The story I am writing is heartfelt not because it is warm, but because it questions who receives the heart and whether giving it away leaves anything behind.
The reliable one is emotionally dependable. People come to him when anything goes wrong in their lives. Whether they are breaking after failures or suffering some kind of loss, the boy listens.
He listens carefully, with full attention, and chooses his words with care before speaking. He is praised for this quality of his. Some realize why they come to him, and some just feel that they need to, without knowing what he brings to the table.
This is not a quality for him, but a means to be. He was not born with empathy, but formed from the fear that no one needs him or considers him.
Whenever people see a young kid speak of something unusual or deep, they are shaken. Something that would not be unusual to hear from a grown person becomes wholesome, and sometimes troubling, when it comes from a child. Adults do not know what to make of it, and that confuses him. He notices the way they lean forward, waiting for him to say more, and he notices himself liking it, even though he does not know why.
From a young age, the reliable one also learned that offering emotional support was the way to go. Giving emotional support was a hack, the easiest way to secure a place among others. While others bonded over joy, he bonded over insecurities, precisely when people were weakest. This was not an instant realization, but something that worked for him.
He cannot remember the last time someone asked how he felt, and he does not know how he would respond. He does not know whether the person asking would have the same intentions as him. There is a realization that asking people how they feel may not be an ordinary human thing to do, but a learned bonding technique, one that may have been unconsciously embedded in our way of speaking. He begins to think that his heartfelt presence is not kindness.
As he grows, he starts noticing something else. People do not come to him for happiness or fun. They come only when something has gone wrong. They come when they are afraid or ashamed or heartbroken. They do not seek his company. they seek his listening. And slowly, it begins to feel like a burden he cannot escape. He carries their pain, their words, their silences, but no one ever carries his.
He begins to notice patterns. Some people reveal things they may not have intended, leaving themselves exposed, and he sees how easily they trust him without question. He wonders if he is just a container for other people’s feelings. He wonders if anyone would notice if he disappeared. And then he realizes he is learning to predict their suffering before they even speak it. He notices hesitation, tone, eye movement, a shift in posture. He knows when someone is hiding a story, and he can bring it out without them meaning to.
This thought unsettles him. His reliability, he realizes, depends on the existence of pain. If people healed fully, he would be unnecessary. He would vanish into their world like a shadow no one notices. And part of him, he is not proud of, feels a strange relief in their brokenness. He does not hurt them, he only notices. But their vulnerability has become a way to mark his place in the world.
He continues this quietly. Always reliable, always attentive. He never pushes anyone, but he carries the weight of their words anyway. And in the nights, when he is alone, he wonders if all this listening and caring is just a mask, a way to exist, a way to prove he belongs somewhere. He wonders if giving his heart so freely has left him empty, and he does not know if he can find it again.
He does not stop, though. He cannot stop. To stop would be to vanish.
The images are AI generated.
