The Boy Who Had No Name - By Gavin Maja

Written By: Gavin Maja

Category: Short Story

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

In the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, Gavin Maja presents "The Boy Who Had No Name," a compelling short story. Maja, writing as Moodswing Poet, crafts an intricate narrative that delves into the depths of personal struggle, exploring themes of identity, trauma, and the search for solace in a tumultuous world. This evocative work invites readers to journey with a young protagonist as he navigates the complexities of his environment and his own inner turmoil.

About the Work

"The Boy Who Had No Name" is a poignant exploration of a young boy's struggle against a backdrop of familial discord and personal despair. Maja's narrative style is raw and immersive, employing vivid imagery to depict the protagonist's internal and external battles. The mood is somber yet laced with moments of tender resilience, capturing the essence of a soul seeking connection and healing. Through stark realism and emotive prose, the story conveys a powerful message of hope and endurance amidst adversity.

The Boy Who Had No Name

Original Submission by Gavin Maja

The Boy Who Had No Name

Gavin Maja (Moodswing Poet)

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Content Warning

This book contains depictions of:

Child abuse and neglect, substance abuse, suicidal thoughts and ideation, mental health struggles, and emotional trauma.

Some chapters may be difficult to read. Please consider reading at your own pace, prioritize your well-being too.

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Copyright © 2026 Gavin Maja

Written under the pen name Moodswing Poet.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission from the copyright holder, except for brief quotations used in reviews, criticism, or educational purposes permitted by copyright law.

The Boy Who Had No Name is a work of fiction. While inspired by real emotions, experiences, and environments, certain characters, events, and dialogue have been fictionalized for literary purposes.

First Edition, 2026.

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Dedication

For those who carried storms nobody could see.

May you find your bench beneath the tree.

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Table of Contents

* Chapter 1 – Nobody Knew Him

* Chapter 2 – Inside the Walls

* Chapter 3 – Streets and Silence

* Chapter 4 – Between Streets and Silence

* Chapter 5 – Fractured Evenings

* Chapter 6 – Endless Fridays

* Chapter 7 – A Moment of Quiet

* Chapter 8 – The Girl Who Sat in Silence

* Chapter 9 – You Are Allowed to Exist

* Chapter 10 – The Empty Bench

* Chapter 11 – Streets and Lollipops

* Chapter 12 – Quiet Strength

* Chapter 13 – When Silence Breaks

* Chapter 14 – The Weight of Waiting

* Chapter 15 – Where Silence Found a Name

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Chapter 1 — Nobody Knew Him

People saw him every day. Some had known him since childhood, greeting him in passing or calling his name from across the street. But despite all the familiar faces around him, no one truly knew him, not even himself.

When he stepped into his house, the walls seemed to close in around him. The place that should have felt like a refuge felt more like a trap. Once the door shut behind him, he rarely went outside again.

Evening came, as it always did, bringing another night of shouting, slammed doors, and bitter arguments between his parents. He tried to intervene, hoping to calm the chaos that never seemed to end, but his father’s anger erupted without warning.

“Don’t get into this! I will kill you and kill myself!” his father shouted, his voice shaking with fury.

His mother begged for help, her voice trembling as she pleaded for peace. The fight spilled outside onto the street, where neighbors whispered and stared from a distance but did nothing. He watched his mother gasp for air, blood staining parts of her clothing, while his little sister stood frozen in fear near the corner of the house.

He pulled her close to him, shielding her from the horror he could not stop. Phones rang endlessly around him, family members calling, neighbors calling, but when he answered, his voice barely rose above a whisper.

Later that night, he sat alone in his room. The silence felt heavier than the shouting had. He looked beneath his bed at the objects he had hidden there, reminders of thoughts he never spoke aloud. His hands trembled before he slowly pushed them farther out of sight.

Darkness filled the room as he sat there alone, a boy nobody truly knew, trying to understand the chaos around him and the ache growing quietly inside.

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Chapter 2 — Inside the Walls

He tried to numb the pain every day. His sanctuary, or perhaps his prison, was his bed, where he scrolled endlessly through glowing screens, letting the outside world dissolve into pixels. Human connection had become something distant and unfamiliar, almost unreachable. He rarely left the house, and when he did, it was only out of necessity.

The streets felt heavy with his father’s expectations pressing against his shoulders. Each step outside felt like a quiet act of defiance, yet terrifying all the same. His gaze stayed fixed on the ground, avoiding eye contact, avoiding conversation. He rarely greeted neighbors. Crowds made him conscious of every movement where he stood, where he looked, what his hands were doing.

When he returned home, the house swallowed him again. Roaches crawled along cracked walls while dust gathered thickly in the corners. Heat clung to every surface, making the small rooms feel suffocating. The house carried the weight of uncleaned curtains, dirt having made a permanent residence in every corner, as though the walls themselves remembered every argument, every silence, every wound left behind.

Music became the only thing that kept him steady. The melodies wrapped around him like a fragile shield, carrying him through the quietness and the constant ache of feeling unseen. In music, he found a place where pain could rest, even if only for a moment.

He was a boy trapped between walls, some built by others, some built by himself, searching for a rhythm that might one day make him feel safe in his own skin.

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Chapter 3 — Streets and Silence

As he walked home from school, he passed streets filled with children his age laughing freely, chasing soccer balls and shouting at one another with careless joy. Sometimes he saw couples hugging or kissing without fear, untouched by the heaviness that followed him everywhere.

He did not understand love completely, but he longed for it. He wanted someone he could trust without fear, someone capable of quieting the ache inside him, even if only for a moment. But happiness felt distant, almost unreal. His silence lived in lowered eyes and measuring his words.

Inside the house, the tension never truly disappeared. He could sense arguments before they even began, his mother’s voice rising, his father’s temper close behind. That night, he tried to lose himself in a video game, escaping into a world that felt safer, a world he could control. But control never lasted long inside that house.

He looked up and saw his mother gripping a knife, the metal trembling in her hands. His father rushed toward her, and suddenly the house filled with shouting loud enough to shake the walls. Blood stained parts of the floor as the struggle continued beneath the dim light of the house. Somewhere in the chaos, the clock struck 2 a.m.

Outside, the neighborhood remained quiet. Inside, every creak outside seemed to linger longer than it should.

Eventually, the shouting faded. Doors closed one after another until silence returned to the house, though nobody truly felt calm.

Morning arrived without greetings. No one spoke about the night before. His parents moved through the house like strangers pretending everything was normal, while he prepared for school with the same serious expression that kept others at a distance.

Nobody approached him.

Nobody asked questions.

And in the silence, he carried the weight of everything he had seen, everything he had felt. What was he thinking? Perhaps only he knew. Perhaps no one ever would.

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Chapter 4 — Between Streets And Silence

He stepped out of the house, the heavy door closing behind him like a warning. The streets were alive, messy, chaotic, buzzing with life he had long since stopped expecting for himself.

People passed by in their own worlds: an old man bobbing to music so loud it rattled his chest, clutching a bottle of liquor; women hawking chickens and vegetables with practiced voices; hustlers moving swiftly, eyes darting, calculating. Kids dashed around with makeshift toys, cars crafted from milk boxes, wire, scraps of metal, laughing and shouting as if the world had finally forgiven them for existing.

He walked among them, face raised in seriousness, but inside, his chest tightened, his stomach knotted. Every step felt heavy, like his legs might give way. His heart thumped against the cage of his ribs as he approached the shop, each sound of the busy street twisting in his ears.

At the counter, he grabbed what he needed, avoiding eye contact, nodding silently at the shopkeeper. The return trip felt lighter, only slightly, but as soon as he stepped back into the house, the world outside was swallowed by the oppressive heat and silence of his small, cluttered room.

No one was home.

The air felt thick and still, except for the soft skitter of roaches darting across the floor. Annoyance flared in him, sharp and immediate. He snatched his school shoe and began stomping, watching them scatter, waiting for any brave ones to return.

A single cockroach dared cross the threshold again; he stomped it flat, the sound oddly satisfying. But the room remained silent.

Silence choked the room. He tried to fill it the only way he knew, scrolling endlessly on his phone, eyes glued to the screen as if the pixels could shield him from the emptiness, from the invisible weight pressing on his shoulders. Music hummed softly through his headphones, but even it couldn’t completely break the quiet.

In that small, hot room, among roaches and dust and screens, he sat, a boy trying to exist between the chaos outside and the chaos inside, searching for something steady, something real, something that could anchor him to the world he felt so far from.

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Chapter 5 – Fractured Evenings

He walked back from school, his steps slow and measured. The streets were alive again, but he didn’t belong there. Kids ran past him, kicking makeshift balls, shouting and laughing, their voices sharp against the hum of traffic and vendors. Couples held hands, whispered to each other, exchanged fleeting smiles. He looked at them, and for a moment, a hollow ache stirred inside him, a longing for something he couldn’t name, something he couldn’t reach.

At home, the air was thick, hot, and silent at first.

Then it began.

The shouting.

Doors slammed.

Voices collided like storms.

He didn’t need to guess what would happen, he already knew. His mother’s pleading, his father’s rage, the arguments spilling across walls and into his chest.

He tried to escape it, leaning back into his music, letting the headphones drown out the yelling. The notes wrapped around him, fragile and comforting, a thin shield against the chaos. But even music could not erase the tension that hung in every corner of the house.

He glanced at his little sister, curled up in her corner, wide-eyed, silent. Without thinking, he pulled her closer, shielding her from the noise, from the fear. She leaned against him, her small body trembling, and he felt the weight of responsibility settle heavily on his shoulders.

The fight moved outside, dragging broken furniture, blood, and threats into the yard. He waited in the hallway, silent, listening, alert. Every shout, every slammed door, every footstep was a signal, a warning. He could not stop it, but he could survive it.

After a while, the house fell silent again. He returned to his room, hot and sticky, the walls closed and suffocating. Roaches scattered at his movement, and he stomped them down, feeling a small, fleeting satisfaction.

Then,

scrolling.

Endless scrolling.

Videos, posts, messages, anything to fill the void, anything to quiet the storm inside his mind.

He paused for a moment, staring out the window. The streets glimmered with fading light, children’s laughter echoing faintly, and he wondered if he would ever walk there freely, without fear, without tension pressing down on him like a weight he could not lift. But for now, he stayed inside, lost in his music, lost in the scrolling, lost in the silence that he had learned to call his own.

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Chapter 6 — Endless Fridays

The sun burned high in the sky, relentless and unforgiving, as he sank into the bus seat, headphones blasting music into his ears. The engine roared beneath him, a mechanical pulse that seemed to compete with the beat in his ears. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the music fight against the noise, neither one fully winning.

When he got off, the streets were quiet, empty, almost abandoned. Everyone seemed to have disappeared into the shade of their homes, leaving him alone with the hum of the city and his own thoughts. He walked the familiar path back to the house, stomach tight with hunger, eyes scanning for anything edible.

Inside, he devoured whatever he could find, sweets, leftover snacks, even the simplest treats, anything to keep himself going. His school uniform, still warm from the day, clung to his skin as he flopped in front of the TV, staring at the flickering screen. The noise, the movement, the lights, they were all that kept him moving, kept him afloat in the quiet chaos that followed him home.

Eventually, he shuffled to his room. Same walls, same clutter, same hot, messy space that had always felt both prison and sanctuary. He tried to organize the chaos, the scattered papers, the clothes, the remnants of meals long past but nothing seemed to align.

Nothing seemed right.

So he gave up and lay down, sinking into sleep with the weight of the day pressing against his chest.

Morning came too soon.

He woke exhausted, heavy, his chest tight, and the cycle began again. TV, snacks, music, scrolling, small rituals to survive the monotony, to keep the world at a distance while he drifted through it.

Fridays were endless, like every day before, like every day to come. And yet, in the rhythm of noise, food, and fleeting distraction, he found the smallest flicker of something steady, a reminder that even in the chaos, he could endure.

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Chapter 7 — A Moment of Quiet

One sunny day, he needed a break, a pause from the chaos, a moment just to breathe. He wandered to the park, seeking the quiet he rarely found at home.

The place was calm,

almost mysterious.

The grass smelled fresh, freshly cut, and the world seemed softer here.

A single bench sat under the shade of a small tree. He sat down, letting the silence wrap around him like a shield. For the first time in a long while, the stillness felt meaningful, as if it had a message just for him. He felt a flicker of safety, a hint of hope he hadn’t felt in months.

He took out his earpods and let the music fill him, the beats moving through his chest, steadying his thoughts. For a brief moment, a small smile tugged at his lips. Music had always been his anchor, and here it felt more alive than ever.

But the sun began to sink,

casting long shadows across the park.

The moment slipped away.

He had to return home, back to the streets that pulsed with life he didn’t belong to. Laughter and arguing filled the air, a chaotic symphony he no longer reacted to.

When he stepped inside the house, silence greeted him like a confidant. This time, no roaches scuttled across the floor. He poured himself a glass of water, letting it wash away the remnants of the day, and finally lay down. His eyes closed, and for the first time in a long while, he drifted into sleep, carrying with him a fleeting sense of peace.

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Chapter 8 — The Girl Who Sat in Silence

Every afternoon, after the long noise of the day faded into the distance, he found himself walking the same quiet path to the park. It had become a ritual, a small act of escape from the heaviness waiting for him at home.

The park was never loud.

The wind moved softly through the trees, sounding like whispers only the patient could hear.

There was nothing extraordinary about the place. No grand sights, no crowds, no loud laughter echoing through the air.

Just stillness.

Just space.

A place where time slowed down enough for him to breathe.

He would sit on the same bench, letting the calm settle into his bones. The world, for a brief moment, did not feel like something he had to survive.

It simply existed.

One afternoon, as the sky shifted from pale blue to soft shades of orange and gold, he noticed someone else sitting on the bench.

A girl.

She wasn’t doing anything unusual. She wasn’t on her phone, wasn’t talking, wasn’t trying to be seen. She simply sat there quietly, watching the sky change colours as if she understood something he didn’t.

He slowed his steps.

For a moment, he considered turning back. The familiar tension crept into his chest, the quiet fear of being noticed, of being forced into words he did not know how to say. But something felt different. The air did not feel heavy. The silence did not feel empty.

It felt… welcoming.

Almost intimate.

Carefully, he walked toward the bench and sat at the far end.

Not too close.

Not too far.

Just enough distance to keep his world intact.

Neither of them spoke.

Yet, the silence did not feel uncomfortable.

The wind whispered again, brushing past the leaves, carrying the quiet understanding between two strangers who needed nothing from each other except space.

For the first time, he did not feel alone in the silence.

The sky deepened into warmer colours, fading slowly into evening. He kept his eyes forward, aware of her presence but not threatened by it. Something about sharing that quiet moment felt strangely safe, as if the world had softened, even if just for a little while.

And though no words were spoken, something had changed.

The bench did not feel like a place of escape anymore.

It felt like the beginning of something he could not yet name.

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Chapter 9 — You Are Allowed to Exist

Days passed, and they kept meeting there, always at the same quiet hour, as if time itself had agreed to slow down for them.

Some afternoons she read a book, turning the pages slowly, as though she wasn’t just reading words but feeling them. Other times, he sat with his earbuds in, music flowing through him like a quiet river that only he could hear. Sometimes they both simply watched the world move, people passing by, stray dogs wandering without direction, the sky changing colours without asking for permission.

Like it has its own will.

Nothing about it was planned, yet it became part of his life.

One afternoon, while the sun rested gently behind the trees, she laughed softly at something on her phone. It was a small laugh, but it carried warmth. He glanced at her, just for a second, curiosity flickering through his usually guarded eyes.

“You don’t talk much,” she said gently, her voice calm, without judgment.

He hesitated before answering.

“I think a lot,” he replied quietly.

She smiled, not surprised.

“ I can tell.”

Silence returned, but this time it felt different.

It was not empty.

It was not heavy.

It was warm, like sitting near a small fire on a cold evening. Something about her presence made the quiet feel safe instead of lonely.

Eventually, small conversations began to grow between them.

Nothing forced.

Nothing too deep.

Just simple things, the kind of conversations that didn’t demand energy, the kind that didn’t make his chest feel tight.

And when he walked home, the streets did not feel as heavy as before. The noise of the world seemed distant, softer somehow.

One day, she asked something unexpected.

“Why do you always sit at the edge of the bench?”

He paused, unsure why such a simple question felt so difficult.

He looked down at the ground for a moment before answering.

“So I don’t take too much space.” he said trying to sound nonchalant.

She shook her head softly, as if disagreeing with something much bigger than his words. Without saying anything at first, she moved slightly closer to him on the bench.

“You are allowed to exist fully,” she said gently.

Her words were soft, but they stayed with him long after the moment had passed.

From that day, the bench didn’t feel small anymore.

Sometimes they would walk slowly around the park, side by side, without urgency. She would laugh at small things, and sometimes he would find himself chuckling at things that were not even funny. It felt unfamiliar, yet natural.

For the first time in a long while, he felt seen, not questioned, not judged, not expected to be anything other than who he was.

It was as if something deep inside him, something he could never explain, had finally found what it had been searching for.

Not loudly.

Not suddenly.

But quietly.

Like the wind whispering through the trees.

Like hope blooming where nothing should grow.

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Chapter 10 — The Empty Bench

That afternoon, he walked to the park as usual, the quiet path already familiar to his steps. The sun hung gently above, not too harsh, not too dull, just another ordinary day.

But when he reached the bench, something felt wrong.

She wasn’t there.

The bench looked smaller without her presence. The physical absence felt heavier than usual, no longer comforting but uncertain. He sat down slowly, glancing around without meaning to.

Maybe she was late.

Maybe she wouldn’t come today.

His thoughts began to grow louder.

Did I say something wrong?

Did she notice something strange about me?

Did I seem awkward?

Did I take too much space after all?

The questions circled in his mind, refusing to settle. He reached for his earpods, but the music didn’t feel the same today. The calm he had grown used to felt distant.

For a moment, he considered leaving.

Maybe the bench had only been temporary.

Maybe peace was never meant to stay.

As he stood up, he heard soft footsteps approaching behind him.

“Sorry… I’m late.”

He turned slightly, surprised.

She stood there, a little out of breath, her expression apologetic but warm. Something in his chest loosened, though he didn’t show it.

“ I wasn’t sure if you would come today,” she said.

“I come here often,” he replied calmly.

She smiled softly and sat beside him, not at the far end this time, but closer than before.

“I had to help at home,” she explained, looking ahead at the park.

He nodded. He didn’t ask questions, and she didn’t explain more. Somehow, it felt understood.

The wind passed between them again, softer now, carrying the quiet comfort he had begun to depend on.

“You look like you were about to leave,” she said gently.

“I thought maybe… the routine changed,” he admitted.

She shook her head lightly.

“Some things don’t change that easily.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The sky slowly began to soften into warm colours, the light stretching across the grass as the day prepared to rest.

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small lollipop, holding it toward him with a gentle smile.

“You seem sweet… like this sweet. Take,” she said softly.

He hesitated for a second before taking it, his fingers brushing against the wrapper. Instead of opening it, he placed it carefully into his pocket, as if it were something fragile, something to keep.

They both sat quietly, watching the sun slowly drag itself toward the horizon.

Eventually, they stood up from the bench, the moment naturally coming to an end.

“I guess I’ll see you again…” she said gently.

“I guess so,” he replied.

They parted ways, each walking in opposite directions, yet both carrying the same quiet feeling of ease.

As he walked home, his hand briefly touched his pocket, making sure the lollipop was still there.

For the first time, something small, something simple felt important.

Not because of what it was.

But because of who gave it to him.

As evening approached, the house felt unusually quiet. The silence no longer pressed against him the same way it once did. He reached into his pocket and slowly took out the lollipop, staring at it for a moment as if it carried more meaning than its sweetness.

Carefully, he unwrapped it and began to savour it, letting the sweetness settle on his tongue. It was simple, almost childish, yet it brought a quiet comfort he couldn’t explain.

For once, the silence did not feel empty.

It felt… gentle.

And as the faint taste of sweetness lingered, he realised something small had changed within him, something he had not felt in a long time.

Hope, even in the smallest form, had found its way in.

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Chapter 11 — Streets and Lollipops

As the sun dipped into its golden-orange glow, the air hung thick with smoke, carrying the faint, pungent scent of burnt charcoal from street vendors grilling meat. The streets were alive with motion: people haggling over prices, cars inching past, children darting between legs, and stray dogs sniffing the corners of the pavement.

He walked the familiar path to the park, feet moving almost on instinct, when suddenly he bumped into her.

“ Hi,” she said softly, her voice barely louder than the wind rustling through the trees.

He blinked, surprised, and a small, awkward smile appeared on his face. “ Want to take a walk?” he asked, his voice low but steady.

She smiled, nodding. “ Sure thing.”

They walked side by side through the busy street, their conversation quiet and tentative, barely reaching above the hum of the city.

“Why do you always listen to music when you walk?” she asked curiously, glancing at him.

“To keep moving… in life’s tough trails,” he said gently, trying to sound unaffected.

The street was alive around them, but as they crossed an intersection, a taxi screeched suddenly, honking violently. The driver shouted and cursed at them, anger crackling through the air like static electricity.

They didn’t flinch.

They kept walking, side by side, letting the moment pass.

When they reached the small spaza shop, he stopped and picked out a lollipop. Holding it out to her, he said softly, “You seem sweet… like this sweet.”

She laughed softly, taking it and turning it between her fingers. Their hands brushed for the briefest second, and it felt like something small but important had shifted.

As they parted at the corner, she smiled. “See you tomorrow… friend.”

He returned the smile, feeling something light in his chest, fragile but real.

Peace never truly stayed.

She walked through the slowly quieting streets, noticing stray cats devouring a dead rat. The neighbourhood seemed harsh, yet alive.

When she reached home, the door swung open. Her mother sat slumped on the couch, a bottle of castle lite in hand, the air heavy with the smell of sadness and neglect. Her siblings rushed toward her, clinging to her legs. She knelt, helping them with their homework, calming their small worries while keeping the house from falling apart.

Once they were done, she cleaned the living room, tucked her mother’s blanket around her, and prepared dinner for everyone. The siblings devoured the meal hungrily, leaving only the soft clatter of dishes behind.

The moon hung full in the sky, bathing the city in gentle light. After tucking in her siblings, she finally entered her own room. Her eyes fell on the lollipop he had given her. She picked it up, slowly unwrapped it, and let the sweetness linger on her tongue.

For a moment, she closed her eyes and let herself enjoy it.

It was simple.

Small.

And yet, in that small sweetness, she felt seen, remembered, and… lighter than she had all day.

Meanwhile, somewhere across the township, he walked home under the same moonlight, a quiet sense of hope echoing in his steps. For both of them, the world hadn’t changed yet, but something between them had shifted, subtle but real.

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Chapter 12 — Quiet Strength

The morning sun spilled gold across the cracked tiles of the small house, stretching long shadows that felt heavier than the night before.

She woke slowly,

muscles stiff,

eyes heavy,

but the weight of responsibility had trained her body to move even when her spirit wanted to rest.

Her bare feet touched the cold floor as she swung her legs off the bed. Every step was deliberate, every movement calculated. She neatened her bed, tucked the blankets tight, aligning the pillows as if straightening them could bring order to her fractured life.

The kitchen smelled of yesterday’s leftover dinner, faint but lingering. She poured water into a pot and stirred the porridge slowly, inhaling the steam like it might shield her from the tension elsewhere in the house.

Her little brother stumbled in, hair wild, and her sister followed, eyes still sleepy. She guided them gently, brushing teeth, tying shoelaces, making small talk they barely noticed. Their conversations were soft and fleeting, a fleeting relief in the quiet chaos of her home.

Her mother slouched on the couch, bottle in hand, eyes glazed and distant. When the girl softly said, “Morning, Ma,” the words seemed to vanish into the air. Her mother ignored her entirely. The silence hit harder than anger ever could. She pressed on, humble but firm, keeping the children fed, the rooms tidy, the small fragments of life intact.

She carried plates, wiped counters, swept the floor, and played with her siblings. The small house smelled faintly of alcohol and stale air, but she moved with quiet precision, as if her careful actions could stave off the neglect that threatened to swallow her whole.

By mid-afternoon, the sun had warmed the streets outside. She stepped out briefly, letting the breeze brush against her skin, carrying the scents of cooking fires, street vendors, and the faint tang of dust. Her feet guided her almost automatically toward the park.

The bench was empty.

She sat down, letting the grass brush against her legs, the wind whispering through the leaves. For the first time that day, she exhaled fully, feeling the tension in her shoulders ease slightly.

She heard footsteps approaching. A shadow fell across the sunlit grass. He was there, the boy she had come to expect at these quiet hours. He nodded, a small, cautious greeting. She returned it with a soft smile.

No words were needed.

Their silence spoke enough: acknowledgment, understanding, the simple presence of someone else who mattered.

The world around them continued as always; children shouting, dogs barking, taxis honking and stopping, vendors calling, but here, on this small patch of earth beneath the soft sun, it was just the two of them. She tilted her head slightly, letting the wind ruffle her hair, and felt the faintest lift of hope.

For a moment, they simply watched the clouds drift across the sky, a slow, lazy passage of time.

She didn’t need to speak.

He didn’t.

The quiet was enough.

And for her, that quiet, that small connection, was a light in a life that had too often been dark.

When the moment ended, she rose first, brushing dust from her pants. “See you tomorrow,” she said softly, almost to herself.

He smiled, a flicker of warmth in his eyes. “Tomorrow,” he replied.

She walked back through the slowly awakening streets, feeling a strange peace settle in her chest. Home would still be a battlefield, her mother’s neglect still sharp, the weight of her responsibilities still pressing. But somewhere, in the midst of it all, she had found a place of calm. And for today, that was enough.

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Chapter 13 — When Silence Breaks

He woke to the sharp sound of voices crashing into each other like broken glass. Pots clattered against the floor, the sound echoing through the small house. His parents were fighting again, words flying faster than he could understand, anger filling the air like smoke that refused to clear.

He lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling, his chest tight, unsure of what to do or where to place the heaviness inside him.

The shouting didn’t stop.

It never really did.

Quietly, he reached for his earbuds, placing them gently in his ears, letting the music compete with the chaos around him. Without a word, he slipped out of the house, leaving the storm behind him, hoping the world outside would offer something softer.

The air greeted him with calm.

The streets felt strangely peaceful, as if nothing had ever been broken there. The sunlight rested gently on the sidewalks, and the distant hum of life felt bearable. His feet carried him naturally toward the park, the one place that never asked questions.

As he approached the bench,

It was empty.

Still, he didn’t hesitate. He sat down slowly, letting the quiet wrap around him. He believed she would come. Somehow, the thought of her presence gave him a small, steady comfort.

Minutes turned into hours.

The sky shifted slowly, colours softening as the afternoon stretched on.

People passed.

Children laughed somewhere in the distance.

Leaves whispered as the wind moved through the trees.

Then he saw her.

She walked slowly, her head lowered, her steps heavy, as if each one required effort.

Something felt different.

The calm that usually surrounded her was gone. Her eyes looked distant, lost somewhere he could not reach.

She sat beside him without a word.

The silence felt unfamiliar this time.

Not peaceful,

not warm.

Heavy.

Suddenly, her composure shattered. Tears fell without warning, her shoulders trembling as the quiet broke into soft sobs.

It broke something inside him.

“Hey… hey… what’s wrong? Are you okay?” he asked gently, his voice filled with concern he didn’t know he was capable of expressing.

Her voice trembled between breaths.

“I just… I just want to disappear from this world. Nothing feels right. Everything hurts… it hurts so much.”

His chest tightened. He didn’t have perfect words, only sincerity.

“What’s wrong…?” he asked softly, afraid of pushing too hard, afraid of saying too little.

“I feel abandoned… I feel useless,” she whispered, her voice fragile, like glass on the edge of breaking.

He paused, feeling the weight of her words.

He knew that feeling.

Too well.

“F...Fr....Frr....Friend… you are not useless,” he swallowed. “You are a gentle soul, full of light. You became the light in my....da...ark...darkness… and I thank you for that.”

He looked at her, carefully choosing each word.

“Whatever you’re feeling right now…it doesn’t define you. Life is unforgiving sometimes… but it will be alright. You don’t have to carry everything alone. I am.....h...e..here… even if the world feels heavy.”

He hesitated slightly before speaking again.

“Put your head on my shoulder… let me carry some of your burdens.”

She wiped her tears slowly, unsure at first, then leaned gently toward him. He wrapped his arms around her, awkwardly at first, unfamiliar with the closeness. He had never held someone like this before.

It felt strange.

But it also felt warm.

Peaceful.

Like silence finally had meaning.

The wind passed softly through the trees, brushing against them like a quiet blessing. He began humming softly, a gentle melody forming naturally, the tune barely louder than the rustling leaves.

She listened, surprised, her breathing slowly steadying.

“I didn’t know you could sing,” she whispered, her voice still fragile but calmer now.

He didn’t respond.

He simply continued humming, letting the melody say what words could not.

The sun slowly lowered behind the trees, wrapping them in golden light, as if the world itself wanted to hold the moment still just a little longer.

For the first time in a long time, neither of them felt completely alone.

And sometimes, that is enough to keep going.

The humming faded slowly, dissolving into the quiet air as the golden light of the evening wrapped around them. She didn’t move immediately. Her head rested lightly on his shoulder, as if she had finally found a place where the world could not reach her.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

The noise of distant children playing, the soft barking of a dog, the whisper of wind through the trees, everything felt softer, calmer, almost protective.

She inhaled slowly, as though she was relearning how to breathe.

“Thank you…” she said quietly, her voice fragile but sincere.

He nodded slightly, unsure of what to say. Words had never come easily to him, but somehow silence always understood him better.

“You don’t always have to be strong,” he said gently, almost thinking out loud. “Even the strongest people need somewhere to rest.”

She lifted her head slowly, wiping the last traces of tears from her cheeks. Her eyes were still tired, but there was something else now, relief, perhaps, or the quiet comfort of being understood without needing to explain everything.

“You always listen,” she said softly. “Even when I don’t say much.”

He gave a small shrug, almost shy.

“I think… silence says more sometimes.”

She smiled faintly.

They sat side by side, their shoulders no longer distant. The bench no longer felt too big, nor too small. It simply felt right.

The sky began changing colours, soft oranges melting into deeper shades, the first hints of evening settling in. People slowly drifted home, footsteps passing behind them, conversations fading into the distance.

“I don’t like going home sometimes,” she admitted quietly.

He understood.

“I don’t like staying home sometimes,” he replied.

They both gave a small, tired smile at the strange comfort of shared truth.

After a while, they stood up slowly, reluctant to leave the calm they had created together.

As they began walking, the streetlights flickered on one by one, casting long shadows across the pavement. The world was returning to its usual rhythm — taxis passing, distant laughter, the hum of everyday life continuing as if nothing had changed.

But something had changed.

Before they parted ways, she paused.

“Same time tomorrow?” she asked gently.

He nodded.

“Same bench.”

She looked at him for a brief moment, as if wanting to say more, but instead she simply smiled, a small, real smile that didn’t feel forced.

As she walked away, he noticed her steps were still slow, but no longer as heavy.

He remained standing there for a moment, hands in his pockets, feeling the echo of the hug still resting quietly in his chest.

For the first time in a long time, the night didn’t feel as cold.

________________

Chapter 14 — The Weight of Waiting

Morning arrived quietly, but her chest did not feel light.

She opened her eyes slowly, the ceiling above her blurred for a moment as sleep loosened its grip on her mind. The memory of yesterday rested gently within her, fragile but present, the warmth of a shoulder, the softness of a voice that did not rush her pain, the unfamiliar comfort of not needing to pretend she was okay.

She had cried.

She had allowed herself to break in front of someone.

And he had not looked away.

That thought stayed with her.

Carefully, she sat up and folded her blanket, smoothing every crease as if restoring order to something small could somehow calm the quiet chaos inside her. The morning air felt still, almost hesitant to disturb the silence that filled the house.

She stepped into the kitchen, her movements soft, automatic. Preparing breakfast had always been part of her routine, stirring porridge slowly, watching steam rise in gentle spirals, listening to the faint bubbling sound that somehow felt comforting.

But today, her thoughts were elsewhere.

They kept returning to the park.

To the bench beneath the tree.

To the boy who spoke softly, yet seemed to understand words she never said aloud.

She wondered if he would come today.

She wondered if he ever thought about the conversations after they ended.

She wondered if he noticed the way she sometimes struggled to find the right words.

There was something about him, something quiet but steady, that made the world feel less overwhelming, even if just for an hour.

She did not know much about him.

Yet somehow, she trusted him.

That thought both comforted and frightened her.

Trust had never come easily.

After finishing her morning responsibilities, she stepped outside. The air felt warmer than usual, carrying the distant smell of dust and cooking fires drifting through the township.

People moved through the streets with quiet purpose, neighbours greeting each other, vendors arranging goods, taxis rumbling faintly in the distance.

Life continued as it always did.

But her mind felt distant from it all.

Her feet carried her along the familiar path almost automatically.

Toward the park.

Toward the stillness she had begun to rely on.

Toward the quiet companionship that had slowly become part of her daily rhythm.

As the tree came into view, her eyes instinctively searched the bench.

Empty.

She slowed slightly, telling herself not to assume anything.

Maybe he was late.

He had never been talkative, never predictable in obvious ways.

He simply appeared, quietly, as if the bench had called him too.

She sat down gently, placing her hands on her lap, feeling the warmth of the wood beneath her fingers.

The wind whispered through the leaves above her, their soft movement creating a calming rhythm she had come to recognize.

Minutes passed.

People walked by.

A child chased a ball across the grass, laughter echoing faintly.

A boy walked his dog slowly along the path.

Still, he did not come.

She looked toward the path again.

Nothing.

Her fingers slowly intertwined.

A small sign that her thoughts had begun to grow restless.

He always came.

Even on days when they barely spoke.

Even on days when silence did most of the talking.

He always came.

She exhaled slowly, trying to quiet the uneasy feeling forming in her chest.

Maybe something delayed him.

Maybe he needed time alone.

Maybe she was simply overthinking something small.

Still, the absence felt louder than she expected.

The sky began shifting into warmer colours, soft gold stretching gently across the park.

The bench felt larger today.

The space beside her felt strangely noticeable.

As if something important was missing.

She remembered the day she arrived late, how he had remained sitting there patiently, not asking questions, not demanding explanations.

So she remained seated.

Because some people are worth waiting for.

Time moved slowly, almost reluctantly.

Her thoughts wandered quietly.

Have I said something wrong yesterday

Have I revealed too much

Have I made things uncomfortable

The questions did not shout.

They whispered.

Softly.

Persistently.

The stillness beside her began to feel heavier than comforting.

She hugged her arms lightly, not from cold, but from the strange emptiness settling inside her chest.

“I hope you’re okay,” she whispered, barely audible even to herself.

As the sun slowly lowered behind the trees, the light softened into deeper shades of orange and amber.

People began leaving the park.

Footsteps faded.

Voices grew distant.

The day was ending.

And he had not come.

She stood slowly, unsure why the small movement felt difficult.

She looked at the empty space beside her one last time, as if hoping he might appear at the last moment.

But the path remained quiet.

“Tomorrow,” she said softly.

The word felt fragile.

Like hope trying not to break.

She began walking home, her steps slower than usual, her thoughts unusually loud.

She had not expected his absence to matter this much.

But it did.

The boy’s morning had begun differently.

Violently.

He woke suddenly to shouting louder than anything he had heard before. The sound felt sharp, urgent, filled with something dangerous that made his chest tighten instantly.

A loud crash struck the floor.

Then another.

Voices collided harshly, years of pain surfacing all at once.

His father’s voice sounded angrier than usual.

His mother’s voice trembled, but something in her tone felt different, tired, overwhelmed, pushed too far.

Another crash echoed through the house.

A chair scraped violently across the floor.

His heart began beating faster.

Something was wrong.

Very wrong.

He stepped carefully into the hallway, each sound pulling him closer to something he did not want to see.

Then.

A metallic sound.

A sudden gasp.

The room held its breath.

The kind of quietness that does not belong in ordinary mornings.

He moved slowly toward the kitchen doorway.

And stopped.

His father stood near the counter, one hand pressed tightly against his side. Red spread slowly across his shirt, staining the fabric in uneven shapes.

A small knife rested on the floor nearby.

His mother stood frozen, her hands trembling uncontrollably, her eyes wide with shock.

No one spoke.

The ticking clock sounded louder than it ever had before.

His father looked down at the blood, then at her.

Something in his expression broke quietly.

Without shouting.

Without another word.

He grabbed his jacket. Walked slowly to the door. Opened it.

Stepped outside.

Closed it behind him.

The sound echoed heavily through the house.

His mother slowly lowered herself onto the couch, covering her face as her shoulders began to shake.

The house felt unfamiliar now.

Broken in a way that could not easily be repaired.

He stood still, unable to process everything at once.

His mind replayed the image again and again.

The red stain.

The trembling hands.

The silence after chaos.

He felt something inside him sink deeper than sadness.

Something heavier.

Something hollow.

He placed his earbuds into his ears, but the music did not reach him the same way today.

He needed air.

He needed distance.

He stepped outside, the brightness of the day almost painful against his eyes.

His thoughts drifted immediately to the park.

To the bench.

To her quiet presence.

He imagined her sitting there peacefully.

He imagined the gentle way she listened.

He imagined her asking softly if he was okay.

His chest tightened.

He did not trust his voice today.

He did not trust the storm inside him.

He feared that if he sat beside her now, everything he was holding together might collapse.

So he walked in another direction.

Step after step.

Trying to escape something that followed him silently.

Later, he sat at the edge of his bed, staring at the faint light entering through the window.

The house remained too quiet.

The stillness felt unfinished.

He wondered where his father had gone.

He wondered what would happen next.

He wondered if anything could feel normal again.

His thoughts drifted back to the bench.

He imagined her sitting there.

Waiting.

Looking toward the path.

He felt guilt settle quietly in his chest.

He did not want to disappear.

He simply did not know how to be present today.

“I’ll go tomorrow,” he whispered softly.

“Tomorrow.”

Under the tree, the bench remained still, holding the quiet memory of shared quietness, small smiles, and fragile comfort.

Two souls, separated by circumstance, both carrying the same quiet hope into the night:

That tomorrow would bring them back to the same place.

At the same time.

Under the same tree.

And that maybe what they had found in each other had not been lost.

Only waiting.

________________

Chapter 15 – Where Silence Found a Name

Morning did not feel as heavy as yesterday, yet uncertainty lingered quietly within him.

Sleep had come late, broken by restless thoughts and echoes of the previous day. The house felt unfamiliar now, as if something essential had shifted during the night.

He awoke to the sound of pleading.

His mother’s voice trembled through the hallway, softer than he had ever heard it before.

He stepped outside his room slowly, each movement cautious, as though afraid reality might shatter completely if he moved too quickly.

Two police officers stood near the doorway.

His mother’s hands were not resisting, they were trembling.

Her voice was filled not with anger, but with regret.

“I did not mean for things to go this far,” she whispered, tears tracing quiet paths down her cheeks.

She turned when she saw him standing there.

For a moment, everything else faded.

The room.

The officers.

The void.

Only her eyes remained.

Eyes that once felt distant now held something raw and honest.

“I’m sorry,” she said gently, her voice breaking.

“Take care of yourself… and take care of your sister. Be safe.”

He did not know what to say.

Words felt too small for everything he felt.

He nodded slowly.

The officers guided her outside.

The door closed.

The sound echoed deeply through the house, leaving behind a stillness that felt heavier than noise.

He stood there for a long moment.

Breathing slowly.

Accepting that nothing felt the same anymore.

Yet something inside him whispered quietly:

keep moving.

He prepared something simple to eat, his movements calm, deliberate. His younger sister sat beside him, quiet but observant. They ate together without many words, yet the shared presence offered a small comfort.

Afterward, he carefully arranged clothes, folding each item as though restoring order to the small things could steady the larger storm within him.

His thoughts returned to the park.

To the bench.

To her.

Would she be there

Would she understand

He stepped outside quietly and walked toward the neighbour’s garden. Among the plants, one flower stood open to the morning light, delicate but alive.

He picked it gently, careful not to damage its fragile petals.

Holding it in his left hand, he began walking toward the place that had slowly become more than just a park.

That same morning, her house felt unfamiliar in a different way.

Peaceful.

The smell of food filled the air, warm and welcoming, drifting softly through the rooms.

She opened her eyes slowly, her feet touching the cool, cracked floor. The stillness did not feel heavy today.

It felt calm.

She made her bed carefully, smoothing each fold of the blanket, placing the pillows neatly as if preparing herself for something new.

When she entered the kitchen, she paused.

Her mother sat at the table with her siblings.

Present.

Awake.

Sober.

“Hello, my child… come eat,” her mother said softly.

The words felt unfamiliar.

Yet comforting.

She sat down quietly, unsure whether to speak or simply accept the moment for what it was.

Her mother inhaled deeply, gathering courage.

“My child… I am very sorry. I have not been there for you. I allowed darkness to take space in our home… in my heart. Please… find a place to forgive me.”

The room felt still.

She looked at her mother not as someone perfect, but as someone trying.

That was enough.

“Ma… it’s okay,” she said gently.

“I love you. As always.”

They embraced.

Not perfectly.

Not magically.

But honestly.

A small redemption.

A quiet beginning.

Afterward, she prepared herself, her movements lighter than the day before.

She did not know what awaited her at the park.

But she knew she wanted to be there.

The boy arrived first.

The bench beneath the tree stood exactly as it always had, simple, patient, familiar.

Today, he did not listen to music.

Today, he allowed the silence to speak.

He sat with the flower resting gently in his hand, unsure how to explain everything that had happened.

Unsure whether words would even be necessary.

Moments later, he noticed her approaching slowly along the path.

The sunlight rested softly behind her, as if the morning itself welcomed her presence.

Her head was slightly raised.

A small smile rested on her face.

When she reached the bench, she did not hesitate.

“Hi,” she greeted warmly.

Something in that simple word eased the tension within him.

He began to speak, unsure where to start.

“Yesterday… I—”

Before he could finish, she gently rested her head on his shoulder.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she said softly.

No questions.

No pressure.

Only presence.

She noticed the flower in his hand.

He looked at it briefly, then offered it to her.

“A bright flower… you are,” he said quietly.

Not as a romantic gesture.

But as recognition.

Of her patience. Her gentleness. Her quiet strength.

She accepted the flower carefully, her fingers brushing lightly against his.

They sat together, not needing to fill every silence with words.

The bench had become more than wood and shade.

It had become a place where broken thoughts could rest.

Where loneliness did not feel so loud.

Where two souls, carrying different pains, slowly learned that healing did not always require grand moments.

Sometimes, it only required someone willing to stay.

The wind moved gently through the leaves above them.

Life continued around them.

Children laughed in the distance.

Footsteps passed along the path.

Yet within that small space beneath the tree, something meaningful had taken root.

They did not have all the answers.

They did not know what tomorrow would bring.

But for the first time in a long time, neither of them felt completely alone.

________________

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About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, hosted by Hashtag Kalakar, celebrates the art of the written word. This prestigious event provides a platform for writers from around the globe to share their unique voices and stories. Participants explore diverse genres and themes, showcasing their creativity and literary skills. The competition fosters a vibrant community of writers and readers, united by a love for language and storytelling.

We extend our heartfelt thanks to Gavin Maja for sharing "The Boy Who Had No Name" with the world through the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. This powerful short story offers a glimpse into the complexities of human emotion and the indomitable spirit of hope. We look forward to seeing more from Gavin and wish him the best in his creative endeavors.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.