day his sister's college fees will no longer be overdue. Driven by the hope of that one day, Akash began to type again. Nothing but death would stay his hand—because an author cannot die until the stories of the needy are told to the end.