Discover with Saee

The darkness hadn’t arrived suddenly. It had taken root long ago—quietly, insistently—until it shaped everything. Her choices. Her silences. A broken marriage. Disappointed parents. The hollow weight of conversations that ended, inevitably, in those same tired words:

“You’re so capable. Why don’t you do something with your life?”

She used to smile—a twitch of the lips, a shrug of the shoulders. Then it became silence. Now, it’s a sharp reply, cut clean and cold:

“I’m happy where I am. Stop putting pressure on me.”

But inside, she wished they could understand. The exhaustion of simply waking up. The loneliness that claws at her in the quiet. The ever-present feeling of being the outsider—especially in her own family. Loved, but not understood. Surrounded, yet unseen.

She had close friends. Kind ones. Loyal ones. But she kept her distance, always. Because if she ever truly crumbled, if she ever asked—she knew none of them would drop everything and come.

But would she do that for them?

Yes.

And that scared her the most. The way she poured herself into others, projected her own heart onto people, and expected that same fire back.

She wasn’t conventionally beautiful. She was never the “ideal.” Fat in East Asia. Curvy in India. Undefined in Europe. But she had things she liked—her thick, enviable brown hair. Her dimples. Her skin, resilient despite everything she’d put it through. She carried herself with style, with a quiet pride. But even on her best days, when she dressed up and dared to go out alone—she remained alone. Watching men gravitate toward her friends. Smiling. Shrinking.

And when someone did notice her—twice, in Japan—they weren’t seeing her. They were seeing loneliness. A foreigner. A wallet. A presumed desperation.

Is that the energy I project?

She hated the question. Hated that it lingered.

And now, she stood by the river in a city praised for its beauty—its twinkling skyline, its neon magic. She had her back to it all. The lights meant nothing tonight. Her chest ached in a way that was no longer metaphorical. Her emotions had turned physical. Pain sat squarely in her ribs, pressing with every breath.

I just want someone to see me, she thought. Really see me.

Someone who could pull her out. Someone who wouldn’t make her feel small, who wouldn’t use her brokenness as leverage. Someone who would stand beside her and say,

“She’s doing the best she can. And I’m here to help her do it.”

A rock. A warmth to collapse into. Arms to stop the shivering. A voice that would make others stop questioning her, stop assuming, stop fixing her.

Is that too much to ask?

Maybe it was karma, they’d say. But when she looked back on her life, all she could ask was:

What did I do that was so wrong to deserve this?

She took a long, slow breath. Then turned.

The river behind her. The city in front. Neon, chrome, life. Her hotel sat somewhere among those glittering buildings, glowing against the dusk. She was a solo traveller. She had wandered through Europe’s narrow alleys, Japan’s quiet temples, Korea’s bustling streets. She had marvelled. Absorbed. Disappeared into each country like smoke.

The days were easy. Curiosity kept her afloat. But evening… evening always brought it back. The loneliness. The ache. The sharp, familiar whisper: You don’t belong here either.

There was no point in going to a bar or club tonight. She knew how it would end. Alone. Again. Better to slip into a supermarket, pick up a sandwich and a bottle of wine, and walk back to the hotel. Alone—but without expectation. Without the sting of rejection.

She would eat. Drink. Sit in silence. And once again, sleep beside the only companion she could rely on—the haunting darkness inside her heart.

The one that had been with her

from almost the very beginning.