At ten years old, Arka could already tell someone's mood just by the way they opened the door.
It wasn't something he had learned deliberately. No one had ever taught him. He had never read books about body language or psychology. It was a skill that had emerged on its own, like a child learning to recognize his mother's footsteps in a crowd—except Arka hadn't learned to tell whether someone was coming to hug him. He had learned to tell whether he needed to hide.
If the door opened slowly, with the hinges creaking softly and unhurried footsteps following, maybe everything was all right. Maybe. But Arka was never truly sure. Calm could turn into a storm within minutes. He had already learned that.
If the door opened too hard, with a sound that made the walls tremble slightly, Arka already knew what to do. He would stay quiet. Not talk too much. Not ask questions. Not make unnecessary noise. If someone took off their shoes more loudly than usual—as if they had thrown them onto the floor—he would avoid the front room. If a bag was thrown onto a table or chair, he would go into his room and close the door. Not all the way. He would leave only a small gap, just enough to hear if someone called for him.
This ability made Arka seem perceptive. The people around him—teachers, friends, relatives—often called him understanding. “Arka’s really perceptive,” someone said one day. “He always knows when someone’s sad or angry.” Arka smiled when he heard that. He didn't explain that his ability wasn't something he was proud of. It was something he had learned because he had to. It was a survival tool.
There was a big difference between being perceptive out of empathy and being perceptive out of vigilance. Empathy was the ability to feel what other people felt because you cared. Vigilance was the ability to read signs of danger because you were afraid. Arka didn't know the difference back then. He only knew that reading other people's faces made him safer. And in a home that often felt like an invisible battlefield, safety was everything.
At school, that ability followed him. Arka could tell which teachers were in a bad mood just by the way they entered the classroom. If their steps were heavy and they slammed their books onto the desk, Arka would sit quietly and not ask questions. If the teacher smiled and greeted them in a cheerful voice, Arka might relax a little—but never completely. Because he knew smiles could change.
He could also tell which friends wanted to be left alone. Some kids would suddenly grow quiet, stop talking much, and answer in one or two words. Arka didn't force them to talk. He simply moved away and gave them space, because he knew what it felt like when someone forced you to talk even though you just wanted to be alone.
He knew when someone was joking and when a joke had turned into mockery. There was a fine line between the two, and Arka could see it clearly. He would laugh when everyone else laughed, but he would pause before actually laughing, just to make sure the laughter wasn't aimed at him with malicious intent.
He knew when to laugh along. He knew when to stay quiet. He knew how to adapt to situations and to the people around him. It was a skill he honed every day, unconsciously, like an actor constantly rehearsing his role.
As he grew older, the ability became sharper. He could read microexpressions—the blink of an eye that was too quick, the slight downturn of a mouth, an eyebrow lifting for a fraction of a second. He could detect changes in someone's tone of voice that even the person speaking might not notice. He could feel tension in the air before anyone said anything.
And the sharper the ability became, the farther Arka grew from himself.
Because he was too busy figuring out what other people felt. Too busy making sure everyone around him was comfortable, that no one was angry, that no conflict was about to happen. He spent so much energy reading other people that he forgot to ask himself: What am I feeling?
That question rarely appeared in his mind. And when it did, he often ignored it. Because his own feelings seemed unimportant compared to keeping the peace around him. Because he had learned that his needs were something to suppress, while other people's needs were something to fulfill.
One day, when Arka was eleven, his teacher asked the class, “Who wants to come up front and explain this answer?” No one raised a hand. The problem was fairly difficult. Several children lowered their heads, hoping not to be called on. The teacher looked around the room. Her eyes stopped on Arka.
“You, Arka. Give it a try.”
Arka stood. He didn't panic. He was used to situations like this. He walked to the front of the classroom, picked up a piece of chalk, and began explaining. The words came out smoothly. He showed each step, explaining it in a way that was easy to understand. His classmates paid attention. Some nodded. When he finished, he set down the chalk and returned to his seat.
The teacher smiled. “Very good, Arka. You really are dependable.”
The friend beside him patted his shoulder. “You were awesome, Ka.”
Arka smiled. “Thanks.”
But inside his head, there was only one thought: Thank goodness I didn't get it wrong.
Not: I’m proud. Not: I’m happy. Not: I did it.
Instead: Thank goodness I didn't get it wrong.
Arka didn't realize that this was a pattern that had been deeply ingrained in him for a long time. Ever since childhood, success hadn't been something that brought him joy. Success was something that prevented punishment. He wasn't chasing pride. He was chasing safety. And the two turned out to be very different things.
Safety was about not getting into trouble. About not disappointing anyone. About not becoming the focus of negative attention. About avoiding anger, disappointment, and rejection. Pride was about achievement, recognition, the feeling that he had done something worthwhile. Arka had never truly felt the second one. All he felt was relief that he had gotten through something without incident.
He began building himself around what hadn't gone wrong. He avoided mistakes at all costs. He avoided criticism. He avoided negative attention. He became skilled at disappearing socially, at being someone who caused no trouble, someone dependable who never needed anything.
And people praised him for it.
“Arka’s a good kid,” someone said.
“Arka’s so mature,” someone else said.
“Arka never causes trouble,” his teacher said.
No one realized that he was slowly erasing his own footprints. No one saw that his smile was beginning to feel like a mask he put on every day. No one knew that inside his head, voices kept saying: Don't get it wrong. Don't disappoint anyone. Don't be a burden. Don't be seen. Don't ask for anything. Don't trust anyone. Don't hope.
Arka himself didn't realize that one day, when he was grown and standing alone in the middle of a crowd, he would ask himself: Who am I, really?
Because after years of becoming what other people wanted, after years of suppressing his own needs, after years of building walls around himself, he no longer knew what he wanted. What he felt. What he needed. Who he was behind all the masks he wore.
But that was still far off. At that time, Arka was still a child. And children didn't ask questions like that. They simply lived, adapted, and survived.
One afternoon, when Arka was eleven, he was sitting in the living room. He was reading a book—not a schoolbook, but a storybook he had borrowed from the school library. It was a story about a child who explored a forest and discovered magical creatures. Arka liked the book. Inside the story, the world felt simpler. There were clear rules. There were enemies and friends. There were exciting adventures. There was none of the uncertainty of the real world.
He was absorbed in his reading when the front door opened.
Arka didn't see who came in. But he heard them. Footsteps. One, two, three. There was a certain rhythm to them. Arka closed his book. He listened. The footsteps were heavy. Not hurried, but heavy, like someone carrying something invisible. Arka could feel it even before he saw their face.
A bag was set on the table. There was a scraping sound. Then a chair was pulled out. The sound was a little louder than usual. Arka turned toward the door. He couldn't be seen from the front room, but he could hear everything.
Someone went into the kitchen. A glass was picked up. Water was poured. Then came a long exhale.
Arka didn't know what had happened. But his body had already reacted. He had already gone into hypervigilance mode. The storybook in his hands was no longer interesting. His mind had moved into the front room, trying to analyze, trying to predict what would happen next.
He set the book down. Stood up. Walked to his room. Quietly. Without making a sound. He sat on the bed. Waited.
This was a pattern he knew very well. Something happened—or might have happened—and he waited. Waited to see whether things would get better or worse. Waited to see whether he needed to go out or stay in his room. Waited to see whether he would be called or ignored.
Sometimes, he wondered why he couldn't be like other children. Other children might not notice tiny changes in footsteps. Other children might keep reading their books without thinking about anything. Other children might go out and ask, “What's wrong?” without fear.
But Arka wasn't like other children. Arka was a child who had learned that questions could trigger things he didn't want. That his presence could become a problem. That sometimes, the best thing to do was stay quiet and wait.
He waited for about half an hour. Nothing happened. There were no loud sounds. No arguments. Only a heavy silence. Finally, Arka left his room. He walked slowly toward the front room. Someone was sitting in a chair, staring at the television screen glowing without sound.
Arka stopped in the doorway.
“What is it?” he asked softly.
The person turned. Their gaze was blank. “It's nothing.”
Arka nodded. He didn't ask again. He went back to his room. Picked up his book. Tried to read. But his mind was no longer there. He was still thinking about that blank stare. Still thinking about the heavy footsteps. Still wondering what had really happened, even though he knew he would never get an answer.
That night, Arka couldn't sleep. He lay on his bed, staring at the dark ceiling and thinking about that blank stare. About how someone could look as if they were there while their mind was somewhere else. About how he could feel that something was wrong even when no one said anything.
He wondered whether all children felt this way. Whether all children could feel tension in the air the way he could. Whether all children learned to read the mood of their home the way he had.
He didn't know the answer. And maybe he never would. But he knew one thing: this ability, which made him seem perceptive and understanding, was something he wished he had never possessed. Because if he couldn't feel that tension, maybe he wouldn't always feel tense himself.
Arka's skill at reading faces and moods continued to develop over time. By the age of twelve, he could detect a person's changing mood just by the way they breathed. Deep, steady breathing meant calm. Short, rapid breaths meant anger or anxiety. Holding one's breath for a moment before speaking meant that someone was trying to control their emotions.
He also learned to read pauses. The pause before an answer. The pause before a question. A silence that lasted too long meant something was being hidden. A pause that was too brief meant someone was impatient or angry. Arka noticed all of it unconsciously, like a linguist studying an unfamiliar dialect.
At school, this skill made him a good listener. His friends often came to him to talk. Not because he talked a lot, but because he listened. He didn't interrupt. He didn't judge. He simply listened, nodded, and responded appropriately at the right moments.
“You're really easy to talk to, Ka,” a friend said one day.
Arka smiled. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. It's like you really understand how people feel.”
Arka didn't answer. He didn't say that he understood because he had spent his entire life trying to understand other people, so he could avoid conflict and keep the peace. He didn't say that his ability to listen wasn't because he cared, but because he was afraid. Afraid that if he didn't listen, someone would get angry. Afraid that if he didn't help, people would consider him useless. Afraid that if he couldn't read other people's feelings, he would lose the only way he had to feel safe.
He didn't say any of that. He only smiled and said, “Thanks.”
But inside, he wondered: What would happen if one day I couldn't read other people's feelings? What would happen if I didn't know what they felt? Would I lose the only thing that made me valuable?
That question was never answered. And Arka continued honing his ability, sharpening it every day, until he almost forgot that there were other things he could do besides read other people. That he could feel something for himself. That he could have desires, needs, and feelings that didn't depend on anyone else.
But that was still far off. At that time, Arka was still a child. And children didn't ask questions like that. They simply survived.
One night, when Arka was thirteen, he was sitting in his room. He was working on his homework—several fairly complicated math problems. He was almost finished when he heard voices from the front room. They weren't loud. No one was shouting. But there was something in them that made Arka stop writing.
He listened. There was a conversation. Two voices. They weren't angry, but there was tension in them. Arka could feel it. He was used to this feeling—the feeling that something was wrong, that something was off, even though no one explicitly said anything.
He set down his pencil. Walked to the door. Opened it slightly. The voices became clearer. Arka could hear the words now. He didn't understand all of them, but he understood their tone. And the tone was enough.
He closed the door again. Sat on his bed. Stared at his unfinished homework. The numbers on the page looked like a foreign language. He couldn't concentrate. His mind was already in the front room, trying to analyze, trying to understand what was happening.
He waited. Five minutes. Ten minutes. Twenty minutes. The voices finally stopped. Arka heard a door open and close. Then silence.
He didn't go out. He remained sitting on his bed, staring at the wall and thinking. Thinking about how he could always feel when something was wrong. Thinking about how he was always vigilant, always ready, always paying attention. Thinking about how he was never truly relaxed, even when nothing was happening.
He wondered whether this was normal. Whether everyone lived like this, always vigilant, always paying attention, always ready for something bad to happen. Or whether it was only him.
He didn't know the answer. All he knew was that he was tired. Tired of always being vigilant. Tired of always reading the mood. Tired of always trying to keep the peace. Tired of never truly feeling safe.
But he didn't tell anyone this. Because saying it meant admitting that something was wrong. And admitting that something was wrong meant becoming a burden. And becoming a burden was something he must never do.
So he remained quiet. Kept smiling. Kept helping. Kept being a good child. And kept wondering, in the deepest part of his heart, whether one day he would be able to stop being vigilant.
Arka's ability to read people continued to become part of him. It became a habit, like breathing, like blinking. He did it without thinking. And the more he did it, the farther he grew from himself.
By the age of fourteen, Arka had almost forgotten what it felt like not to think about other people's feelings. He had almost forgotten what it felt like to focus on himself. Every decision he made, every word he spoke, every action he took—all of it was influenced by the questions: What do other people think? What do other people feel? What do other people need from me?
Those questions became the center of his existence. They defined who he was. And they slowly erased the traces of who he really was.
One day, a friend asked, “Ka, what do you actually like?”
Arka thought. He tried to remember what he liked. What he enjoyed. What made him happy. He couldn't find the answer.
“I don't know,” he said at last. “Anything.”
His friend laughed. “What do you mean, anything?”
Arka smiled. “Just anything.”
But inside, he felt empty. He realized that he didn't know what he liked. He didn't know what he wanted. He didn't know what made him happy. All he knew was what other people wanted from him. And that wasn't enough of an answer.
That night, Arka sat in his room and stared into the mirror. He saw his own face. A face he knew well. A face that was always smiling, always calm, always fine. But behind that face was someone he didn't know. Someone who had disappeared so deeply that he could no longer find him.
“Who are you?” he asked the reflection in the mirror.
The reflection didn't answer. Of course it didn't.
Arka rubbed his face. Then he lay down and stared at the ceiling. His mind began working, as usual, analyzing, questioning, trying to find an answer that never came.
Who am I? What do I want? What do I feel?
There was no answer. Only silence. And that silence spoke louder than a thousand words.