Welcome to the Carousel That Always Chases Him.

No horses. No music.

Only tiny round bulbs, blinking on and off. Its roof came to a cone, like the worn-out cover of a plain little tent. The pink paint circling it was peeling away.

And this Carousel was nearly swallowed by the tall wild grass around it.

You and I walked, parting the grass, drawing closer to the Carousel.

Its track was still turning, perfectly.

Then, from the left, a figure appeared, running.

Must be another version of you.

Wearing a maroon shirt that read ‘EFFORT.’

Running on the carousel the way you’d run on a treadmill. As if chasing something. Her gaze collided with yours, but she kept running. You leapt onto the track, and I followed.

“AREN’T YOU EXHAUSTED, CHASING HIM LIKE THIS ALL THE TIME?” you shouted.

Only then did Effort slow her pace. As she slowed, the lights dimmed.

You climbed onto the Carousel too, ran alongside, matched her pace. So did I. We talked while jogging lightly in place. Otherwise the lights would go out. And Effort didn’t want to let these lights die. As if hoping he might notice.

Before you could go on, Effort said, “This time, don’t tell me to leave. Don’t tell me to put in effort for myself. Don’t tell me to put in effort for my dreams. What’s so wrong with wanting to put in effort for him?”

“What’s so wrong with wanting to put in effort for him?” Effort demanded again.

“But why won’t you put in effort for your own self?”

“What else do we even have?”

You fell silent.

“What do we have other than him?”

Still silent.

“I don’t want to hear, ‘But I matter more than him.’ The thing is: what do we even have? What of value is even left in our lives?”

Wow. That stung. Too true.

There was no arguing with it.

But I wanted to argue with it anyway.

A person feels valuable because you pour so much effort into them. Without your effort, they’d just be an ordinary person, not worth much in your life.

And your effort feels like an investment. The more you put in, the more precious that investment becomes. In the same way, the more effort you pour into someone, the more valuable that someone becomes.

They are valuable because of your effort.

You don’t want to stop pouring in effort, because you don’t want to take the loss.

Even though you’ve already lost.

“What of value is left in our lives?” Effort said again. Your eyes blinked, as if that might help you find an answer.

What is valuable in my life? What is left in my life?

“Our dreams?” you answered, unsure.

“What dreams do we even have left? Okay, say we have dreams. What’s the point of hoping if that dream is never reached? A dream is too far away. He is the most realistic thing, the closest thing I can actually reach.”

I’d been angry the way Effort is, so I understood her. But if I could have spoken up right then, maybe I’d have answered: Yes, I agree. Dreams can betray you. People can hurt you. What is there that doesn’t betray? What is there that doesn’t hurt?

All my life, I searched for something or someone that would never turn around and betray me, hurt me, waste my effort. And, really, I really try my best not to sound religious. But that search led me to a single fact: how many sins I’ve committed, and yet how much good He has sent down upon me.

Allah, Lord of All the Worlds.

All my life, I hoped that something or someone would appreciate me. And, really, I really try my best not to sound religious. But this longing led me to something new I came to know: that Allah has an attribute I had always hoped to find in the people I poured my effort into. An attribute of Allah that touched my heart so deeply. The Most Appreciative. The One who is grateful. The One who repays every good.

So if a dream, no matter how hard we fight for it, may still never come true; if a person, no matter how hard we fight for them, may still never take our side; then Allah—the Most Loving, the Ever-Near, the Most Appreciative—could He ever turn away our striving, when we sincerely long to be close to Him?

When I was trying to break free from the toxic, manipulative person, honestly, I didn’t know how to put effort into my own self. And how could effort toward yourself ever be called enough? How could I ever feel that my own effort was enough? Where was the line? But then I realized that when I didn’t know where to begin my effort, I could begin by pouring it into repairing my relationship with Allah.

The Most Loving, the Ever-Near, the Most Appreciative.

But I couldn’t say any of this to the version of you named Effort. Again, Effort is far too realistic for answers like these. But it’s like you’re hearing my heart, because a moment later you said,

“Would you invest in a business that’s obviously going to lose money?”

Of course, Effort shook her head.

“That’s exactly what you’re doing for that toxic person. Effort at a loss.”

Effort scowled. “No effort is ever wasted. At the very least, I’ll be repaid with good from Allah.”

“The thing is, the one you’re aiming at is him, not Allah. How can you ever reach the mountaintop when your map is pointing you to the beach?”

“Now—” you gripped Effort’s arm, “—come with me, we’re getting out of here. You don’t need to put in any effort for now.”

Effort tried to pull free of your grip. “But I’m the version of you named Effort. If I don’t put in effort, what am I?”

“Trying not to put in effort, that’s effort too. Trying not to ask how they’re doing, that’s effort. Trying not to ask ‘what’s wrong’ when his face goes sour, that’s effort.

“Trying not to rack your brain over ‘what did I do wrong’ when they’re sulking for no clear reason, that’s effort. Trying not to always tell them this and that even when your heart aches to, that’s effort. Trying not to send a long message about how much you don’t want to lose them, that’s effort too.

“Effort isn’t always about trying; sometimes it’s about not trying.”

Effort’s arm went slack now, letting you hold it tight.

No more running. The lights dimmed. Then went out. But it didn’t matter anymore.

A moment later, you pulled Effort by the arm, turned against the spin of the track, and leapt quickly into the tall grass. We fell, stood back up, brushed off our clothes.

“So, where do we go now?” Effort asked. You looked at her, a wide smile spreading. “We’re all gathering at the park. Let’s meet other versions of us. Happy, Love, and Hope are already there. I can’t wait for you to meet them.”

Then you, Effort, and I walked on in silence.

If it wouldn’t have shattered this quiet, I think I’d have wanted to say to Effort:

“You matter, without having to chase him. You matter, without having to keep making him happy. You matter, even if he never turns around to chase you. The worth of your life isn’t decided by some toxic person who doesn’t even know how to treat another human as human. But you, too, fail to treat yourself as human when you keep chasing him, keep making him happy. It lets him feel like he holds the power to make you obey him, always— because he knows you’re forever stuck in chase mode.”

At least, now you’re not.

Hey, I’m crazy and true when I say: I’ll be the best-selling author in the whole world. So, remember my name: Alvi Syahrin.

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This is a chapter of my book, this one:

The moment your foot touched this room, everything went suddenly dark.

Pitch black. But there was a sound.

The sound of quiet sobbing. Soft. Somewhere in the dark.

“Do you hear that?” you asked.

I nodded, and then I realized you couldn’t see me, so I said,

“Let’s just follow it.”

So we walked and walked. Slowly. Making sure we didn’t drift apart, because in here it was truly dark.

Then we found a small white speck far ahead. We stepped toward it.

Walking, walking, walking.

Louder and louder.

Brighter and brighter.

Like a shaft of moonlight breaking through a small hole. Lighting a single circle of ground, like a spotlight.

In its silver glow, there was someone.

Kneeling. Sobbing. The sound was coming from there. From someone. Must be another version of you. Wearing… a gray shirt? I couldn’t be sure, but there was the word ‘HOPE’ across the back of the shirt, catching the silver of the moon.

“That’s the version of me that still hopes, isn’t it?” you guessed.

I nodded. From here on, we’ll call her Hope.

“Do you remember what they were hoping for?” I asked softly, keeping us both at a distance from Hope so she wouldn’t overhear us.

Now it was you who nodded, staring blankly at Hope, who seemed drenched in tears, both hands raised, begging for all sorts of hopes about him; that toxic, manipulative person.

Hoping he’d change. Hoping he’d become a better person. Hoping he’d see his own wrongs. Hoping he’d care more. Hoping he’d be more understanding, gentler, more loving. Hoping the two of you wouldn’t be such a mess. Hoping he’d get what he had coming, so he’d learn.

That was surely their prayer.

Strangely, there was no pity left in your heart. But you didn’t know what this feeling was. So you asked me, “Were you like this once too?”

A small smile pressed at my lips. Remembering the days when I knelt like Hope, raised both hands like Hope, was soaked in tears like Hope, prayed for that toxic person like Hope, hoping they’d become good, hoping they’d apologize, hoping everything would go back to normal. I gave the faintest nod, too ashamed to admit it.

“I can relate to her, honestly,” I answered, tipping my chin toward Hope.

“So what happened? Was your prayer finally answered? Did they finally change?”

I shook my head, still smiling. “But I’m grateful that, back then, my prayer wasn’t answered right away. I’m grateful they didn’t change into what I wanted, just like that.”

“Huh?” You were startled. “Why’s that?”

“Do you want to hear my whole story?”

You nodded, and this is how it goes.

Back then, I prayed about this person, and only this person.

But I was very disappointed because Allah never seemed to answer this prayer of mine.

Still, I wanted to keep believing that Allah is the All-Hearing, the One who answers every prayer.

For months I prayed, with a faith that only grew more whole. Every kind of hope. From wishing this person well, to wishing them ill—because this person had thrown my life into such chaos.

And do you know the result of this prayer?

Nothing. Nothing ever changed. If anything, it sometimes got worse.

Until, at last, I grew tired of praying.

Tired of raising both of my hands, reciting the same prayer, day after day.

Tired of saying this name.

Until one day I asked myself:

When was the last time I prayed about me? When was the last time I said my own name in my own prayer?

Instead of always praying for them, why wasn’t I praying for me—the one who needed my prayers far more? Why were my prayers always so busy with that name, and never with me?

From that moment on, I prayed more for myself, for my dreams, for my future.

And some of my prayers were answered—but not the prayers about this person.

Only then did I realize:

Maybe my prayers hadn’t been answered because I’ve wasted my younger years praying only for this person. I’ve got no hope. Just one wish, for this person. I should’ve prayed for more. To vary my hopes. To ask for everything I wanted, however small the wish. Anything but this person.

The more I prayed with all sorts of hopes, the more often I watched those hopes come true.

Even if, most of the time, all the answered prayers had nothing to do with this person.

Which is sad.

But I’ve also learned my lesson:

Maybe, just maybe, if my prayer about this specific person had been answered right then, and they had changed into exactly what I wanted, I would have felt comfortable.

That comfort would have been dangerous for me.

Because this person isn’t the only problem. I was part of the problem too. I was the one who needed their validation too much. I was the one who always wanted them to make me feel strong. I was the one willing to lose myself just to hold on. Me and my neediness.

As long as this person stayed in my life—even if they had changed—I would keep falling into that old pattern. Searching for their approval. Measuring my happiness by their reactions. Forgetting that I have worth too, even without them.

It’s not that I hoped they’d stay toxic and manipulative. In fact, I hoped with all my heart that they’d become a better person. But I realized I couldn’t become better while I was still bound to them—toxic or not.

Because, once again, the problem wasn’t only them. I was part of the problem too.

And from there I also came to see a few problems within myself.

About this: why did I always put them first in my heart and in all my prayers, but never learn to put Allah first in my heart?

All this time, the whole point of my prayers was just to repair my relationship with them. But when we pray, our greatest aim should rest on our relationship with Allah. I cared about my relationship with them more than my relationship with Allah. And maybe that’s exactly why I became such a mess.

I had placed them far too high in my prayers.

Of course, there’s nothing wrong with praying for their change, for good to come to them. That is a beautiful, generous quality in a person who keeps being hurt, yet can still wish good upon the one who wounds them.

But we need to remember: we are praying, we are pleading, not forcing Allah.

Pray for them to become good. Truly good as a human being, not good in the sense of what’s convenient or useful for us. Then let go. Let them find their own good path, one that doesn’t have to be with us, doesn’t have to be because of us.

And do what you have to do: stop chasing them so hard, stop holding them so high, stop making them the source of your happiness. Then learn to keep your boundaries, then work on yourself, focus on yourself. And let Allah do what Allah is meant to do—in whatever way is His, we entrust it to Him.

Because they are not our responsibility. They never were. We are the ones who turned them into one.

Only because we were too afraid of the loneliness again.

I told you all of it. You listened. No argument, no questions. I even saw you nod at a few parts.

Then I watched you take a step, moving toward Hope, and call out, “Hey.”

Hope turned, face streaked with tears, quickly wiping the traces from her cheeks.

I thought you’d rush to grab their arm and pull them out of here.

But you didn’t.

You touched both of her shoulders, like twins holding each other’s gaze.

Then you said, so gently, so wisely,

“Thank you for being the version of me that always hopes. Thank you for keeping a heart that goes on hoping even when your hopes are always broken. It hurts, I feel it, too. But may I ask you one thing?”

“What?” It was the first time I’d heard Hope’s voice.

“Instead of only hoping they’ll change, let’s hope that I’ll change too: change into someone who no longer makes them so important, someone who no longer needs another person that badly, someone who always tries to put Allah first in their heart. Instead of only hoping they’ll become good, let’s hope I become better too. Instead of only hoping they’ll see their own wrongs, let’s hope I see mine too. So, the two of us don’t end up the same kind of toxic. Okay?”

Hope nodded. Then you took both of Hope’s hands.

And it really warms my heart when I see you make peace with Hope.

Hey, I’m crazy and true when I say: I’ll be the best-selling author in the whole world. So, remember my name: Alvi Syahrin.

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This is a chapter of my book, this one:

The line is empty. It’s just you and me.

Standing before a rollercoaster track that snakes along like a giant serpent.

The Most Emotional Rollercoaster.

We’re still waiting for this rollercoaster to stop.

You narrow your eyes, searching for where the rollercoaster is. Oh, it’s coming down a slope, unbelievably fast. But you can’t tell whether your eyes are playing tricks on you or what—you rub them once more—but, strange, it looks like there’s a single person on the rollercoaster, doesn’t it? Sitting in the very front seat? Alone? Or am I seeing things? you murmur, but the figure is unmistakable.

Not screaming, not moving, just gripping the safety bar tight, with a gaze that’s long since gone tired.

“Who is that?”

“You’ll find out soon enough.”

When the rollercoaster stops in front of us, you see that figure.

Her eyes are your eyes. Her nose is your nose. It’s another version of you, wearing the orange shirt that reads HAPPY.

***

The rollercoaster has chimed twice. Any moment now, it will take off.

“Come on, let’s get on,” I call, hurrying up the steps toward the Most Emotional Rollercoaster.

“Why won’t she get off? She look completely exhausted.” Her eyes are even hollow.

“Exactly. So hurry up and get on. We need to save her.”

I let you climb on first.

You sit in the very front, beside the version of yourself named happy—whom, from here on, we’ll call Happy.

I sit in the second row, right behind Happy.

***

“You look tired,” you say to Happy.

The rollercoaster is still moving straight and slow.

Happy smiles. But it isn’t a smile. Just the two corners of the mouth pulled sideways. The eyes don’t smile along.

“Life just wears you out, doesn’t it?”

And that’s when you understood.

Living with someone toxic feels like sitting in this rollercoaster seat without ever stopping. His affection sends your heart soaring high. And yet, the very next day, he can drop you as far down as a person can fall.

This rollercoaster is like the embodiment of the abusive pattern: it begins with tension (the rollercoaster climbing to the peak), then explosion (the rollercoaster dropping from that peak with all its flips and slams), then the honeymoon period (when the rollercoaster finally slows, and stops, before it starts moving all over again).

Exactly what Happy is feeling right now.

“You have to get off this thing,” you say softly.

The rollercoaster begins to climb. The track creaks with every foot it gains. Steeper and steeper, until it’s staring straight up at the sky.

“Get off?”

“Yes, get off.”

“If I get off this rollercoaster, if I leave here, how am I ever going to be happy?”

“But why should chasing happiness mean going up and down like this?”

“Isn’t life just like this, though?”

“I suppose so,” you answer, confused.

I shake my head, but neither you nor Happy sees me.

No. Life isn’t supposed to lurch up and down like this. And love doesn’t have to be this insane. Okay, life does carry its own trials. Love has its consequences. Problems will always exist. But there’s a difference between a problem that helps us grow and a problem that keeps recurring and shrinking us. Staying with someone toxic is, at its core, a problem that repeats without end. In life, we’re meant to be able to travel farther, to focus on our own growth—not his—to find our purpose, to notice again the little things we come to regret having wasted on him, to remember Allah that we’d forgotten, neglected in the middle of all this madness.

Unfortunately, you can’t get out of this problem because you can’t yet leave him. And the problem isn’t simply about leaving, either. Because if it’s your own family, it feels nearly impossible. If it’s a partner or a friend, you’re afraid of the loneliness. So the thing you can work on more, right now, is letting go of your dependence on this toxic person. Letting go of the belief that your happiness lives in him alone.

It won’t be easy, of course.

Because ever since you decided he was the center of your solar system, you’ve excused every one of his upheavals, treating all this up and down as normal.

Maybe, just maybe, life is supposed to feel flat, monotonous, and boring. And then you’re the one who colors it in.

But you love this familiarity too much. Wherever you go, you’ll go looking for this familiarity. This familiarity is your normal. That’s why you need to redefine the meaning of life, and of happiness, here in this abandoned amusement park.

The rollercoaster reaches the peak. Pauses for a moment. The wind slaps my face, your face, and Happy’s face.

“But I don’t want happiness if happiness has to be like this.”

And the rollercoaster plunges, falls, races down the slope, spinning round and round.

Then it drops lower still, underground.

Into water.

Just before it hits the water, you see a sign that reads, “Ocean of Tears,” and—whoosh—tiny bubbles all around you, breath choking, eyes stinging, chest beginning to tighten, and then—whoosh—the rollercoaster bursts out of the water, everything drenched. Up, down, spinning, until the wind almost dries you off.

Until at last, a straight length of track. Toward the finish line, which is also the starting line. It stops. I’m the one who steps off first, waiting for the two of you beside the rollercoaster.

“I don’t want happiness if happiness has to be like this,” you say once more.

Happy stares at you, dazed.

“We have to get off this thing.” You take Happy’s hand. You stand. You pull at Happy’s arm. But Happy stays seated.

“But—”

“Do you really think it’s worth it—having to go up and down this insanely, over and over, just to feel one small scrap of happiness from him, up there at the top?”

“But where else are we supposed to look for happiness?”

“Why do you have to look for happiness in him?”

“Because he makes me happy! Yes, he has his flaws, but every person has their flaws, don’t they? For all the flaws and all the midnight tears, he did once make me happy.”

“But have you ever looked for happiness anywhere else?”

“That’s the thing—where?”

And the rollercoaster chimes once.

“I can make you happy.”

The second chime.

“The truth is, you’ve never made me happy.”

It feels like something pinches your heart.

Yes, you never made your own self happy.

Your whole life, you worked so hard at making him happy, but never at making you happy.

The final chime.

The rollercoaster begins to move, slowly.

You grip Happy’s hand tighter, pull with all your force, and get out of this rollercoaster.

Falling onto the platform.

Then standing.

And for the first time, Happy touches the ground.

Touching a normalcy that feels foreign.

Taking her first step.

“Your happiness, let that be my job. Not his, the one who now gets to control you precisely because you handed him power over the happiness of your days.”

“Where do we begin?” Happy asks.

I don’t know either, you want to answer.

So you search for the answer in my eyes.

Maybe, just maybe, you have to learn to get used to a life that’s flat, monotonous, and boring. Maybe you have to learn to stop chasing new hits of adrenaline for one small mirage of happiness. Maybe you have to learn to look for happiness inside yourself.

Like, when was the last time you smiled, but not because of him? What was it that made you smile?

When was the last time you felt something good because of simple things that had nothing at all to do with him?

When was the last time you did something enjoyable with only yourself for company?

When was the last time you took a walk while gazing at the wide-open sky? When was the last time you read a book on an overcast day off?

When was the last time you thought about how short this life is—what it’s for, where you want to take it?

When was the last time you felt the satisfaction of actually reaching something you wanted?

When was the last time you set your phone far away, made plans for your future, and began carrying him into prayer in the very same breath?

When was the last time you spent time with the people who have genuinely cared for you all along?

When was the last time your life felt like your own?

When was the last time you stopped leaning your whole life on a creature as weak and toxic as another human being?

Maybe we need to move slowly. Maybe happiness doesn’t have to dare your adrenaline. Maybe happiness doesn’t have to arrive right away. Maybe happiness doesn’t need to feel like flying high.

And surely, happiness turns into something poisonous when it’s narrowed down to a single wrong person.

“Shall we just keep going for now?” I say, to you and to Happy.

“Where to?” you and Happy respond at the same time, then the two of you laugh like twins.

“We’re going over there—” my finger points west, “—the Treasure Maze.”

To be continued…

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Hi! This is a free chapter from my book, you’re so TOXIC & MANIPULATIVE, i hate you so much. This is the cover:

It’s not published anywhere yet. That’s the dream I’m chasing. My name’s Alvi Syahrin, and I want these words to find the people who need them: a lonely person in a London flat, someone in a quiet village far from any city, anyone, anywhere.

I can’t do that part alone. If this moved you even a little, the best way to help is to subscribe (it’s free) and send it to one person you think needs it.

That’s all. Thank you for being here.

“What? You’re saying I’m toxic?”

“Yes.”

“Me?”

“Yes.”

“How? Why? This whole time, I’ve been the victim. I’m the one who always tried to understand them. I gave and gave. I forgave and forgave. I was always kind, always caring, always there. And now you’re telling me I’m the toxic one?”

“And that,” I say quietly, “is exactly why you’ve become toxic toward yourself. You keep accepting things that shouldn’t be accepted, over and over. You take part in your own destruction by—indirectly—letting them wreck your life. Not everything deserves an ‘it’s okay.’”

“Hold on, hold on.” You let out a bitter laugh. “So now this is my fault? Before you blame me, blame both my parents and the way they treated me back then. Before you blame me, blame my past relationships and the way they made me feel small. Every one of them trained me to get used to pain. It isn’t that I accept it. I’m just used to it.”

“I’m not blaming you—”

“No, you’re blaming me. You sound just like the toxic people in my life. You’re supposed to be here to help me. You said you’d been in this position. You said you used to be toxic. Maybe you still are—and maybe that means you’ve got no right to say anything about me.”

I go quiet for a moment. I let you explode.

Because I once exploded like that too.

Because maybe people like us have been holding our anger in for far too long. Just holding it in, without ever processing the anger itself. So I understand if you suddenly go off like a time bomb.

“What I need is support. I’m the one who got hurt. And you—” your voice trembles, “you’re just some stranger who shows up out of nowhere and says I’m the mastermind behind all of it. Okay—maybe I’m part of the problem. Maybe I really am toxic. But I’m tired. I’m tired of being blamed. At a moment like this, all I need is support. Not to be judged like this.”

Forgive me for making you feel judged. Truly, I didn’t mean to. But I’ve been where you are. So I understand what you mean. People like us are already bleeding from open wounds, so every word can sting that much more.

But sometimes, we still need to pour the alcohol into the wound.

“I could just hand you validation, tell you everything you want to hear—but that would be the same as justifying what you’ve been doing to yourself. And that would make you toxic. Because being toxic isn’t always about looking cruel or manipulative. Letting you drown in your own ruin and your own mistakes under the excuse of not wanting to hurt you any further—it looks kind, but it can be toxic too. We can’t heal something toxic with validation that’s just as toxic. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to hurt you.”

Oh, this overexplaining and this overapologizing. See—you and I have a few things in common. That’s why I feel responsible for pulling you out of this toxic loop.

“Here’s the thing,” I draw a long breath, “if they—the toxic, manipulative person in your life—found this book and stepped into this journey, and I told them, ‘You’re not toxic at all,’ wouldn’t that only make them feel more justified in the wrong they do?”

You don’t nod, but you look like you agree with me.

“That’s why the first rule is this: you have to be willing to accept that you have a toxic side too—but that’s completely normal, completely human. Every person has their own red flags. Me included. I’m not proud of it, of course. People like us reject the fact that we’re toxic because we take no pride in the label, because we know it’s a bad one. People like us are always trying to be good. But the fact that we keep holding on to toxic people—and keep drawing them in—means there’s something inside us that needs mending.”

Let me take a breath for a moment. Then I go on,

“What’s the point of leaving toxic people if we still haven’t left the toxic sides of ourselves? What’s the point of cutting them off if we haven’t cut off the toxic parts within us? What’s the point of moving on if we still haven’t moved on from the version of ourselves that clings to toxic behavior? What’s the point of running if we carry that toxic side with us everywhere we go? That’s why I’m telling you all of this. Because you deserve better people. But before any of that can happen, you have to become a better person too.”

“Okay—so what toxic side do I have to change?”

I can still hear the resistance in your voice, but that’s alright. I was the same. This is just how the phase goes. At least you’re willing to listen. Still, I don’t have the power to change you with words alone. You need to witness your toxic sides for yourself. So I say,

“Come on—let’s go to the Glass House ride.”

To be continued….

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Hi! This is a free chapter from my book, you’re so TOXIC & MANIPULATIVE, i hate you so much. This is the cover:

It’s not published anywhere yet. That’s the dream I’m chasing. My name’s Alvi Syahrin, and I want these words to find the people who need them: a lonely person in a London flat, someone in a quiet village far from any city, anyone, anywhere.

I can’t do that part alone. If this moved you even a little, the best way to help is to subscribe (it’s free) and send it to one person you think needs it.

That’s all. Thank you for being here.

Subscribe now

Overthinking is the most manipulative monster of all, but tonight, we’re going to kill him.

Strategy #1: flip whatever Overthinking says right back at it.

So, when Overthinking says, “What if you fail again?”

Please, get up out of your bed, and answer it, firmly…

“What if it actually works out?”

“What if it turns out I actually succeed?”

“What if this plan grows into something extraordinary—something I never even imagined?”

“What if it turns out I learn that I need some new strategies? Because how am I supposed to get a different result doing the same thing?”

“And if I do fail again—and I hope I don’t—what if this failure becomes the most inspiring story out of this whole journey?”

“What if I make a change through this failure?”

Oh, obviously, Overthinking won’t surrender right away.

It will keep on screaming, like, “BUT WHAT IF YOU STILL FAIL LIKE THE LAST TIME? WHAT IF THE NEW STRATEGY FAILS JUST THE SAME? WHAT IF THE FAILURE NEVER TURNS INTO INSPIRATION, BUT STAYS PURELY A HUMILIATING FAILURE?”

So, Strategy #2: examine Overthinking’s hidden agendas.

I don’t know whether you realize this or not, but…

Overthinking is your way of protecting yourself, but it’s a toxic way to protect yourself.

Overthinking is your way of being possessive of yourself. So you won’t get hurt. So you won’t get let down. But it takes you nowhere.

It’s like having an overprotective partner who doesn’t want their other half to have any life beyond them. Like an overprotective parent who guards their child so tightly that the child can’t adapt to the outside world.

It feels like being protected. It feels like being right.

But it’s toxic, isn’t it?

So, when Overthinking says, “What if you fail again?”, what Overthinking really means is…

I don’t want you to try again. I want you to stay lying limp in your bed. I want to protect your heart from the chance of getting hurt.

And when you say, “What if it works out?”, that’s your way of telling yourself…

I want you to start fighting again. I want you to get up out of your bed and fight again, because… what if it turns out you succeed?

But Overthinking still refuses to lose.

It will rise back up with a new question:

What if these positive words are just toxic positivity?

Remember our first strategy: flip whatever Overthinking says right back at it.

So, when it says, “What if these positive words are just toxic positivity?”

Stand up—yes, you need to stand up, because you need the energy to fight Overthinking—then answer,

“What if your negative words are also toxic negativity?”

“If you get to run negative scenarios in my head, then I have every right to run positive ones in there too.”

“And, this isn’t me being falsely positive. This is me being fair to myself. I give you room to lay out your negative scenarios. So, I have every right to make room for positive ones, too.”

“This way, it’s fairer, isn’t it?”

“And, giving myself positive affirmations isn’t toxic positivity. Toxic positivity is like saying I’ll definitely succeed, without ever putting in the work. Toxic positivity is like saying I can definitely do it, without ever thinking a strategy through. Toxic positivity is like saying I’m always right, without ever correcting myself. I won’t be like that. I say positive things to myself, and I’ll act upon it.”

“And, I speak positive words to myself so that a little courage can ignite in me, so that I’m willing to start moving again, fighting again, slow as it is, small as it is. But I’m progressing somewhere.”

Relax, I know there’s a strange, fearful feeling that rises in you when you first start laying out positive scenarios. I know you’re scared of getting hurt again. I know you’re scared of being let down again. I know this skepticism is your way of putting your guard up.

And it’s only natural to put your guard up. This is something new. Because, usually, when Overthinking slips into your head, all you can do is stay quiet and obey it, taking its words as a premonition that’s truly going to happen—and then your heart pounds faster, your chest goes tight, you lie in bed, frozen in time.

But now, something’s different.

When Overthinking speaks, you start to fight back.

You start to argue.

You start to find your courage. So, of course, new feelings show up—ones called ‘fear,’ ‘skepticism,’ ‘strangeness.’

The trouble is, in the middle of these new feelings, Overthinking seizes the opening, and asks the root problem:

What if I really do fail?

Strategy #3: you have to manipulate that manipulative Overthinking.

Now, Overthinking says, “What if I really do fail?”

Get up—literally get up, no lying down, so you’ll have some power—then, say, apologetically…

“So what if I fail?”

“What could get worse? What could possibly be any worse?”

“If I fail, does that mean I’m not allowed to fight again? If I fail, does that mean I have no shot at winning somewhere down the line?”

“Am I going to die if I fail? Is the road to success going to slam shut on me completely if I fail again?”

“So what if I fail?”

Let me fall.

Let me get hurt.

Let me feel the letdown.

Let me get tired.

Let me learn.

Let me grow up.

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Hi! This is a free chapter from my book, OVERTHINKING is my hobby, and i hate it. This is the cover:

It’s not published anywhere yet. That’s the dream I’m chasing. My name’s Alvi Syahrin, and I want these words to find the people who need them: a lonely person in a London flat, someone in a quiet village far from any city, anyone, anywhere.

I can’t do that part alone. If this moved you even a little, the best way to help is to subscribe (it’s free) and send it to one person you think needs it.

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In this cemetery, there are only three three tombstones.

You crouch down, kneeling, looking carefully at the writing on each one.

The first tombstone: Dreams & Ambitions.

The second tombstone: Soul & Motivation for Life.

The third tombstone: Purpose.

Well.

You’re twenty-five now.

And, twenty-five is the age of crisis: the burial of dreams and the burial of every reason to keep going. The burial of the soul itself — the loss of yourself, until you can’t feel yourself anymore, until you start questioning your own existence. Why am I here? What am I even chasing?

Twenty-five is the age when you were supposed to have achieved this and that by now, but your life still looks exactly the same. It feels like living with failure as a roommate.

Twenty-five is the age of moving through life like a robot. Wake up, work, come home, sleep. Wake up, work, come home, sleep. The same loop, on repeat. A boredom with no end in sight. Numbness. Until you start to think: Is this really what the rest of life is?

It doesn’t have to be at twenty-five. But it’s somewhere in your twenties.

“Don’t live your life on autopilot,” I say.

“What do you mean?”

“Your whole life, you’ve spent your time being someone for someone else. You spend your time at the office as an employee, a businesswoman, whatever the title is. You spend your time with your friends. You spend your time in bed watching other people’s lives on social media. You spend your time and your energy on the people you love. And all of that is normal and fine. But your life has always been for someone else, or for something else.

“All this time, you’ve been the partner, the best friend, the employee, the daughter, the spectator, but where’s the moment when you’re just yourself? With no label. No distraction. No burden. No expectation.”

“All this time, you’ve been working, building friendships, fighting to be loved, lying down watching other people’s lives, swallowing your own feelings, but where’s the moment when you actually sit down and talk to yourself about the days that just passed and the emotions you’ve buried? Where’s the moment when you take a long breath, sit still, close your eyes? Where’s the moment when you pour out every frustration to Allah who created you, the One who understands you more deeply than anyone in this world, without judgment? Where’s the moment when you raise every hope of yours back up to Allah who made the sun and the earth, and who, if He could do that, can surely handle the small hopes you carry?”

“You need to start giving yourself quality time. No one else there, no labels attached, just you being you. Maybe before the day starts. Maybe before you go to sleep. You need to sit with yourself, with no distractions. Process your emotions through journaling and prayer. Ask again what you actually want to fight for in this life. Look for new dreams. Replace the dreams that got buried with even bigger ones, and more of them. Set aside time, too, for the dreams that are still hidden — the ones that were once buried — and fight for them while Allah is still opening the way.

“You almost never sit with yourself. That’s why you’ve started to lose yourself. One of the ways to recognize yourself is to sit and talk to yourself often.”

Your face is drained. I get it. At twenty-five, it’s exhausting to hear another advice over and over again. Because at twenty-five, you don’t need more advice. You need actual, real change in your life.

“I hope by giving yourself time, you can slowly find what you’ve been looking for, and that it can change your life. And change in life doesn’t always arrive suddenly, dramatically, like lightning striking, like a storm, like a tsunami. Change in life often arrives slowly, like a soft drizzle, like passing clouds, like the gentlest wind.”

Your face is still drained. But the Door to Twenty-Six has already appeared in front of you.

“Honestly, I’m tired,” you finally say.

“Your twenties really do feel like this. It won’t last forever. But you have to remember the things I told you, and actually do them. It won’t change everything, but it can change your life little by little.”

Without answering. Without smiling. You walk away from this cemetery.

You step through the Door to Twenty-Six, your steps slow, dragging.

The door opens. Now you’re twenty-six. And now — 

 — everything is dark.

… to be continued…

Hi! This is a free chapter from my book, Sorry My Younger Self. This is the cover:

It’s not published anywhere yet. That’s the dream I’m chasing. My name’s Alvi Syahrin, and I want these words to find the people who need them: a lonely person in a London flat, someone in a quiet village far from any city, anyone, anywhere.

I can’t do that part alone. If this moved you even a little, the best way to help is to subscribe (it’s free) and send it to one person you think needs it.

That’s all. Thank you for being here.

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“Welcome to the Museum of Yourself,” I greet you as you step inside.

Your eyes widen, taking in everything in this room.

In the center stands a massive aquarium. The water nearly spilling over the edges. Below it, a small inscription: Every Tear You’ve Ever Cried.

Then, on the walls: photos of you. Everywhere.

Photos from when you were still a baby.

All the way up to now.

You study each one.

The first time your mother held you, your tiny face fast asleep, safe, at peace.

The time your father threw you up into the air. Your father smiling, your little face glowing.

The first time you rode a bike, laughing like you’ve got nothing to be afraid of.

Your first day of school, you looked scared.

The first time you had a best friend, the two of you were inseparable.

The first time you fell in love, and you couldn’t help but smiling every time you thought of him.

Then, your first heartbreak. The first tears that came from love. The first rejection. The first disappointment. The first betrayal. The first failure. The second failure, and all the ones after.

The older you got, the fewer smiles appear in the photos.

“I miss who I used to be. When I was still happy. When I could still be fully myself. When I was free of all this weight. Before I became an adult,” you say, eyes still fixed on the photos of your childhood and the easy laughter inside them.

I stand beside you, looking at that same smile in the photo. A smile that hasn’t been on your face in a long time.

Now you’re in your 20s.

And, your 20s is the age when you start to feel like you’re not the same person anymore. Not as cheerful. Not as free. Not as easy with your laughter. Your 20s is when you wish you could stop time, because you’re afraid of what else adulthood might do to you. Your 20s is when you start to miss your younger self. You want to be cheerful again. You want to laugh out loud again.

“All of these are versions of you,” I say, sweeping my hand across the photos covering every wall.

“Inside you, there are so many different versions of you. There’s the two-year-old version of you and her bright laughter. There’s the seven-year-old version of you and how fast she used to run. There’s the ten-year-old version of you and her perfect fantasies about the future. There’s the sixteen-year-old version of you, with all her rebellion and her first love. There’s the eighteen-year-old version of you, full of sadness, full of tears. There’s the twenty-two-year-old version of you, full of confusion, full of fear. There’s the thirty-two-year-old version of you who will be tougher, braver. There’s the forty-seven-year-old version of you who will be wiser, more mature. Inside you live so many different versions of you.

“You’re just a small child trapped inside the body of an adult. You’re a wise person stuck inside the body of someone who hasn’t become wise yet. You’re someone who already knows what enough and peace feel like, but you’re still trapped inside the body of someone who isn’t cheerful anymore. You are all of these versions. Which is why you don’t have to be the same as the version of you from yesterday.

“You also don’t have to become your old self again just to feel okay. In fact, you have to learn how to let your old self go. Let her leave. It’s her time to leave. Her era is over. Welcome the new version of you. Get to know this new era. Even if it doesn’t feel like you. She—this new version of you—must have something. She has to.

“The way your sad self once taught you to recalibrate your expectations. Your cheerful self taught you to see the colors of life. Your fearful self taught you to be more careful, to stop trusting so easily. Your innocent self taught you to dream big. Your realistic self taught you that big dreams require a big fight. She must have something. Don’t hate the version of you that exists now just because she’s different from who you used to be. You’re still you, you always have been.

“And, what would you give to the world if you had never carried any weight? What could you ever say to comfort someone falling apart in the future if you’d always been happy? All of this is preparation for a better future. And how could you have ever met me—your future self—if you hadn’t walked through every version, every era, of your life?”

Tears fall down your cheeks.

Your head bowed.

Sobbing.

And, slowly, every photo in this museum begins to fade.

Your head turns, watching each one disappear, one by one.

And, your gaze lands on the last photo still left.

The day you were born. Cradled in your mother’s arms. Fast asleep. Safe. A smile. Small. But it’s there.

It’s there.

To be continued…

Hi! This is a free chapter from my book, Sorry My Younger Self. This is the cover:

It’s not published anywhere yet. That’s the dream I’m chasing. My name’s Alvi Syahrin, and I want these words to find the people who need them: a lonely person in a London flat, someone in a quiet village far from any city, anyone, anywhere.

I can’t do that part alone. If this moved you even a little, the best way to help is to subscribe (it’s free) and send it to one person you think needs it.

That’s all. Thank you for being here.

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You’re standing in a room that’s pink, top to bottom. About the size of the living room in your house.

Needles pierce the ceiling, blood dripping down from each one. Knives stab through the walls, blood streaming down the surface.

“This, actually, is what’s inside your heart. At 23,” I explain. Because—

The age of 23 is the age of falling in love at the deepest possible level. The most convinced. The most reckless. The most brutal. The most blind.

The age of 23 is when you feel like you’ve finally found your favorite human, and you’re convinced he’s the one you’ll marry. You held on with everything you had, every part of your heart. You fought for it. You accepted every flaw because whatever the flaw, he was still the right one for you. But every effort, every dream of building a life with him, has now turned to ash.

The age of 23 is the most painful heartbreak. The one that leaves the deepest trauma and the deepest wounds. The one that changes your life. The one that rewires how you see love forever.

Honestly, it doesn’t have to be 23. It could be 21, 22, 24, 25, 26. Any age. What’s certain is this: it’s somewhere in your twenty-somethings.

“So, I don’t end up marrying him?” you ask, holding back the tears already pooling in your eyes.

I shake my head.

“Why?” you demand.

“Well, things happened. Turns out you two weren’t right for each other. Your lives were going in different directions. He chose someone else. He never changed.”

“He never changed?”

“No matter how hard you try, you can’t change him. No matter how much you force it—if he isn’t the one, he isn’t the one.”

“Then what happens to me after him? Do I get someone better?”

I take a breath.

“I’m still alone, aren’t I?”

“Yes. And, honestly, I think you need to go through that loneliness. Because, listen—

“Life has so many chapters. The chapter of falling in love, chasing it, keeping it. The chapter of heartbreak. The chapter of friendships. The chapter of chasing your dreams. The chapter of building something on your own. Your whole life, you’ve poured yourself into those chapters. But where’s the chapter for you? Where’s the chapter titled just me and myself, and maybe it’s all I need for now?

“The age of 23 is the age of learning how to be comfortable with your own company. The age of 23 is the age of learning how to talk to yourself, maybe, through journaling, maybe, through self-reflection. The age of 23 is the age of contemplating what your life is even about. The age of 23 is the age of finding meaning in being alone. Because it’s only in solitude—without distraction—that you can start rearranging your life and your future. It’s only in solitude that you start to know yourself: what you want and what you don’t. It’s only in solitude that you learn how to be strong without leaning that strength on your favorite human. It’s only in solitude that you learn how to become your own favorite human. It’s only in solitude that you slowly start to find your worth. It’s only in solitude that you can come back to remembering Allah. Loneliness is a cheap price to pay to find yourself again.”

“But I’m scared of being alone.”

“Loneliness isn’t as dangerous as you think it is.”

You go quiet. So, I say,

“If you have a child one day, you’d want them to be strong, right? Not spoiled. You want them to be successful and inspiring.”

“Yeah.”

“So before any of that, you need to be that person first. Strong. Not spoiled. Inspiring. And, the loneliness you’re walking through right now is the training for becoming that.”

You nod. But it’s the nod of someone who’s still afraid.

“Being scared is completely normal. But your fear isn’t some omen or prediction of what’s coming. Your fear is a feeling, not the actual reality of your future.”

You walk over to the wall. You pull out the knives, one by one. The blood keeps flowing, the wounds still open. This kind of heartbreak doesn’t heal quickly. But this kind of heartbreak teaches you so much.

So, you don’t fall for the wrong person again.

“Are you ready for the next door?”

The Door to Twenty-Four is standing tall behind you.

One year before 25. Have I made it yet? How far have I walked by now?

You walk toward the door. And you open it, full of doubt.

Now you’re 24. And you’re standing in front of a classical building called The Museum of Yourself.

The Museum of Yourself? What’s inside? So, you step toward it.

To be continued...

Hi! This is a free chapter from my book, Sorry My Younger Self. This is the cover:

It’s not published anywhere yet. That’s the dream I’m chasing. My name’s Alvi Syahrin, and I want these words to find the people who need them: a lonely person in a London flat, someone in a quiet village far from any city, anyone, anywhere.

I can’t do that part alone. If this moved you even a little, the best way to help is to subscribe (it’s free) and send it to one person you think needs it.

That’s all. Thank you for being here.

This loneliness started when I was too young and too naive about what friendship was supposed to look like.

I used to label the people around me with stamps I made up myself.

A “best friend” stamp. A “close friend” stamp. A “regular friend” stamp. A “just someone I know” stamp.

Isn’t that something we all did unconsciously?

The people stamped “best friend”—they’re the ones we trust completely, the ones who know our deepest stories, the ones who should always be there when we need them. That’s how it’s supposed to be.

The people stamped “close friend”—the ones we hang out with often, the ones we can joke around with without anyone getting offended, the ones we vent to just a little, yet they don’t really know our deepest pain.

The people stamped “regular friend”—the ones we know well enough, but never really that close, like you’re just not on the same frequency.

Every person in your life, whether you realize it or not, gets one of those four stamps.

I think… this is one of the things that makes us lonely.

We label our friends too much. We define those labels however we want. We build expectations around definitions we invented ourselves.

Best friends are supposed to do this and that. Close friends should be like this and this.

I made that mistake. I stamped everyone, made my own expectations.

So, what did I do after that?

I had to feel the pain of being let down. I had to wade through an ocean of loneliness before I finally realized…

I had to peel off those stamps to neutralize my expectations.

And that’s what I did. I peeled them off.

No more expecting my best friends to show up when I really needed them. No more hoping my friends would reach out, invite me somewhere.

I tried to let go of the stamps. “Best friend,” “close friend,” “regular friend”. And I tried my best to neutralize every definition and expectation hiding behind them.

And it hurts. It feels like you have no one.

Until one day:

In the dictionary of my life,

there were no more best friends,

no more close friends,

no more regular friends.

Everyone was just the same.

A friend is just a friend.

I would treat everyone fairly. No one I’d consider “close” or “not close.” All friends are just friends. No one too near, no one too far.

At first, this felt lonely. But the work can’t stop at just “peeling off the stamps.”

We also have to be kind to everyone, as much as we can. Because all this time, we’ve poured all of our kindness into the people labeled ‘best friend’ or ‘lover,’ until we had no energy left to treat others kindly. That doesn’t mean we became mean, we’re just too drained. Our kindness dried up on one person. And, maybe it’s because we’re so lonely, we’re so afraid of being left behind. But at the same time, we’re also forgetting the other friends who are just as good to us.

Now, it’s time to be good to everyone, regardless of the label. To be willing to show up for good people, regardless of the label. To help good people, regardless of the label.

We’ll never truly know who the real ones are. We’ll never truly know who will actually be there for us on our worst days. It could be the people we stamped “regular friend.” It could be people that we labeled “just a stranger.”

We never know. So, be good to everyone. Every friend is a friend who deserves to be treated well.

But…

What I just told you, that’s a story from years ago. After living day after day without labeling anyone, I realized…

The stamps never really go away. We’ll always be closer to certain people. And that’s normal. You don’t have to force yourself into “I don’t want to be close to anyone.” Your heart will always lean toward someone.

But behind those stamps, there are no more self-made definitions. Behind those stamps, there’s no more difference in treatment. Every friend deserves to be treated as well as you possibly can.

And you...

Maybe you’re not someone I know deeply, but you’re still a friend who deserves the best I can give.

Through this writing, I hope it makes you feel less alone.

Hi! This is a free chapter from my book, Loneliness Is My Best Friend. This is the cover:

It’s not published anywhere yet. That’s the dream I’m chasing. My name’s Alvi Syahrin, and I want these words to find the people who need them: a lonely person in a London flat, someone in a quiet village far from any city, anyone, anywhere.

I can’t do that part alone. If this moved you even a little, the best way to help is to subscribe (it’s free) and send it to one person you think needs it.

That’s all. Thank you for being here.

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“Why are we in a desert?”

We walk through this desert. The sun overhead drifts westward, glowing like a perfect round orange suspended in the air. We leave footprints behind us, letting the wind blow them away a second later.

“Because this is what twenty-one feels like,” I answer.

“What do you mean?”

“Let’s just keep walking for now.”

So, we walk and walk and walk.

Trying to find some kind of sign. But the sign never comes.

And, I watch the sweat trickle down your temples and your nose. It pools into little island shapes on your shirt.

“I’m tired. I’m thirsty,” you say, then stop for a moment, catching your breath.

Then your gaze sweeps across the desert.

At one point, your eyes light up.

Your left index finger points north. “I think I see water.”

So, you walk faster, and faster. Before the sun goes down.

And you’re so thirsty.

You run and run.

Chasing and chasing.

Somehow, you never reach it. As if the water is always just up ahead, always out of reach.

A mirage.

“What is this?! Why does this chase never end?!”

So, I say,

“Twenty-one is the season of chasing but never arriving. Twenty-one is the season of planting but never harvesting. Twenty-one is the season of fighting but never seeing the results. But you need to.”

“But why?”

“Because I—your future self—don’t want to live with a lifetime of regret. You need to make peace with twenty-one and all of its struggle. Not just twenty-one. Maybe some years in your twenties. So, that we don’t end up that full of regret later on. Regret is so much harder to carry than the hardship of fighting for something.”

You go quiet. Maybe you’re trying to process what I just said. Maybe you’re trying to accept this truth, but it’s heavy. Thank you for trying to understand.

“Twenty-one really does feel like being stranded in a desert, dying of thirst, and then you see a source of water in the distance, so you chase it until you’re exhausted — only to find out it was never real. Just a mirage. But that mirage is like the illusion of happiness you see in other people’s lives. The ones who succeeded before you. The ones who already found a beautiful love story. The ones who’ve been lucky since the day they were born. You look at them as if they’ve stopped struggling in life. You look at them as if they’ve found complete happiness in a world that was never complete to begin with. But that perception of yours is just a mirage. It’s a chase that will never end.”

“So what am I supposed to do? Stop chasing? Stop trying? Keep fighting? What?”

“Stop treating other people’s lives as the standard you have to live up to. You’ll be exhausted forever. You’ll always feel like you never arrived. There will always be someone better, but there will always be only one you. So you have to know what you’re really chasing — and why you’re chasing it.”

Then I glance to the right of us.

Because there, the Door to Twenty-Two stands tall.

Your face is worn out. I know you’re scared. Scared of whatever bitter truth you’ll have to swallow next. But you need to.

“I will never be ready,” you say, taking a breath before continuing, “But I’ll do it anyway.”

You take a step forward.

You open the door.

And—

To be continued…

Hi! This is a free chapter from my book, Sorry My Younger Self. This is the cover:

It’s not published anywhere yet. That’s the dream I’m chasing. My name’s Alvi Syahrin, and I want these words to find the people who need them: a lonely person in a London flat, someone in a quiet village far from any city, anyone, anywhere.

I can’t do that part alone. If this moved you even a little, the best way to help is to subscribe (it’s free) and send it to one person you think needs it.

That’s all. Thank you for being here.

Subscribe now

You don’t have to be pretty because pretty isn’t pretty enough.

Like, who told you that you have to be pretty? Society? Someone from your past who once turned you away?

No. Don’t believe them.

You. Don’t. Have. To be. Pretty.

Because in this world, being pretty isn’t the only thing you can be.

You can be someone who’s educated.

Study a little harder. Read more books. Pay closer attention in class. Let yourself become someone who knows things; someone who keeps growing.

You don’t have to be pretty. You can be educated, and that’s still beautiful in its own way.

You can be someone who’s talented. Try all kinds of hobbies. Make some art. Remember that heartbreak, then write your very first poem. Remember all the things you’ve been through, and write your very first story. Paint the clouds and the trees. Knit yourself a cardigan. Try and try and try. Then narrow it down to one or two that actually speak to you. Commit to them for years. And keep practicing, keep growing.

You don’t have to be pretty. You can be talented, and that’s still beautiful in its own way.

You can be someone who inspires. Maybe you're a dreamer with a long list of failures, but you're still striving and trying and crying. Maybe right now, you’re starting from zero. But who knows it could turn into something big? And later, when it does, that story of starting from nothing will be the thing that inspires other people starting from nothing too.

Or maybe you’re someone who’s trying to hold it together when you can barely stand. Unable to keep going, but still here. And if you keep holding on, your story could be the reason someone who comes after you—someone drowning in their own life—decides to keep going too.

You don’t have to be pretty. You can be an inspiration, and that’s still beautiful in its own way.

Or you can be someone with a kind heart. Maybe you’re the one who feeds stray cats when they’re hungry. Or the one who brings a little light into someone’s cloudy day just by being there to listen. Little did you know… you were saving someone’s life.

See, you don’t have to be pretty. You can be kind, saving someone’s life, and that’s still beautiful in its own way.

You can also be someone who strives to be devoted to Allah. Someone who prays even when life feels heavy, fasting through Ramadan, carrying a deep longing to make the pilgrimage for Allah alone. And when you stumble into the valley of sin, you get back up. You repent. You ask Allah for forgiveness, trusting that He will forgive you, and then you follow it with good deeds, hoping to become a better servant.

Don’t you think that’s truly pretty?

I know you keep telling yourself you’re not pretty. But you don’t have to be.

To win in this world, you don’t have to be pretty. But I know there’s still one question sitting in your head…

Then why is it always the pretty ones who get chosen?

We’ll talk about that tomorrow, okay?

Hi! This is a chapter of my book called, INSECURITY IS MY MIDDLE NAME. This is the cover:

Sadly, it’s not available anywhere yet, and that’s what I’m working on.

My name’s Alvi Syahrin, and I want my words to spread all around the world: to a lonely person living in her flat in London, or to someone living in a remote village in Afghanistan, or somewhere in Africa, Central Asia, the Middle East, and Europe, and South America, basically everywhere in this world. I need your help to root for this book. All you can do now is, please, subscribe (it’s free!), and share this to your friend, is that cool?

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You’re sixteen, and you’re back in your old classroom.

There are only three people here.

You, standing by the Time-Travel Door.

Me, the future you, sitting at one of the desks. And beside me—

Your first love.

First love, first hope, first heartbreak. Sitting in his seat. Eating his lunch.

Your heart drops.

Something inside you panics. Don’t let him see me. Don’t let him see me.

So, you turn around and reach for the Time-Travel door again, but it’s locked.

It’s locked because there’s something you need to learn in this room.

“He can’t see you,” I say, waving you over.

So, you walk over slowly, carefully.

Then you sit across from me and him—your first love.

“You’re sure he can’t see me?”

“Relax.”

A long pause. He keeps eating. You watch him.

“Did he ever actually like me?”

“I don’t know either.”

“You claim to be from the future, but every time I ask you something, you never seem to know anything. So, why did you even bring him here?” you ask, confused.

“I’m not a mind reader. I’m you from the future. I don’t know what he truly felt. But there’s one thing I do know,” I say.

“What?”

“Are you ready?”

“Just tell me—did we make it?”

“Nope.”

But the future is never that simple, remember? After this future, there will be another. Things will always change. You never really know who you’re meant to spend your life with until your life almost reaches its end. You never really know.

But this is the one thing I know from my version of the future: the two of you were never going to work.

“The love that feels like everything at sixteen won’t mean a thing ten years from now. And even if you had ended up together—even if it had gone all the way to marriage—there would come a day when you’d realize that love alone isn’t enough to hold something together.”

“Then why do I have to fall in love at this age?”

“Just because you want something doesn’t mean you have to chase it. It’s genuinely beautiful that you fell in love at sixteen. But this isn’t the age for chasing love.

“At sixteen, you need to learn not to let your feelings be the thing steering your whole life.

“At sixteen, you need to learn how to put your life in order. Life is trying to teach you something, even now. Falling in love this young doesn’t mean love is what you’re supposed to prioritize. If anything, what it’s really trying to tell you is this: stay aware of the distractions that can pull you away from where you’re meant to go.

“Everyone gets distracted by love at your age. But love can’t be your priority at sixteen. Even when it feels like the most important thing you’ve ever needed — it isn’t. Not at sixteen.

“But I want to be loved, too…”

“You’re only sixteen. Still so young. And your first love is still so young too. You’ll never feel fully loved by someone who’s still figuring himself out.

“Sometimes, being in a relationship this young gets in the way of the growing up you’re still meant to do—because at sixteen, if you follow every feeling you have, you’ll leave no room for the other parts of life that actually matter.

“And relationships at this age can so easily turn toxic. Not because either of you is a bad person—but because neither of you is grown enough yet to handle feelings this big.

“He doesn’t know how to treat you the way you deserve. Neither do you. He doesn’t know how to work through conflict, because he hasn’t worked through himself yet. And neither have you.

“At sixteen, love starts to feel like a demand, and then it breaks you. But that isn’t love. It’s just an addiction. Like a drug dressed up as something poetic and beautiful.”

“Then how do I make these feelings stop?”

“You can’t make this love disappear, and you don’t have to. You’re allowed to feel it. You just need to stop doing the things that keep pulling you back to him: stop checking up on him, stop saying his name in your prayers, stop every little thing that keeps you circling back to him. You still have unfinished business from being fifteen, don’t you?”

“This is so hard,” you say.

“It’s supposed to be hard. Because you’re becoming something precious.”

So, just because you’ve fallen in love, it doesn’t mean you have to chase it.

Now—are you ready to step through the Door to Seventeen?

Hi! This is a chapter of my book called, Sorry My Younger Self: I can’t make you happy… but i will. I SHARE IT FOR FREE HERE! This is the cover:

Sadly, it’s not available anywhere yet, and that’s what I’m working on. My name’s Alvi Syahrin, and I want my words to spread all around the world: to a lonely person living in her flat in London, or to someone living in a remote village in Afghanistan, or somewhere in Africa, Central Asia, the Middle East, and Europe, and South America, basically everywhere in this world. I need your help to root for this book. All you can do now is, please, subscribe (it’s free!), and share this to your friend, is that cool?

Subscribe now

You and your younger self are standing in front of a house.

Your childhood home.

The color of the walls, the front door, the yard.

This is where you grew up. You smile just looking at it.

Then you step inside.

Moving through each room. Taking in each piece of furniture. Are your parents home? What did their faces look like when you were still small?

Your younger self trails behind you. Then suddenly, she says,

“I’m sorry.”

Your footsteps stop. You turn around. “Sorry for what?”

“I’m sorry for not being good enough. For not being someone to be proud of.”

You look at this small child. Your younger self. And your eyes go warm at the sight of her tiny frame, feeling the weight of what she just said.

“Why would you say that?” you respond, your voice trembling, holding back tears. “I’m the one who should be sorry.”

“Sometimes I feel like I’m just a burden.”

You swallow hard. It hurts to hear this directly from her—from yourself. You’ve known since childhood what it feels like to be a burden, but hearing it said out loud cuts through you like the edge of a blade.

Then you sit down on the floor. She sits down, too.

You can’t bring yourself to look at her face. So, eyes cast downward, you say softly,

“I’m sorry I haven’t become an adult you can be proud of.” Your voice is quiet. So quiet. “I’m sorry I haven’t been able to give you the life you deserve. But I promise I’ll fight harder.”

Tears fall down your cheeks.

“The truth is—I’m proud of you. I’m so proud of how strong you’ve held on, even at this age, even in this small body. You kept me going. You’re the thread that kept my life from unraveling. I’m so proud of your ability to find happiness in the smallest things. I miss being able to do that. I’m so proud of your forgiving heart. The way you’d go back to playing with your friends right after a fight. The way you’d return to your parents even after they’d just scolded you—even when it left a new wound in your heart—and you’d come back as if nothing happened. I miss having a heart like yours.”

Now tears are falling down her cheeks, too.

In all of this little kid’s life, not one adult had ever told her they were proud of her.

Until you.

“I’m also sorry about the adults who always made you feel like everything you did was wrong. Who made your dreams feel small. Who never listened. I will. I will fight for you.”

Your hands find each other and hold on.

Then your younger self says, “I also—”

And suddenly—

—she’s gone.

The hand that was holding yours feels like air.

You sit there, motionless, caught inside an emptiness.

Silence wraps around everything, as if the world has stopped turning.

Then it all fades, the way a candle melts slowly into nothing.

And everything around you grows bright, then white—white as a blank canvas.

She was gone before you could hear what she was going to say last.

Hi! This is a chapter of my book called, Sorry My Younger Self: I can’t make you happy… but i will. I SHARE IT FOR FREE HERE! This is the cover:

Sadly, it’s not available anywhere yet, and that’s what I’m working on. My name’s Alvi Syahrin, and I want my words to spread all around the world: to a lonely person living in her flat in London, or to someone living in a remote village in Afghanistan, or somewhere in Africa, Central Asia, the Middle East, and Europe, and South America, basically everywhere in this world. I need your help to root for this book. All you can do now is, please, subscribe (it’s free!), and share this to your friend, is that cool?

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Welcome to the Haunted Forest Called Adulthood.

You and your younger self are trapped here.

A thick fog blankets every corner of this forest, making each step difficult to take—the way every decision in life feels difficult to make. The trees stretch impossibly tall, as tall as a parent’s expectations. The light is dim, like the uncertainty of the future. And when the wind blows, you hear the rustling of leaves and branches—which sounds exactly like the noise inside your head.

You and your younger self hold hands, moving forward slowly. Very slowly. Because with every step, there’s always something underfoot. A root? Dry leaves? A snake? An insect? A branch? Mud?

“When we grow up, will we be braver?” your younger self asks—and it feels almost like a taunt, because your palm is cold and wet with fear.

She needs to know the truth, you think.

“Yes and no,” you answer plainly.

“What do you mean?”

“Yes, we’ll be braver. Some of the fears from childhood become nothing once you’re an adult. But—”

“But?”

“We grow from one fear into the next. When we were little, we were scared of monsters under the bed, of rooms that were completely dark, of falling off a bike when we were just learning, of being made fun of by friends. We’re not afraid of any of that anymore. We’ve become braver against the fears that used to hold us.

“But we have new fears to face. Fear of disappointing our parents. Fear of becoming nothing. Fear of not being able to keep up in the working world. Those are the things that frighten me now. But hopefully, one day I’ll get through them and come out braver. The same way you used to be afraid of monsters under the bed—and now you’re not. The me that’s afraid of failing now, maybe the future me won’t be afraid of that anymore.

“So yes, we’ll have new fears. But we’ll also have so much new courage. And that means we’re growing.”

“So, fear, it never really goes away, huh?”

The deeper you walk into the forest, the faster your steps become. Even though it isn’t any brighter, and the fog hasn’t thinned. But somehow, it’s as if you’ve already started to adjust.

“Maybe, fear isn’t supposed to go away. Maybe we need it. For more strategic anticipation. For more thorough preparation. For a stronger mind.”

“But if fear never leaves, how do we keep fighting?”

Then you and your younger self stop at the very heart of the forest. Here, in the center, the trees are fewer. So the two of you tilt your heads back toward the clouded sky. And you say,

“Just do it with fear.”

“Do it with fear?”

“Sometimes we think we have to be brave first before we try something. We don’t. Fear slowly starts to leave when we’re willing to face it head-on. Like us in this forest—when we started walking, we were moving so slowly, so scared. But over time, we adjusted. And from adjusting, we became sharper and braver.”

You take a long breath before continuing.

“Fear doesn’t mean weakness. If you never feel afraid, you’re doing it wrong. If you never feel afraid, you’ll be reckless with your own life—and that will make things so much harder for the future version of us. Honestly, I’m glad you feel fear. Because one of the ways to become a brave person is to have that fear in the first place. But brave people work hard not to let fear stop them from moving. Like us in this forest—we don’t know what we’re stepping on, and we could have stopped because we didn’t want to face it. But would that have gotten us anywhere? No. So we walk anyway. We walk with fear. And that—that is actually brave.”

Then you crouch down, bringing your eyes level with hers, and say,

“If you compare the two of us, it’s clear—I’m already so much braver than you. You wouldn’t believe how strong and brave we’ve become. But does being braver mean having no fear at all? No, it doesn’t. And that’s okay.”

Then you stand back up. When you glance behind you, the purple door has appeared.

So you and your younger self push it open.

And suddenly—

bright and blazing,

swaying,

all blue—

To be continued…

Hi! This is a chapter of my book called, Sorry My Younger Self: I can’t make you happy… but i will. I SHARE IT FOR FREE HERE! This is the cover:

Sadly, it’s not available anywhere yet, and that’s what I’m working on. My name’s Alvi Syahrin, and I want my words to spread all around the world: to a lonely person living in her flat in London, or to someone living in a remote village in Afghanistan, or somewhere in Africa, Central Asia, the Middle East, and Europe, and South America, basically everywhere in this world. I need your help to root for this book. All you can do now is, please, subscribe (it’s free!), and share this to your friend, is that cool?

Subscribe now

Welcome to the Island of Candy and Ice Cream!

Your eyes dart in every direction. Staring at a pink sky and cotton candy clouds, raining down candy like a drizzle. Your younger self is standing there, stretching both hands wide open, trying to catch every piece falling from the sky.

You and your younger self walk across a bridge made of chocolate bars. Every plank beneath your feet is a slab of chocolate. Below the bridge, a river of vanilla ice cream flows slowly. At the far end of this long bridge, the Time-Machine Door is already waiting, and I—the future version of you—am standing there.

Truly, this is a world of sweetness and beauty. It feels like a world overflowing with love and affection.

“Do people love us like this when we’re grown up?” your younger self asks, grabbing a piece of candy that fell from the pink sky.

And, the candy rain stops falling. All that’s left is the flowing river of vanilla ice cream and the breeze carrying the sweet scent of cotton candy.

You and your younger self stop in the middle of the chocolate bar bridge. Holding on to the ropes. Watching the thick current below—like lava chasing and folding over itself, except this is white, cold, and sweet. You think: What am I supposed to say?

“Do our parents finally love us? And never yell at us anymore?” your younger self asks again.

Your heart churns. If you were to answer honestly, you’d say,

“Some of the things they said still hurt me. I still hate the way they compared us to other kids, making us feel like we were never enough. I’m still disappointed that they always chose anger over tenderness. Honestly, I haven’t felt the kind of love I hoped for from them.”

But is that a wise answer for a small child?

You close your eyes. Searching for the wisest possible answer that’s still honest. Combing through everything inside your head.

Then, it’s like there’s a small candle flickering to life in your mind.

That candle carries shadows of childhood.

The candy and ice cream that your mother and grandmother used to buy for you. The smell of food your mother cooked without you ever asking. Toys scattered across every room. Your very first steps; who taught you to walk? Your first day of school; who took you there? Who fought for you for the sake of your education? Whose dreams and life had to be surrendered so that you could exist in this world?

Then, you whisper to your younger self.

“Love, it speaks many languages and takes many forms. Maybe, they couldn’t love us the way we wanted. Maybe, they weren’t the best listeners in our lives. Maybe, they couldn’t give us the hugs we needed on our darkest days. But the smell of breakfast in the morning, the education we took for granted, the toys left over from childhood, the prayers whispered in the final third of the night that we never heard—what is all of that, if not love?

“I understand that we need love on an emotional level, not just material. But growing up means learning that love isn’t always about showering us with affection, holding us on grey days, always being supportive and saying ‘yes’ to everything we want. In the end, Allah, Lord of the Worlds, knows the right dose of love for us. We received what was enough. Even when it felt like it wasn’t—that’s still love. Love will always feel like it’s not enough. And our parents—and their inability to love us emotionally—hopefully that made us stronger for the uncertainties of life. If we’d always been loved exactly the way we wanted, it could be a good thing, but it could also stunt us. We’d start seeing the world in black and white. Being used to getting what we want would make it harder to adapt to the uncertainties of adulthood. Truly, Allah knows the right dose of love for us.”

Wow. You didn’t expect yourself to sound this mature.

You also didn’t expect to bring God’s name into the conversation. Because you’re not exactly a religious person. Your relationship with God is… something that rises and falls. So saying His name feels strange on your lips, but… natural. Because, at the end of the day, who’s orchestrating all of this?

“They’re only human. What kind of perfect love can we expect from people who are also imperfect?”

You don’t know whether this small child can digest everything you just said. But even if not—at least this is a message to yourself.

You and your younger self continue stepping across the chocolate bars, walking toward the Time-Machine Door.

“But do they change?” your younger self asks.

“Maybe,” you answer, unsure. “But maybe—just maybe—they don’t change because they change. Maybe it’s the way we see them that changes.”

Your younger self nods and smiles.

Hand in hand, the two of you arrive at the Time-Machine door. You push it open. Entering another world.

And, now, we’re standing in a valley. But what valley is this?

To be continued...

Hi! This is a chapter of my book called, Sorry My Younger Self: I can’t make you happy… but i will. This is the cover:

Sadly, it’s not available anywhere yet, and that’s what I’m working on. My name’s Alvi Syahrin, and I want my words to spread all around the world: to a lonely person living in her flat in London, or to someone living in a remote village in Afghanistan, or somewhere in Africa, Central Asia, the Middle East, and Europe, and South America, basically everywhere in this world. I need your help to root for this book. All you can do now is, please, subscribe (it’s free!), and share this to your friend, is that cool?

Subscribe now

Welcome to the Waterfall of Tears.

Here, there are three of us: me, you, and the child.

Me—the future version of you. You—the version of yourself right now, the one reading this book and adventuring through its pages. And the child—your younger self.

Each of us sitting on a large rock. Watching the water rush down from the cliff. Crashing into the pool below. Splashing tiny droplets onto your forehead, your feet, your hands, your cheeks, your lips.

You taste the water on your tongue.

Your brow furrows. It’s salty.

“This is the Waterfall of Tears. All of this—every drop—is made from your tears, across your entire life,” I say, and then I leave the two of you alone.

“So when we grow up… do we stop being crybabies?” your younger self asks.

Oh. You cry more than you could ever imagine.

You smile bitterly, wiping the droplets from your hands, spreading the moisture across your arms and face. When the wind hits, it feels cool. Should I tell the truth? you think.

“We actually cry a lot more once we’re grown up.”

“What makes us cry?”

Yes—what is it that makes you cry so often?

Your gaze settles on the ripples in the pool. “Maybe it’s because adulthood is when you experience failure after failure after failure. Maybe it’s because adulthood is when you feel the weight of mental exhaustion, the heaviness of responsibility, carrying everything alone while walking toward uncertainty. Maybe it’s because adulthood is when you feel under-loved, misunderstood, overlooked. Maybe it’s because adulthood is when you start losing the people who matter most. Maybe it’s because adulthood is when you become more sensitive to every emotion you feel. Maybe it’s because adulthood is when everything happens all at once—and you’re just not ready.”

Your younger self goes still. Eyes hollow, but with a flicker of fear behind them. This child needs hope. So you continue.

“But it’s only in adulthood that you get to experience success after success—even though I haven’t found it yet, someday we will. It’s only in adulthood that you learn to become someone steady and strong—even though I’m not there yet, someday we will. Maybe it’s only in adulthood that you truly learn to recognize the genuine people in your life, the ones worth holding on to—even though I don’t yet know who they are, someday we will. And when we do find all of that, we’ll cry then too. But those will be tears of happiness.”

Your younger self breaks into a wide grin. The child stands up on the wet rock. Arms stretched wide. Letting the spray of water and wind hit that small body.

“When we were little and we cried, people called us crybabies. So what about when we’re grown up? Are we still crybabies?” the child asks—voice faint, swallowed by the roar of the Waterfall of Tears.

You laugh softly at the innocence of the question.

“Funny thing is, when you’re an adult, people actually care more when they find out you’ve been crying. But the thing about being an adult is—you don’t cry in front of your friends or your parents anymore. You mostly cry alone in your room. So no one even knows.”

“That’s kind of sad, isn’t it?”

Come to think of it—yeah. It really is, isn’t it?

“I don’t know why either. But what I do know is this: We cry because we can still feel. We cry because we still care about our lives. We cry because we still love ourselves. We cry because there’s something in our lives that matters enough to cry over. And I think that’s a wonderful thing—to be able to cry it out.”

You stand up on the wet rock too. Arms stretched wide. Eyes closed. Letting the spray of the Waterfall of Tears and its wind wash over you.

Then you reach for the child’s hand, hold it tight, and say, “Don’t try too hard to be the kind of adult who buries everything, who says I’m fine to all of it just to feel strong, when really it’s all pretend. If you feel like crying, cry it out. Feelings exist to be felt.”

Then a wisp of mist curls up from the pool at the base of the waterfall. As it fades, a purple door stands firm—half-submerged in the water.

And I—the future version of you—am already waiting beside it.

You and your younger self climb down into the shin-deep pool, wading quickly toward the door. You grip the knob, push, open, step through.

And now, you’re on the Island of Candy and Ice Cream.

To be continued…

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Hey, my name’s Alvi Syahrin. As I wrote this, I felt like a failed author. My books, they don’t sell well anymore. And I’ve been dreaming for my words to be spread around the whole world—to be read in a small apartment in London, or in a remote village in Pakistan, or in a city I’ve never heard its name. As cringe as it sounds, I’ve been dreaming to be one of the best-selling author in the whole world, but I don’t know if that ever comes true. So, what you just read is a chapter of my book called ‘Sorry, My Younger Self; I can’t make you happy… but i will‘, I hope you love it, and I’ll post more from this book.

Anyway, this is the cover of this book:

Now imagine you’re standing in a boundless white room.

Everything is white. As far as the eye can see.

Then you notice a purple door in front of you.

“That’s a time-travel door. It will take you to places you need to visit. Step inside, and meet someone precious on the other side,” I say.

So, you walk toward the door. Place your hand on the knob. Push it open. Take a long breath and a short step, and suddenly—

—you’re somewhere else entirely.

It’s a street.

A street from your childhood.

Green trees, blue sky, enormous clouds.

The place where you used to play with your childhood friends.

Out of nowhere, you hear the sound of a pack of kids laughing and running. You turn your head, and—

—it’s all of them. Your childhood friends, running as if they’re playing tag, scattering in every direction. But none of them can see you.

Except one.

A little child.

Who stops mid-step. And stands right in front of you.

You look at the dirty sandals, the small feet, the small body, then the face.

The eyes.

Both eyes.

You lock gazes.

The child knows you. You know the child.

It’s the younger version of you—still a kid, around eight or nine years old. Standing face to face, eye to eye, brows furrowed, both of you silent and frozen.

So, you step closer.

Then you kneel down, bringing your head level with that child, and give that child a warm smile before saying, “Yeah. It’s me.“

***

The two of you walk down this childhood street, hand in hand.

“So… is being a grown-up fun?” the child asks.

Are you going to be honest?

You take a long breath before answering, open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

“Yeah, it’s great!” you say finally, with a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes, not daring to look down.

“Are you still friends with everyone? And who did you marry?”

You laugh. You have the answers, but this child isn’t ready to hear them, so you say, “You’ll find out for yourself one day,” smiling, walking, feeling a small breeze brush against both your faces.

“But I wanna know!”

“Hmm. Some friends will come and go. And whether I’m married or not—you’re still too young to worry about that.”

“So, what do you do for a living? Did my dreams come true?”

Your steps stop. The child stops too.

Your face tightens. You swallow hard. You can’t bear to watch the smile on this small face fade once it learns what lies ahead.

“Being a grown-up means…” Your voice trembles.

“Being a grown-up means you have to be ready to bury your dreams. Being a grown-up means you can’t dream too high anymore. Being a grown-up means you have to be realistic so life doesn’t break your heart.”

“So… is it wrong for me to have dreams that are really, really big?”

Your lips form a thin smile, but your eyes are sad. “Hmm. Sometimes, big dreams… they don’t always come true. So, it’s better to just be realistic. That way we don’t have to be disappointed when we grow up.”

“Realistic?”

“Yes. Realistic.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Just… be ordinary. Don’t aim too high. Keep things reasonable. Not everything has to be spectacular. It’s okay to be average.”

A pool of tears begins to form in the child’s eyes.

Your chest tightens. You don’t want to hurt this kid. But this is the reality of being an adult.

“Growing up means… there’s so much to consider. You can’t keep asking your parents for things anymore. Sometimes, you’re the one who has to help them. Growing up means life just gets in the way. You take on new responsibilities. You get busier and more tired and sadder. Until you don’t even have the energy left to fight for your dreams. Just being able to keep going—that alone feels like something to be grateful for. Being a grown-up means being realistic. Realistic about every possibility. Realistic about what you hope for—so your own expectations don’t crush you.”

You can’t bear to look at your younger self, whose head is now bowed. So, you lift your gaze to the sky.

And, in the sky, there’s an airplane. Drifting far beyond the clouds. Leaving behind a chemtrail that’s long, straight, and white. Your eyes follow that chemtrail. And, your thoughts drift away with it.

Once upon a time, your younger self used to play with imagination all the time. Becoming a pilot. Traveling the world. Soaring through the sky. Becoming a superhero with extraordinary powers. Becoming princesses. Becoming a doctor, a teacher, an astronaut. Becoming anything and everything. All of it in the imagination.

Where does that imagination go when you grow up?

As you got older, you stopped playing with your imagination. You became more skeptical and realistic—or were you just pessimistic, hiding behind the word “realistic”?

Whatever the case, you believe that growing up requires skepticism and realism. And I—the future version of you—agree with that.

But is this what you truly want?

Your eyes are still following the airplane. Where is it going? How far has it flown? Which oceans and continents has it crossed? Who’s inside it? How is it even possible for something to fly that high? How does it work?

Then something clicks inside your chest. Like a light switching on in your mind.

“If everything had to be too realistic, there might never have been a vehicle that could fly—called an airplane—capable of crossing oceans and continents. If everything had to be too realistic, there might never have been space travel. If everything had to be too realistic, computers—which once filled entire rooms—might never have become laptops and phones you carry in your pocket. If everything had to be too realistic, there might be no internet connecting a world that was once so far apart.”

Your thoughts keep wandering.

“Maybe growing up is about merging the imaginative side of childhood with the realistic side of adulthood. The way an airplane can fly across the sky—it began as an imagination that was unrealistic for its time, but it was calculated, researched, and fought for realistically. Until today, we can cross continents in a matter of hours. The way a phone fits in your pocket—it began as an imagination that was unrealistic for its time, but it was calculated, researched, and fought for realistically.”

You let out a long breath. A breath of relief. Along with the smallest smile dawning on your lips.

Your younger self is still looking down. So, you tap the child’s shoulder. Lean down, level with their ear.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

Your younger self turns to look at you. Eyes wet, pupils wide. In their entire life, no one has ever said sorry to this child. No one except you.

“Don’t be too realistic about life,” you continue. “You can be the most successful entrepreneur in your city. You can be a bestselling author across the world. You can travel the globe—not just because you have money, but because you have something the world needs. Keep dreaming the things people call unrealistic,” you say, more as a reminder to yourself than anything else.

“But you just said… to be realistic so we don’t get disappointed?”

“Yes, you do have to be realistic. But realistic doesn’t mean you can’t be imaginative. Realistic doesn’t mean putting a ceiling on your dreams. Realistic doesn’t mean shrinking your hopes. You can have enormous dreams and still be realistic about how you fight for them. And realistic also means… if a dream has to be let go, it doesn’t mean you can’t create a new one. Lose one dream, create ten more.”

“But you also said… you’re already too busy and tired and sad?”

You gently stroke the child’s hair. “If I haven’t had the chance to fight for it yet, at the very least, I’ll start by fighting for it in a prayer. After all—there’s nothing to lose, nothing tiring about that, right?”

“But if all you do is pray, how will it ever come true?”

“Now you’re the one being too realistic.”

Now you and your younger self burst out laughing together. A gentle wind blows through.

“I hope that by praying, I’ll always remember what I need to fight for. I hope that by praying, I’ll find an opening to begin. I hope that by praying, I can strengthen my resolve. I hope that by praying, Allah, the Lord of the Worlds, will ease the path for me, bless my efforts, and bring my dreams closer—easier than I ever imagined.”

“Amen,” you and the child say at the same time.

You and your younger self continue walking down this quiet street.

“I promise I’ll fight for our dreams. But I’m also sorry if I haven’t lived up to what you hoped for,” you say.

“Th… thank you for being willing to fight for me,” your younger self says, and a tear slips slowly down the corner of your eye.

In the distance, a purple door stands upright in the middle of the road. Just standing there, as if it belongs. And I—the future version of you—am already waiting here, at this time-travel door, waving.

You and your younger self race toward me.

You let the child win. You let the child reach the knob first. Push it open. Step through.

And now—you, me, and the child—we’ve arrived at the Waterfall of Tears.

To be continued…

Hey, my name’s Alvi Syahrin. As I wrote this, I felt like a failed author. My books, they don’t sell well anymore. And I’ve been dreaming for my words to be spread around the whole world—to be read in a small apartment in London, or in a remote village in Pakistan, or in a city I’ve never heard its name. As cringe as it sounds, I’ve been dreaming to be one of the best-selling author in the whole world, but I don’t know if that ever comes true. So, what you just read is a chapter of my book called ‘Sorry, My Younger Self; I can’t make you happy… but i will‘, I hope you love it, and I’ll post more from this book.

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Anyway, this is the cover of this book:

Imagine you’re standing in a hospital corridor.

White walls, night sky, barely any lights on—just you, alone.

On the left side of the corridor, there’s a large glass window. Behind it, rows of bassinets. And one baby is crying.

So, you walk toward the sound of that cry.

Step after step after step.

The closer you get, the softer the crying becomes, as if the baby somehow knows.

Slowly, your feet stop. Your head tilts down. You read the name.

Your pupils widen. Your body freezes. A sharp jolt through your chest.

It’s your full name written there.

For the first time in your life, you’re meeting who you once were. A small, innocent baby who knew nothing about the world, eyes closed, fast asleep.

So—what would you say to this child?

Then, like something out of a fantasy movie, everything around you fades. Everything turns white. The glass between you and your younger self dissolves.

There’s nothing left.

Nothing except you and the smallest version of yourself.

And, so, you take the slowest step you’ve ever taken.

Toward the baby—toward you.

Until you’re standing right beside the bassinet.

You look at those tiny closed eyes, the little fingers curled inward, the soft and fragile rhythm of breath.

Then you place your finger against those small hands.

Warm.

The tiny fingers wrap around yours and hold tight, as if to say, don’t ever leave.

And, you can’t hold back your tears.

So, you lift the baby from the bassinet, cradle the child close, hold on as though you’re terrified of losing this baby—losing you.

“So, what would you say?” I whisper.

But you’re too far gone in this moment to speak—sobbing, staring down at this small life in your arms.

Because you know.

This baby will shed more tears in adulthood than in all the years of childhood combined. This baby will go through things that are impossibly hard. This baby will carry weight that no one should have to carry alone.

This baby will hold enormous dreams for this world—and then be slammed by reality so hard they’ll fall into the deepest well of depression there is.

This baby will feel unloved as an adult. Will never feel whole love from their parents. Will never feel the warmth they hoped for from the person they hoped it from. Will even believe they don’t deserve to love themselves.

This baby will fall in love with the wrong person. And you’ll carry the guilt of that choice.

This baby will take wrong turns—because no one was ever there to point the way.

“What do you want to tell them?” I ask again, because I can feel this meeting is running out of time.

But all you can do is fall to your knees and sob until your back shakes.

So I—the version of you from the future—lean in and whisper:

“You have to promise to make this child happy for the rest of their life.”

Then I step away and watch from a distance.

Your first meeting with yourself.

And my eyes go warm and blurry watching all of this. Because there’s one thing I now understand:

At the age you are right now—where you feel useless, where you feel like you’ve achieved nothing worth being proud of—it turns out… you still love yourself. You love yourself so deeply, so fiercely, as if this is the most precious thing you’ve ever held.

You just needed to meet your younger self like this.

Slowly, the baby in your arms fades. Your wet eyes open. You look around, and everything has turned into a boundless white—as if you’re standing in a place outside of space and time.

Then you see me—the future version of you.

And, I watch you nod, tears still running down your face, and say:

“Yes. I’ll make them happy.”

—

Hey, my name’s Alvi Syahrin. As I wrote this, I felt like a failed author. My books, they don’t sell well anymore. And I’ve been dreaming for my words to be spread around the whole world—to be read in a small apartment in London, or in a remote village in Pakistan, or in a city I’ve never heard its name. As cringe as it sounds, I’ve been dreaming to be one of the best-selling author in the whole world, but I don’t know if that ever comes true. So, what you just read is a chapter of my book called ‘Sorry, My Younger Self; I can’t make you happy… but i will‘, I hope you love it, and I’ll post more from this book.

Anyway, this is the cover of this book:

I don’t love life, but I love this universe and its wonder.

I don’t have many friends, but every time I see the sky, I don’t feel so alone.

Because when I look up to the sky, it feels like the entire universe is my friend, and if they could speak to me, maybe, just maybe—

The sun would say to me: “You can still be strong and powerful, even when you stand alone. And no matter what people say about me, I will never stop shining. You shouldn’t, either.”

The stars would whisper: “It’s only in the darkness that I found my light. That’s how I became who I am.”

The trees would speak: “Sometimes, I have to lose parts of myself — like when I shed my leaves — in order to grow new ones that are better for me. You too… you’ll need to grow new versions of yourself if you want to survive the storms of this life.”

The seeds beneath the ground would say: “I may not be visible right now, but that doesn’t mean I’m not growing. I’m still fighting, even in this darkness.”

The wind would murmur: “You don’t have to always be seen to be meaningful.”

The mountains would rumble: “I wasn’t formed in a day. I was shaped by pressure, by eruptions, by destruction.”

The moon would tell me: “You don’t need to be as bright as the sun to be useful. Even a soft light like mine is needed in the darkest night.”

And the dawn sky would say: “Even after the longest, darkest night, I still show up. Bringing a new day, a new chance, a new hope. So, let’s make the best of it.”

I love this universe, and, maybe, I can love this life.

Hi, thank you for reading the whole thing, and, hi, it’s me, Alvi Syahrin, the author of ‘insecurity is my middle name‘, ‘loneliness is my best friend‘, ‘overthinking is my hobby, and i hate it‘, ‘sorry, my younger self, i cant make you happy… but i will‘. For now, it’s only available in Indonesia (and, sometimes, in Malaysia), but I hope it can be anywhere in this world… especially in your bookshelf. :)

The old you was cheerful, full of smiles, always laughing. The you now? Not cheerful anymore,but not sad either — just… empty.

The old you was excited to meet friends, to talk, and share stories. The you now? Suddenly so introverted, like you’d rather be alone than risk another disappointment.

The old you was so easily excited, so full of hope. The you now? Too tired to feel anything at all.

And now you’re wondering, “I don’t recognize myself anymore.”

So, here’s the thing…

You need to let the old you go.

That era has passed. Welcome this new version of you.

Back then was the Happy Era. The era where you learned how to:
 — see the colors in life
 — dream big
 — live lightly

But you’ve already learned those lessons. Now it’s time to move into a new era, to learn other lessons.

Maybe now is the Sad Era. The Struggling Era. The Empty Era.

But you need to pass through this one. Because here, you’ll learn:
 — how to manage expectations
 — how to accept life with an open heart
 — how to rise even after you’ve fallen to your lowest
 — how to stop giving your energy to people who don’t value you

These are the lessons you could never learn in the Happy Era.

And once you’ve learned them, you’ll enter the Wise Era.

The era where you become calmer, more accepting, more understanding.

And when you’ve grown wiser, you’ll get to return to your Happy Era — but this time, it will be a whole new level of joy.

Until you hit another Sad Era again. Where you’ll gather new lessons again.

And return once more, even wiser.

Happy. Sad. Wise.

Happy Sad. Wise.

Over and over again.

Because this is just the world. Not paradise.

This is just the world. Not paradise.

Hi, thank you for reading the whole thing, and, hi, it’s me, Alvi Syahrin, the author of ‘insecurity is my middle name‘, ‘loneliness is my best friend‘, ‘overthinking is my hobby, and i hate it‘, ‘sorry, my younger self, i cant make you happy… but i will‘. For now, it’s only available in Indonesia (and, sometimes, in Malaysia), but I hope it can be anywhere in this world… especially in your bookshelf. :)