Arif's mornings never began with an alarm clock.
They began with his mother's voice.
"Arif, wake up. You'll be late for college."
He opened his eyes and stared at the tin roof above him.
That roof always reminded him of one thing—limits.
Two small rooms.
A struggling middle-class family.
A father working as a peon in a private office.
A mother counting expenses every night.
Arif had dreams, but he carried them carefully—
because dreams were expensive.
On the way to college, Rahat laughed,
"Still using that torn bag?"
Arif smiled.
"Vintage, bro. You wouldn't get it."
Humor was his shield.
Then he saw her.
Neela.
White scarf. Calm eyes.
She wasn't rich, but she lived without constant fear of bills.
Their first real interaction happened in the canteen.
Arif tripped, spilled tea on himself, and became a joke.
Everyone laughed.
Neela didn't.
She handed him a tissue.
"Are you okay?"
Three simple words.
Soft enough to stay in his heart.
Friendship slowly turned into love—
notes, libraries, rooftop talks.
One day Neela asked,
"Why do you joke so much?"
Arif smiled.
"Because nobody listens when you cry."
Love felt beautiful.
But reality never stays quiet.
One evening Neela whispered on the phone,
"My father knows about us…
He says you have no future."
Those words shattered something inside Arif.
That night he saw his father counting debts on the floor.
Love needed courage.
Responsibility needed sacrifice.
Neela cried,
"Go build yourself. Forget me."
Arif smiled—his usual smile.
"Forgetting is not that easy.
That's why people dream."
That night he wrote:
"I may be poor,
but I am not useless.
One day my name will be my identity."
And he began walking alone.