"You can't measure love in time spent, but in the silence that hurts when they're gone."
The road twisted through the hills as the bus rocked gently, carrying the boy further away from home.
Away from the walls that whispered memories.
Away from the room where his father coughed in the night.
Away from the woman who had become both mother and father for most of his life.
He sat by the window, head resting on the cool glass, his eyes following the fading horizon. Trees blurred. Valleys dipped and rose. The journey ahead was long, but the one behind? It was heavier.
His phone buzzed.
Mom: "Reached the bus stop safely?"
Dad: "Study well, son. We're proud of you."
He smiled, but his heart ached.
He didn't reply immediately. Not because he didn't want to. But because he was afraid… afraid of saying too much or too little.
The new city was nothing like home.
Bigger. Louder. Busier.
People moved fast. Streets never slept. And everyone seemed to be in a hurry — but no one ever looked happy.
He shared a small room in a student hostel.
Four bunk beds. Peeling paint. A single window that barely let sunlight in.
His roommates were strangers — some friendly, some distant. But none of them his people.
The first night, he cried silently.
Pillow pressed against his face.
Not because he was weak.
But because growing up never taught him how to stop missing someone.
School started the next day.
Bigger syllabus. Harsher competition.
No one cared that he came from a small town.
No one knew that behind his tired eyes was a boy who once carried his father's luggage with pride.
They only saw numbers.
Ranks.
Results.
But he tried.
Woke up early.
Studied late.
Attended every class.
He had made a promise — to himself, to his mother, and most of all… to his father.
"I'll make you proud, Papa."
Back home, things weren't the same either.
His mother, though always smiling on the phone, sounded more tired each day.
His father's health had its good days and bad.
Sometimes, during their calls, he'd hear coughing in the background.
Long. Deep. Scary.
"Are you okay?" he'd ask.
"I'm strong," his father would reply. "You focus on your studies."
But even lies, when told with love, still hurt.
One night, while returning from his tuition class, it rained.
He didn't have an umbrella. His notes were soaked. His shoes squished with every step.
By the time he reached his hostel, he was shivering.
Later that night, he got a fever.
It wasn't the sickness that hurt.
It was the loneliness.
There was no one to sit by his side.
No one to press a cloth on his forehead.
No warm hand holding his.
Just silence.
He called his mom.
"I'm okay," he lied.
But his voice cracked.
And she knew. Mothers always do.
"I wish I was there," she whispered. "To make you soup. To hold your hand."
He didn't speak.
His throat was full of emotions, not fever.
The next morning, he woke up to a message.
Dad: "Heard you're not well. Take rest. Don't push yourself."
And then — a photo.
It was an old one.
A blurry image of them.
The boy was small.
His father was holding him in his arms.
Both smiling.
He stared at it for a long time.
Not just with his eyes.
But with his soul.
Days turned into weeks.
He got better.
And stronger — at pretending.
He stopped crying.
Stopped calling home every day.
But inside, he still missed them.
Missed the smell of the kitchen.
The sound of his father's slippers on the floor.
The warmth of his mother's lap during tired evenings.
One afternoon, during a class break, a friend asked him, "You ever miss your parents?"
He laughed softly. "Every moment."
"But you don't talk about them much."
"What's the point?" he replied. "No one can bring them closer."
The friend nodded. But then said something he'd never forget:
"Sometimes talking isn't to fix things. It's just to remember they mattered."
That night, the boy sat with his phone.
Opened a new note.
And began typing…
"Dear Papa,
I wish I could sit beside you tonight.
I wish I could hear one of your stories.
I wish I could feel your hand on my head, telling me I'll be okay.
I've grown up.
But some parts of me… they still wait for you.
I know you tried.
You went far so I could go far too.
But Papa, sometimes, I don't want to go far.
I just want to be close.
– Your son."
He didn't send it.
Just saved it.
Sometimes, words aren't for sharing — they're for surviving.
A few days later, his phone rang.
Mom.
But her voice… was different.
Tired. Shaky.
"Papa had another bad day," she said.
He sat up.
"What happened?"
"He fainted for a few seconds. The doctor says he needs to rest more. But you know him — he won't listen."
Silence.
"I want to come home," he said.
"No," she replied immediately. "You can't lose focus now. He won't forgive himself if you do."
"But what if—"
"Shhh," she interrupted. "He's not leaving. Not without seeing your dreams come true."
That night, he stood on the rooftop of the hostel.
The stars looked different.
Or maybe… he was just seeing them differently.
He whispered into the night.
"Please… just let me reach in time. Let me be the reason for his smile."
The wind answered with silence.
But somehow, it felt like a promise.