Hayat woke up with a strange feeling today—like he'd overslept on his own potential.
His eyes opened, but his soul felt late.Late to improvement.Late to opportunity.Late to becoming the version of himself he thought he'd be by now.
He stared at the ceiling and felt a quiet panic crawl across his chest.
"My youth is slipping,"he thought,"and I'm not doing anything remarkable with it."
MORNING: TIME IS A THIEF WITH HIS NAME ON THE LIST
While brushing his teeth, he watched himself in the mirror and saw what others didn't:
Not a young man—but a man running out of "young."
His eyes looked tired in a way sleep couldn't fix.
He imagined himself at 40, 50, 60…
"Will I look back and see nothing worth remembering?"
He tried to shake the thought but it clung to his ribs.
"Everyone says youth is the time to experiment, explore, build something…What am I building?What have I explored?What will I regret?"
He touched his hairline—not receding, not yet—but one day, inevitably.
And that someday terrified him more than anything else.
"I'm wasting my youth on overthinking…But I can't stop overthinking because I'm terrified of wasting my youth."
A trap.A loop.A prison made out of thoughts.
BREAKFAST: THE FEAR OF NEVER IMPROVING
While eating a simple breakfast, his brain whispered:
"Why am I still the same person?I should've grown by now."
He listed things he wanted to change:
be more confident
improve his career
be healthier
be emotionally stable
understand his purpose
maybe fall in love
become someone admirable
become someone he could be proud of
But each goal felt like a mountain he didn't have the equipment to climb.
He stirred his tea absentmindedly.
"Why am I not getting better?Why do I keep repeating the same patterns?"
And the darker thought followed:
"What if I'm fundamentally incapable of becoming the person I want to be?"
He hated that thought.But it was always there.
THE WALK: LIFE IS HAPPENING WITHOUT HIM
Outside, he saw young people living loudly—laughing, talking, running, flirting, existing freely.
Hayat walked quietly among them like a ghost.
He felt separated from life,like he was watching it through glass.
"Everyone else is doing something—traveling, dating, making memories,starting things, ending things…LIVING."
He walked slower.
"What am I doing?Just surviving?Just passing time?"
The fear hit him hard:
"What if I reach old age and realize I watched life instead of living it?"
He imagined himself at 80 saying:
"I missed everything because I was scared or tired or confused."
The image hurt.
WORKDAY: LOVE AND ITS IMPOSSIBLE DISTANCE
At his desk, barely working, he wondered:
"Why have I never fallen in love properly?"
He'd liked people before.But he never believed he was enough for them.
"Maybe I don't deserve love.Maybe happiness is for people who aren't this…broken inside."
He spun slightly in his chair.
"I want to love someone.I want someone to know me.I want to care and be cared for."
But then the fear again:
"What if I ruin it?What if I'm too complicated?What if I am emotionally unfixable?"
Love felt like a language he never learned.
Purpose felt like a map he never received.
And memories…the ones he had felt small, blurry, almost disposable.
"I want a life worth remembering.But I don't know how to create one."
LUNCH: MORTALITY SITS AT THE TABLE AGAIN
While eating alone at his desk, he thought about death again.Not dramatically.Just realistically.
"One day I'll die.Everyone I know will die.Everything I do will fade."
He took a slow breath.
"So why is it so hard to make the present meaningful?Why do I feel like I'm waiting for something?What am I waiting for?"
No answer.Just silence.
He put the last bite in his mouth and thought:
"If life is temporary,shouldn't it feel more beautiful?"
Instead, it felt fragile.And confusing.And too fast.
EVENING: DOES HE DESERVE HAPPINESS?
Walking home, he whispered to himself:
"Do I even deserve happiness?"
It wasn't a dramatic question.It was tired.Quiet.Almost logical.
He thought about all the times he gave up, all the laziness, all the fear, all the running away.
"Maybe I haven't earned joy.Maybe I haven't worked hard enough for it."
Then another thought:
"Do people need to earn happiness?Or is happiness supposed to be a basic human right?"
He didn't know.
All he knew was that joy felt distant—like a star too far away to touch.
NIGHT: LIVING WITH THE WEIGHT OF POTENTIAL
Lying in bed, he stared at the ceiling again—his unofficial therapist.
His thoughts crawled out, one by one:
"I'm scared my youth will end before I do something meaningful."
"I'm scared I'll stay the same forever."
"I'm scared life is happening around me, not with me."
"I'm scared I'll never be loved."
"I'm scared I'll never find purpose."
"I'm scared nothing I do matters."
"I'm scared of dying."
"I'm scared of living."
He swallowed hard.
His heart felt heavy—not sad, just carrying too many truths at once.
Finally, he whispered:
"I don't know if I deserve happiness…but I really, really want it."
And that was the most honest thing he'd said all day.
Sleep eventually found him—not because he felt at peace,but because his thoughts finally got tired of tormenting him.
Tomorrow, he would wake up again.Still confused.Still scared.Still searching.
But alive.
And sometimes, being alive is its own kind of hope.