The Shadow and the Philosopher: A Short Story

Nothing seemed peculiar about this night. Provolone lay sprawled on his bed, the cool breeze teasing his frizzy black hair as it brushed across his forehead. His family, though perturbed, had resigned themselves to his strange, self-destructive rituals. Once a beacon of youthful energy and sociability, Prov now seemed like a shadow cast by his former self.

The lethargy. The grouchiness. These were not traits anyone associated with the boy who once filled rooms with laughter and unrelenting wit. Back then, Prov was almost a caricature of himself: a broad-shouldered, sturdy kid built like a brick shithouse, with hair wild enough to pass for a wandering hippie. His exaggerated nose and jutting chin lent him a comical charm that endeared him to nearly everyone he met. His pale green eyes sparkled with the mischief of someone constantly distracted by life’s endless curiosities.

But that sparkle was gone. Those green eyes, once alive with energy, were now muted, dull. His shoulders stooped under an invisible burden, and the wide grin he had once worn with ease had vanished, replaced by a grimace that seemed etched into his face.

Across the hall, Howard Booker, his father, had also weathered the years — but his sharpness had not waned. His wiry frame and shaven head gave him the air of a seasoned ascetic, his veins crisscrossing his body like rivers on a map. Thick glasses magnified his shrewd eyes, which never wavered when he spoke, each word carefully weighed and measured. Howard was a philosophy professor, and his presence commanded respect, even in silence. But for all his wisdom, the sight of his son wasting away beneath the weight of unseen demons was a wound he could not reason his way out of.

That night, as Provolone scrolled aimlessly through his social media feed, cocooned beneath a blue blanket, the door cracked open. Howard stepped in with his usual deliberate gait, his gaze sweeping the room before settling on the blanketed figure of his son. With measured steps, he approached and perched on the edge of the bed, his posture as steadfast as the ancient oak outside their window.

“Succumbing to your depression and lying here night after night will only deepen the wound,” Howard said, his tone calm but unwavering. “Six months of this same routine — isn’t that proof enough that something has to change?”

The blanket shifted, and Prov slowly revealed his face, his expression etched with a weariness that seemed far older than his years. His eyes, heavy with desperation, met his father’s steady gaze. “I don’t know if anything can change,” he murmured, the words escaping in a hoarse whisper. “I try, Dad. I really do. But every day feels… pointless. I can’t even remember what happiness looks like anymore. Things feel…gray.”

Before Howard could respond, the phone on the nightstand buzzed, its sudden noise breaking the tense stillness. Both father and son glanced at the screen: Demetri Rutherland. Prov’s childhood best friend. The goofy grin in the contact photo seemed to mock the gravity of the moment. With a detached swipe of his thumb, Prov silenced the call and let the phone fall back onto the nightstand. He stared at the ceiling as if searching its blank expanse for answers he knew weren’t there.

“I miss it,” Prov thought, his mind wandering to a time when life had been simpler, lighter. He missed the spontaneity, the laughter that came so easily, the boy he used to be. Now, those memories felt as distant as a dream fading with the morning light. Except that it is now a nightmare — one that seems to everlastingly endure.

Howard remained silent, his mind churning. For decades, he had devoted himself to understanding life’s greatest questions: what it meant to live and what it meant to die. Yet, sitting here, watching his son’s spirit unravel, he felt utterly powerless. The stoic mountain he had always been now seemed fragile, weathered by the relentless storm of his own grief. The window by the living room is now his best companion; Howard stares, almost unleashing his consciousness into what lies outside, almost trying to somehow catch a glimpse of thought, of an epiphany. What is more difficult than a father seeing his son, once a vibrant flower, a force that couldn't contain its lightning self, a bright light that shines a city, plunge into a decaying isolation of spirit and body? It is a thought that does not escape; one day to wake up, to see his son tie to a noose, his face, embodiment of lifelessness; a sad, dejected face leaving a world he once made beautiful with grimness that pierces the heart. Indeed, one always asks, how may difficult positions can a parent be in, than see their child perish? Indeed, it is indeed few.

But Howard would not let this moment define them. He had always believed that purposelessness was the root of all despair. Even death, especially death, does not mean the end, for he believed one ripples across. whether alive or dead, one exists through their deeds and intentions. What and who was once beautiful will always remain as such, for the people they touched, however momentarily, will live with that memory, with that existence — we never truly leave. (REF B) “Howards also knew, almost viscerally, that to exist without direction, without meaning, was to invite misery. And he would not stand by as his son drifted further into that abyss.

The phone buzzed again, its vibration cutting through the silence like a heartbeat. This time, Prov hesitated. Demetri’s grinning face reappeared on the screen, a stubborn insistence in his expression. With a flash of irritation, Prov grabbed the phone — but paused. “Maybe talking to him will help,” he muttered under his breath, reluctant yet resigned.

“What’s up?” Prov answered, his tone clipped.

“Ah! Finally, you pick up!” Demetri’s voice boomed, irrepressibly cheerful.

“Sorry. I’ve been… tired.”

“Yeah, yeah. Enough excuses. I’m coming over. Fifteen minutes.”

“What? Wait, I — ”

“None of that,” Demetri interrupted. “Fifteen minutes. Bye!” The line clicked, leaving Prov staring at the phone, caught between annoyance and resignation.

Howard, who had overheard the conversation, rose from the bed with quiet resolve. He placed a firm hand on Prov’s shoulder before retreating to his study, a sanctuary overflowing with books that threatened to spill onto the floor. Weeks ago, he had reached out to Prov’s friends, knowing his son needed lifelines he alone could not provide.

Prov stood reluctantly, his limbs stiff from disuse. He wandered to the window, where the evening sky stretched wide and infinite, painted in hues of amber and violet. Birds soared with effortless grace, their flight a picture of boundless freedom. Below, three young boys played soccer in the street, their laughter ringing out like music.

Prov watched them, and a sharp pang of envy cut through him. He envied their innocence, their ease, their unrestrained engagement with the moment. But beneath that envy lay something else — a quiet ache of sympathy. He could already see the shadows that would one day creep into their lives: heartbreaks, betrayals, illnesses, the weight of existence pressing down on them as it did on him.

For a fleeting moment, his reflection in the glass caught his eye. He barely recognized the face staring back.

And somewhere, deep inside, a voice whispered: Something has to change.

As Provolone brushed his teeth, he studied his reflection in the mirror. The face staring back at him was unmistakably sullen and weary. His sunken eyes and hollowed cheeks told a story of sleepless nights and relentless inner turmoil. He felt embarrassed by his suffering, yet loneliness crept in like an unwelcome shadow, wrapping around him.

After a lingering moment of self-loathing, he turned away and began washing his hands — again. It was the eleventh time that evening, a compulsive habit he’d developed at the age of ten and never sought help for. The sound of water cascading into the sink was oddly soothing, a fleeting reprieve from the chaos in his mind. But then the doorbell rang, breaking his trance.

“That’s Demetri,” Prov thought, his stomach knotting.

When he opened the door, Demetri’s grin greeted him like sunlight breaking through clouds. But Demetri’s observant eyes caught the sadness etched into his old friend’s face. Without a word, he pulled Prov into a firm embrace, his lanky arms swinging like pendulums as they tightened around him.

Demetri was tall and wiry, with thick eyebrows that gave his youthful face an air of perpetual expression. His energetic, optimistic brown eyes shone with a mischievous light, though the premature wrinkles on his forehead hinted at someone who thought too much — or worried too little.

As the two began walking through the neighborhood, the conversation sparked to life, though unevenly.

“It feels like eons since I last spoke to you,” Demetri teased, lighting a cigarette with practiced ease. “I see your monk’s lifestyle isn’t limited to isolation; your appearance is also… enlightened. That facial hair? Looks like an army of ants conquering your face!” He laughed, his voice rising in a crescendo.

Prov forced a half-smile but didn’t take the bait. Instead, he deflected, his voice flat. “So, how’s summer treating you?”

Demetri took a drag from his cigarette, exhaling into the evening air. “The usual. Cashier job, summer courses, and trying to make time for the boys every night. You know how it is.” His voice was casual, breezy, as if happiness came as easily as breathing.

Prov nodded, listening intently but battling the familiar twinge of envy rising in his chest. Demetri seemed to glide through life effortlessly, finding joy in the simplest things. For Prov, every step felt like trudging through quicksand.

Sensing his friend’s silence, Demetri’s tone softened. “Your dad told us about the depression,” he began hesitantly, though still with a hint of his usual bluntness. “I mean, I think we all have it, right? You just need to… I don’t know, enjoy life more.”

Prov’s cheeks flushed with a mix of embarrassment and disappointment. The words felt like a slap — not cruel, but ignorant. His months of anguish, the weight of his inner torment, had been dismissed in an instant.

“Actually, depression is a serious mental disorder,” Prov said, his voice firm. “It’s caused by chemical imbalances in the brain. If left untreated, it can lead to… devastating consequences.” He let the last words hang heavily in the air.

“Yeah, yeah,” Demetri replied with a nervous chuckle, his voice rising an octave. “But, you know, I feel it too sometimes. Watching a movie or something usually helps. You should try it!”

Prov’s hope for understanding crumbled. He changed the subject, not because he wanted to hide his struggles, but because he could sense Demetri’s well-meaning indifference.

As they strolled past the old neighborhood, Prov’s wandering eyes caught two gentlemen standing under a tree, their sharp suits and animated gestures making them impossible to ignore. They were locked in a heated argument, their voices rising and falling like a symphony.

Prov wasn’t drawn to the content of their debate — it was their vigor, their liveliness, that captivated him. He envied their engagement with the world, their ability to care so deeply about something. He glanced at Demetri, who was still rambling about a girl who had smiled at him in the university cafeteria, and sighed internally.

“I remember when I used to live like that,” Prov thought bitterly, watching the two men. “I could care about politics, friends, even myself. Now I can’t even summon the energy to care about my own best friend.”

By the time Prov returned home, it was half-past nine. Howard sat at the end of the living room, engrossed in a book, his brow furrowed in thought. He looked up as his son entered, hope flickering in his eyes. But one glance at Prov’s slouched shoulders and slow, defeated steps extinguished it.

That night, like every night, Prov lay in bed, caught in a ritual of bittersweet reminiscence. Memories of better days flooded his mind: the wild birthday party his friends had thrown for him, the summer trip abroad with his classmates, the district-level tennis championship he’d won. Each memory was vivid, glowing with the warmth of a time when he had felt alive, when he had felt happy.

But the euphoria these memories brought came with a cruel undertow, reminding him of all he had lost. The relentless ambition, the boundless optimism, the easy laughter — these had been stripped away, leaving him a hollow shell of who he once was. Now, even the simplest plans for the future felt impossible.

On the other side of the house, Howard tossed and turned in bed, haunted by his own helplessness. The image of his son hanging himself had burrowed into his mind, refusing to leave. He had always been proud of Prov, often boasting about him to strangers. But now, he was consumed by fear, terrified of losing the boy he had once admired so deeply. By dawn, Howard had wept himself into exhaustion, the grotesque image still burning in his mind.

For Prov, mornings offered a brief reprieve. His mind was calm, his thoughts like a still ocean. But it never lasted. By the time he reached the kitchen, the negative thoughts had returned, gnawing at him like vultures.

This morning, however, was different. As he shuffled into the kitchen, he nearly collided with Howard, who was supposed to be at work.

“Dad?” Prov mumbled, frowning in confusion.

Howard smiled, wide and deliberate, as if he were celebrating something. “Good morning, son. I hope you slept well.”

“Why are you here?” Prov asked, his tone laced with irritation.

“I’m here to spend the day with you,” Howard said firmly. His tone was warm, but there was an edge of determination.

Prov’s confusion deepened, but he couldn’t help feeling a flicker of something else — relief. Howard, the steadfast philosopher, always seemed to know what he was doing.

As Howard prompted his son to get dressed, Prov reluctantly obeyed, pulling on a black polo shirt. But dread settled over him. The mornings always brought the heaviest weight, the crushing sense of defeat.

“I know I have every reason to be happy,” Prov thought bitterly as he sat on the edge of his bed. “A loving family, great friends, a strong body, and a bright future. But none of it matters. I’m hopelessly miserable.”

Howard appeared in the doorway, his expression filled with empathy. “I know you don’t want to leave the house, but I promise — the sight of the sea might bring some peace to your mind.”

Prov looked at his father, his voice barely above a whisper. “Even paradise wouldn’t help.”

As he said it, a memory of his late mother surfaced, unbidden. She had been the embodiment of grace and warmth, her smile radiant and her eyes brimming with love. Her presence inviting imagined her now, watching him from some ethereal place, her voice soft and full of longing: You will be fine, my beloved son. Prov, atheistic in intellect, murmured, “Are you here, mom?”(Ref B)

He wanted so desperately to believe himself.

Noticing his son’s preoccupation and disquiet, Howard squeezed Prov’s left shoulder gently and said, with quiet conviction, “That which does not kill us makes us stronger.” It was a familiar aphorism, one Prov had heard countless times before, but this time it hit differently. In this moment of raw suffering, the words landed with the force of a lightning bolt. For the first time in months, Prov felt a glimmer of something that had eluded him: hope. It was faint, fragile, but undeniably there — a shred of meaning in the chaos of his pain.

The sensation was akin to a thirsty nomad stumbling across a cool oasis after crossing a fiery desert. Yet, alongside this newfound hope, questions brewed inside him, relentless and unyielding.

“How could this demon of misery possibly make me stronger?” Prov wondered. “This is absurd embodied. Randomness and senselessness”, thought to himself, his thoughts spiraled further.

Overwhelmed by the barrage of unnerving questions, Prov let out a sudden, visceral scream that startled Howard and sent pangs of terror through his heart. The noise also alarmed Grimley, their playful pug of four years. Sensitive to loud sounds like most animals, Grimley leapt onto Prov’s lap and began licking his face with unrestrained enthusiasm, as if trying to rescue his owner from the storm raging inside him.

“Scream, my son, scream with all your force, for expression is the very force through which nature expresses itself! It is rawness embodied!” Impassionately jumped Howard.

Catching his breath, Prov’s expression took seconds to adjust, precisely when realizing how enigmatic his father can be, especially in the oddest of times.

Prov’s admiration for Grimley was well-known. Time and again, he had told Howard that the little dog had an inexplicable ability to soothe his soul. Howard had a theory about this.

“The simplicity of animals fascinates us because it contrasts so sharply with our complex, anxious lives,” Howard went on once. “When you return home, your head is brimming with worries — assignments, meals, career goals, existential questions, a hungry stomach and and empty wallet. But waiting at the door, tail wagging furiously, is an animal who couldn’t care less about your complexities. Grimley doesn’t care how well you negotiate business deals, how attractive you are, or how many followers you have on social media. All he knows is you’re his person.

“In that, animals remind us of something profound: we are lovable in our plainest form. They strip away our egos and invite us to be simpler, humbler versions of ourselves. Ah, one has no doubt, that the eye hold the very perception —a world, with all its unspeakably complex essence — of another. I see your eyes now. A dog is yet just another, one that does not excessively philosophize things I do,” and here stopped Howard, almost laughing at himself with a smirk hinting self-awareness of his unorthodox style with things, especially speech.

Prov looked aimless, surely clueless at how to respond, his sadness turning into confusion, harrowing his disheveled brows.

Breaking the silence and swiftly shifting back, almost to a different world, Howard continued “At the root of their magic lies their immersion in the present moment. Animals embody presence . They pull us, even briefly, out of our ever-present anxieties about the future or our morbid fixation on the past, letting us taste the clarity — the inherent beauty — of living in the now. Through their eyes, we see that gentleness of the soul, of ours. See, dogs are therapists too, however inadvertently,” concluded Howard, humor permeating his tone now.

Prov, resistant to such humor, drifted back into his own world, to his own intricate web of mental anguish, indulging in meta thought.

Now, as Howard embraced his son, Grimley’s frantic energy dancing around them, he whispered impulsively, “I’m here with you, son. I’ll always be here.”

Prov, still trembling, shouted through gritted teeth, “What did I do to deserve this? Tell me! What?” His voice cracked with anguish, his eyes pleading for an answer as though only his father could provide.

Howard sighed, his own voice calm but heavy with empathy. “Nothing, my boy. Nothing. But you’re coming to a painful truth earlier than most: life isn’t fair. It never has been. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t worth living.”

Howard stood, his movements deliberate, and gestured toward the door. “Now finish dressing. Let’s leave this house. I know you must resent it by now.”

Prov didn’t argue. He complied, knowing it was futile to push back against his father’s determined calm, the mountain. And though Prozac and therapy had only dulled the edge of his despair, something about this new direction — this unpredictable trip — piqued his curiosity.

As he finished dressing, he glanced at himself in the mirror. His face was still weary, his appearance disheveled. Yet this time, he saw it differently. The weariness felt less like a condemnation and more like a badge — evidence of survival, even if he couldn’t yet understand its worth.

“Dad,” he called softly, and their journey began.

Standing outside, Prov’s gaze lingered on Howard’s black Mercedes-Benz SLS AMG. He approached it slowly, running his fingers along its sleek surface before turning to his father.

“Can I drive?” he asked, his voice steady but firm, surprising even himself.

Howard raised a skeptical brow. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.” There was no hesitation in Prov’s response.

His passion for driving was newfound, born directly from his misery. The deeper his despair, the greater his need to drive. It was one of the few things that gave him a sense of control — a stark contrast to the uncontrollable torrent of emotions and thoughts that plagued him daily. Indeed, such thoughts seem to spring up from nowhere, almost like a blackhole that takes a shape of its own, spreading and expanding across every region of the brain, every neuron, coalescing to hijack whatever sense of peace possible.

For six months, Prov had felt alienated from himself. His thoughts, erratic and overwhelming, seemed foreign, as though they belonged to someone — or something — else. “If my thoughts define me,” he reasoned bitterly, “and I can’t control them, then what am I? Just an observer of a chaotic, random stream of consciousness?”

Sliding into the driver’s seat, Prov gripped the wheel with a mix of trepidation and determination. For the first time in what felt like forever, he wasn’t just letting life happen to him — he was steering, literally and metaphorically.

As the engine roared to life and the car began its journey, so too did the faintest flicker of something Prov hadn’t felt in a long time: the possibility of agency, of reclaiming himself from the darkness.

Prov adjusted the driver’s seat with precision, fixed the rearview mirror, and ignited the engine — a series of mundane tasks that felt strangely momentous to him. They were small acts, but for the exhausted Prov, they seemed like milestones in reclaiming control. As the car roared to life, so did their journey, and with it, a conversation that promised to be anything but mundane.

“This might end up being one of the worst trips you’ve taken since you emerged from your mother’s womb,” Howard said suddenly, his gaze fixed on the cloudless sky outside the window.

Prov frowned, turning to glance at his father. “I don’t understand. Why would it be? Aren’t we going to the beach?” he asked, his tone caught between confusion and annoyance.

“We are. But why would you assume it has to be a joyous trip?” Howard replied, his voice laced with a challenging wit.

Prov gripped the steering wheel tighter, his irritation bubbling. “Why would you take me out while I’m severely distraught if you think it’s going to be one of the worst trips of my life?”

“This was merely an example of what pessimism does for you,” Howard said, his tone unshaken. “It prepares you for the worst, lessens the weight of your expectations, and shields you from the agony of disappointment.”

Prov’s irritation deepened. “So, you’re telling me I should become more pessimistic? I’m not miserable enough already?” His voice rose with frustration, and so did the car’s speed.

Howard raised a brow and leaned back calmly. “I’ll elaborate on my point, but only if you slow down. Unless, of course, you’d prefer we never reach the seashore.” There was a faint humor in his voice, his usual prelude to a lesson.

Prov glanced at his father, stealing quick looks at his dignified posture and calm expression. Despite his exasperation, Prov couldn’t help but feel awed. Howard had a presence that demanded attention, an eloquence that turned lectures into art.

“You live in a painfully optimistic frame of mind, son,” Howard began, adjusting his tone to one of deliberate calm.

Prov scoffed, his voice tinged with melancholy. “If there’s anyone who isn’t optimistic, it’s me.”

“It’s not entirely your fault,” Howard continued. “You’ve been groomed by society to hold high expectations. Surely, we are all the products of our environments. You grew up hearing that you could be anything you wanted to be. Businesses, desperate to sell you things, linked hope and happiness to their products — beauty creams, cars, dream homes, dazzling degrees. All promised fulfillment. And then, there’s technology.” He gestured lightly, as if motioning toward an invisible smartphone. “Social media has trapped your generation in a cycle of comparison. It compels people to project their most cheerful, polished selves, concealing their ideocracies and inevitable ugliness. You scroll through these curated lives and believe the lie that everyone else is secure and happy. But the truth,” Howard said, his voice dropping a note, “is far from it.”

Prov listened intently, his father’s words sinking in. His thoughts drifted to his own social media profiles. “If someone scrolled through my feed, they’d see a guy who looks unbelievably happy,” he thought, the irony stinging. “But maybe that’s true for everyone. Maybe they’re as hijacked as I am, just better at hiding it.” For the first time in a while, Prov felt a faint relief — not because he was any less miserable, but because he realized he might not be alone in it. Aloneness in the loneliness, seemed to sting harder than the latter alone.

After an hour of driving, they reached their destination. Prov was fatigued but intrigued, while Howard seemed energized, ready to plunge deeper into the philosophy he cherished. Howard, contrary to most, further energize ad enlighten, the deeper he goes into thought; the higher the abstraction the higher the transcendence, almost reaching a point where the body, being useless for the endeavor, ceases to require energy, sustaining mental thought to a seemingly endless end.

The beach stretched before them in serene isolation, the vast expanse of jewel-blue water lapping gently against the shore. The waves whispered rather than roared, their rhythm soothing. The sand gleamed golden under the sun, and the air carried the sharp tang of salt. It was quiet — empty, melancholy, and perfect for Howard’s purpose.

“This place is different from where people typically imagine themselves happiest,” Howard began as they strolled barefoot along the shore. “Most envision joy in crowds: a party, a bustling street, a nightclub. But these places often prevent us from meeting ourselves.” He glanced at his son, his eyes meeting his son’s with a ferocious intensity. “Here, there’s nothing to distract you from your thoughts. You don’t have to perform happiness. You can simply be. In solitude, we’re forced to confront ourselves — to face what we might have been avoiding for far too long.”

Prov remained silent, his gaze fixed on the sand, each step imprinting fleeting marks on the earth. Howard, meanwhile, looked toward the horizon, his voice steady as he continued.

“What I want to explain today is this: as a society, we’d be a little happier if we allowed ourselves to be a little more pessimistic.”

Prov looked up, intrigued. “Pessimism? Happier? Isn’t that a contradiction?”

“Not at all,” Howard said, his tone resolute. “Think of it this way: religions have long emphasized the suffering inherent in life. Buddhism’s first noble truth is that all existence is suffering. Christianity highlights the fallibility and pain of humanity. These ideas weren’t meant to make people despondent but to set realistic expectations. When you accept that life involves suffering, you’re less likely to be blindsided by it.”

Prov’s eyes reflected a flicker of curiosity. “But doesn’t pessimism make things worse? Doesn’t it drag us down?”

“For most of human history, pessimism wasn’t a burden — it was a tool,” Howard explained. “It kept us grounded. Only recently, with the decline of religion and the rise of humanism, did we begin idolizing happiness as life’s ultimate goal.”

He gestured expansively. “Poets like Alexander Pope declared, ‘Happiness, our being’s end and aim.’ The American Dream promised life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. But as noble as these ideas are, they’ve created colossal pressure. In today’s meritocratic world, we’re told to achieve, to win, to succeed. And when we don’t, we feel like failures.”

Howard turned to Prov, his expression softening. “Pessimism doesn’t mean giving up. It means approaching life with clear eyes. It’s about reducing expectations so that disappointments don’t shatter you.”

Prov nodded slowly, absorbing his father’s words. As they walked, the waves murmured their agreement, and the vastness of the ocean seemed to echo Howard’s philosophy: calm, expansive, and unapologetically indifferent to human struggles.

Howard’s voice carried the conviction of someone who had lived these truths. Despite his fondness for pessimism, he was anything but gloomy. His students adored him, often leaving his classes in awe of his wit and insights. Once, at the end of a semester, many had wept — not out of sadness, but at the thought of losing his guidance.

Prov remained quiet, his mind swirling with questions. As the sun dipped lower, painting the sky in hues of amber and gold, he realized he wasn’t ready to argue or challenge his father. For now, he wanted only to listen.

“One man who was acutely aware of society’s infatuation with happiness and its accompanying unrealistic expectations was the psychologist William James,” Howard began, his voice animated with enthusiasm. “He even proposed a formula for happiness.”

“A formula?” Prov asked, his curiosity piqued as he studied his father’s lively expression.

“Yes,” Howard continued, leaning forward slightly as though sharing a closely guarded secret. “William James argued that happiness is contingent upon expectations. The equation is simple: happiness equals reality divided by expectations.” He paused to let the idea sink in before elaborating. “This means there are two ways to achieve and sustain satisfaction: you can change your reality, or you can lower your expectations.”

Prov frowned slightly, mulling over the implications of the equation.

“Pessimists,” Howard explained, “understand the value of reducing expectations. They know that reality can often be immovable — unchangeable. But expectations? Those are entirely within our control. We can adjust them whenever and however we choose. Pessimists are keenly aware of life’s harsh truths: it won’t always go as planned. Dissatisfaction and boredom are inevitable. Relationships are messy. Jobs can be tedious. Illness and misfortune are always lurking. A pessimist doesn’t despair at these realities; they prepare for them.”

Prov sat in silence, the weight of his father’s words settling over him. His mind raced: I’m only 19. Maybe I am expecting too much. Maybe that’s why I’m so miserable. Maybe sadness and boredom are just… normal.

Howard, sensing his son’s reflective mood, pressed on. “Seneca, the brilliant Roman Stoic philosopher, believed that to confront life’s inevitable tragedies, one must follow philosophy as a discipline — and master pessimism.”

Prov tilted his head. “What did he say about pessimism?”

Howard’s face lit up, delighted by his son’s rare spark of interest. “Seneca wrote extensively about anger — something we tend to associate with short tempers and neuroticism today. But Seneca believed anger stemmed not from temperament but from misplaced expectations. He asked why people in Northern Europe didn’t get angry when it rained. His answer was simple: they expected rain. Why rage against something you know will happen?”

Prov chuckled faintly. “So, he thought we should apply that logic to everything?”

“Exactly,” Howard said, his tone steady. “Take traffic, for instance. People get infuriated when they’re stuck in gridlock, blaming inept drivers, poor planning, or bad luck. But Seneca would say this frustration comes from an overly optimistic worldview — the idea that traffic shouldn’t exist. When we expect life to be smooth and orderly, every disruption feels like a personal insult. Lower those expectations, and the anger fades.”

Prov nodded slowly, absorbing the insight. “Tell me more about Seneca,” he said, his voice tinged with genuine curiosity. It was a rare moment — depression had dulled his passion for nearly everything, from tennis to reading. Howard, inwardly thrilled, was careful to hide his excitement.

“Seneca, who is often regarded as a tragedian, believed our fate was tied to the whims of Fortuna, the Roman goddess of fortune,” Howard began, his voice taking on a storyteller’s cadence. “Fortuna was thought to control the destinies of all, doling out success and suffering without rhyme or reason. She was capricious, vain, and brutish — a personification of luck itself. Statues of her adorned public spaces, and her image was stamped on coins. Her ubiquity served as a reminder that much of life lies beyond our control. Misfortune — derived from her very name — was inevitable.”

Prov’s eyes widened. “And how do we deal with that kind of unpredictability?”

Howard leaned back, his tone softening. “Seneca advised what he called premeditatio malorum — the premeditation of evils. Each morning, he suggested imagining the worst that could happen: illness, loss, disappointment. Not because these things are certain, but to prepare yourself. If disaster strikes, you’re not caught off guard. You’ve rehearsed it in your mind. And if it doesn’t? Then you’ve spent the day appreciating what you have.”

Howard’s voice took on a solemn tone as he quoted from memory:
“‘The wise will start each day with the thought that Fortune gives us nothing that we can truly own. Nothing, whether public or private, is stable; the destinies of men, no less than those of cities, are in a whirl…We live in the midst of things that are destined to die. Mortal have you been born, to mortals have you given birth. Reckon on everything, expect everything.’”

Prov shivered slightly at the starkness of the words, yet something in their honesty resonated with him.

“In essence,” Howard continued, “Seneca believed we live in a fragile, ever-changing world. The more we accept this, the less we’ll suffer when misfortune inevitably arrives. Our ultimate job isn’t to resist this truth but to embrace it — to meet it with strength rather than despair.”

Howard turned to his son, his expression soft yet serious. “Seneca also wrote that no one should have a child without being able to tolerate the idea that the child might die by evening.”

Prov’s breath caught, the rawness of the statement jolting him. Yet, as unsettling as it was, he couldn’t deny the wisdom in it. He stared out at the endless horizon, the waves lapping gently against the shore, as the lesson began to settle deep within him.

When he heard these words, Prov experienced an array of intense yet strangely pleasant emotions. For the first time in months, his depression felt momentarily abated. Listening to the bleak yet profound philosophy of Seneca and the tenets of pessimism, he felt less isolated in his sadness. A revelation dawned upon him: sadness was not an anomaly, nor was it a deviation from the norm. Perhaps sadness was the natural human condition — something to be accepted, even transcended.

After the conversation, Prov felt calmer and, strangely enough, a little wiser. He and Howard were sitting in the swash zone, occasionally hurling pebbles into the glittering sea with the force of idle contemplation. Prov’s shoulders were still slouched, his exhaustion evident, while Howard sat upright, radiating his usual confidence. After a moment of quiet reflection, Prov blurted out, “But what is the meaning of all this suffering? Why do I have to endure it at all?”

Howard’s interest was piqued. The question of meaning had always fascinated him. Smiling compassionately at his son, he replied, “Meaning, my dear boy, not pleasure or power, is the primary pursuit of humans. It is most often sought when one is trying to reconcile the injustice and pain in this world. So you are on the right track.”

He paused, his voice taking on a more somber tone. “I suspect there’s no combination of words that can fully describe the horrors of a Nazi concentration camp. To live there meant facing the constant probability of death. Yet, even in those grotesque conditions, some individuals found meaning in their suffering. One such person was Viktor Frankl, a Holocaust survivor and the author of Man’s Search for Meaning. He was fortunate enough to survive and draw compelling conclusions about the role of suffering in human existence.”

Prov, now fully attentive, leaned forward. “What kind of conclusions?” he asked, eager to learn more.

“Frankl observed something remarkable,” Howard began. “Those who survived the longest in the camps weren’t the ones with the greatest physical stamina. They were the ones who managed to find meaning in their suffering. As Nietzsche said, ‘He who has a “why” to live for can bear almost any “how.”’ The ‘why’ differs for everyone. The meaning of life isn’t universal or concrete — it’s deeply personal and situational. Most importantly, Frankl believed we have the freedom to find meaning even in the face of unchangeable suffering. Meaning isn’t found in spite of suffering but because of it.”

Prov furrowed his brows, processing the idea. “Can you give me an example? It still doesn’t feel… feasible,” he asked, his voice tinged with skepticism.

Howard nodded, ready with an anecdote. “Frankl once treated an elderly general practitioner who had been severely depressed for two years after the death of his beloved wife. The man couldn’t bear her loss. Frankl didn’t tell him what to think; instead, he asked, ‘What would have happened if you had died first, and your wife had to endure your loss?’ The old man thought for a moment and replied, ‘It would have been terrible for her; she would have suffered greatly.’ Frankl then said, ‘You spared her that suffering. But now you must pay for it by surviving and mourning her loss.’ The man was silent for a long time. When he finally spoke, he thanked Frankl and left his office with a sense of peace.”

Prov stared at the sea, turning the story over in his mind. “So… what’s the moral?” he asked hesitantly.

“The moral,” Howard explained, “is that suffering, once imbued with meaning, becomes bearable. The old man was able to endure his pain when he realized his suffering had a purpose: he had spared his wife from pain. His loss became meaningful.”

As the words sank in, something shifted within Prov. For the first time, he understood: meaning isn’t found despite suffering but through it. A quiet resolve took root in his heart — a longing to seek meaning in his life and his pain, rather than chasing fleeting pleasures or numb distractions.

“So,” Prov asked, his voice barely above a whisper, “what’s the meaning of my depression? My sadness?”

Howard looked at him thoughtfully. “Depression is a complex illness, but part of it comes from trying too hard to force yourself into a certain state of being. You feel the way you do because your reality hasn’t lived up to your expectations. Deep down, you sense that something is wrong, that something has gone adrift. But instead of pretending everything is fine, as so many do, you’ve been brave enough to admit that something isn’t right. That’s not a weakness, my son. That’s courage.”

For a moment, Prov was silent, processing the idea. For six long months, his depression had felt like a mark of failure, an indictment of his inability to cope. But now, for the first time, he saw it from a different angle — one that suggested nobility rather than defeat.

“So, you’re saying… there’s a silver lining in depression?” he asked, his voice steady but serious, his eyebrows raised in cautious curiosity.

Howard nodded. “Yes, if you’re willing to see it. Depression forces us to confront truths we might otherwise ignore. It can be an opportunity to grow, to find meaning in the very pain that feels unbearable.”

And in that moment, as the waves lapped at their feet, Prov felt the faintest flicker of something he hadn’t experienced in months: hope.

“Indeed. Depression can serve as a powerful reminder that something is amiss,” Howard said, his tone resolute. “It offers us a unique opportunity to confront serious and often buried life problems. While physical and mental pain are vastly different, they share a critical similarity: both arise to signal a need for change.

“Physical pain denotes injury — it prevents further harm and encourages precautionary behavior. Depression, on the other hand, forces a process of self-awareness, self-development, and growth. It isolates us, compelling us to process suppressed emotions, reassess priorities, and craft a clearer path forward. It’s through this introspection that a depressive state often leads to a deeper understanding of ourselves, our needs, and even the extent of our morality and freedom.” Howard spoke with unshakable conviction, a belief born of his own battle with depression.

Prov felt his attitude toward life shifting, expanding. In the course of this conversation, he had begun to see himself differently. He now regarded his suffering not as a defect, but as a transformative force. Howard, sensing the change in his son, was satisfied. He had struck a chord.

“But what are the consequences of pursuing happiness itself?” Prov asked, his gaze fixed on the far horizon. His voice was almost meditative.

Howard smiled. “I’m delighted you asked,” he exclaimed with cheer. “This restless — and increasingly desperate — pursuit of happiness has paradoxical consequences. By definition, happiness is devoid of sadness. If one is happy, one cannot be sad. And therein lies the problem.

“There are many worthwhile endeavors — creative, intellectual, or otherwise — that won’t be achieved or even attempted if one’s highest priority is simply to be happy. Galileo, for instance, blinded himself in his tireless quest to unravel the mysteries of the universe. Sir Humphrey Davy risked death daily from chemical explosions, undeterred by danger in his pursuit of discovery.”

Howard gestured dramatically, his voice rising with intensity. “History is replete with figures who endured immense suffering to achieve great things. Relationships, for example, are fraught with misunderstandings, disappointments, and anger. Yet, those who believe in something greater — love, commitment, shared growth — don’t abandon them at the first sign of pain. As Nietzsche put it, ‘Those who do great things suffer greatly. Those who do small things suffer trivially.’”

Howard paused, his expression thoughtful. “Nietzsche was often bewildering, but his insistence on the value of hardship remains a cornerstone of his philosophy. ‘To those human beings who are of any concern to me,’ he declared, ‘I wish suffering, desolation, sickness, ill-treatment, indignities. I wish them the only thing that can prove today whether one is worth anything or not — that one endures.’”

Prov listened in awe, his father’s words weaving a force of insight and challenge. For Prov, watching Howard speak was like witnessing a Mozart symphony performed by a master orchestra — complex, beautiful, and deeply moving.

“But that’s not all,” Howard continued. “The relentless pursuit of happiness also falls prey to the paradox of pleasure. The more we seek happiness directly, the more elusive it becomes. Philosophers and psychologists alike warn us that happiness is best attained as a by-product of meaningful pursuits. Focus on what you find inherently valuable or creative, and happiness may follow. As John Stuart Mill wisely observed, ‘Ask yourself whether you are happy, and you cease to be so.’”

Prov absorbed every word, his sharp mind processing the ideas with growing clarity. For the first time in months, he felt an eager desire to learn more — not just about the world, but about himself.

“What about the constant dread and anxiety I feel about so many aspects of life?” Prov asked, determined to draw more wisdom from his father.

Howard placed a reassuring hand on his son’s shoulder. “I’m not surprised by your question,” he said warmly. “Depression and anxiety often go hand in hand. Yet anxiety, for all its palpable torment, is deeply misunderstood — by others and by those who suffer from it.

“To the anxious, it feels like hope has been extinguished, like explaining their pain is futile. People like Demetri — well-meaning though they are — often dismiss anxiety as mere nervousness. But anxiety isn’t just discomfort; it’s a vindictive, capricious bully that traps you in a limbo between your thoughts and reality. It leaves you unable to derive joy from even the simplest activities. It’s a living nightmare.”

Prov nodded slowly, the description resonating deeply.

Howard continued. “Of course, some anxiety has a clear basis: the fear of failure, illness, humiliation, or abandonment. But often, anxiety stems from a fundamental misunderstanding of what we value most. We fear losing fame, wealth, prestige, or love, imagining these things to be essential for happiness. Yet they aren’t. Even if our worst fears come true, we will likely endure.”

Howard’s tone softened, his words now more intimate. “We live in a world full of risks and dangers. Naturally, we feel the need to be vigilant, to shield ourselves and those we love from catastrophe. Anxiety serves as a survival mechanism, predicting and preparing us for potential threats. ‘What if?’ becomes the refrain of the anxious mind. But this vigilance often traps us in a cycle of fear, leaving us paralyzed.”

He paused, quoting Montaigne with quiet reverence: “‘My life has been full of terrible misfortunes, most of which never happened.’” Howard smiled faintly. “This truth offers relief — but only briefly. Soon, another intrusive thought springs up, and the cycle begins again. It bullies us, isolates us, and keeps us from engaging with the world.”

Prov looked down at the sand, the weight of his father’s words pressing on him.

Howard squeezed his shoulder gently. “We seek reassurance from others to escape this prison of fear, hoping they’ll convince us our anxieties are exaggerated. But beneath it all is the real fear: If my worst fears come true, will I survive? The answer, my son, is almost always yes.”

For Prov, these words were like a lifeline, a thread of hope to cling to as he grappled with the complexity of his own emotions. For the first time, he saw his anxiety not as an enemy but as a misguided ally, urging him toward a deeper understanding of himself and the world.

“Indeed. A helpful way to tackle anxiety is to lean into it — intensify your fears and imagine the worst possible outcome,” Howard began, his voice steady. “Picture the scenario where all your anxieties materialize. Visualize it fully. But then, remind yourself of this essential truth: even with so little in our possession, we can and will be fine. Much of what we want is not what we need.”

Howard gestured for emphasis. “Take, for example, the fear of a vindictive health problem. The solution isn’t to seek comforting statistics or reassuring words from a friend. It’s to remind yourself that even with illnesses, financial losses, or heartbreak, life goes on — and so will you.”

“Seneca, whom I quoted earlier, understood this beautifully,” Howard continued. “He repeatedly emphasized that happiness requires very little. He warned us against the delusion that extravagant mansions, luxurious furniture, or fine bedding could ever grant us lasting peace of mind. He even suggested, quite provocatively, that one should sleep on the floor occasionally as a reminder of how simplicity can foster contentment. The goal isn’t to live as a bohemian or to renounce success — it’s to understand that no matter how much reality falls short of our expectations, we are capable of enduring.”

Prov felt a wave of relief wash over him, the weight of his depression and anxiety temporarily lifted. He was struck silent, though gratitude lingered on the tip of his tongue. He couldn’t help but think that this stoic philosophy offered a relief far more redemptive than the Prozac prescribed by his doctor.

Howard glanced at his son and smiled knowingly. “To conclude our trip, let me say this plainly: anyone who tells you the purpose of life is the pursuit of happiness is an imbecile. Life isn’t about narrowing our emotional experience to one shallow feeling. A well-adjusted person will experience the full range of emotions — happiness, sadness, anger, compassion, and anxiety. To live deeply, to live meaningfully, you must embrace this vast emotional spectrum. A life without depth and profundity is, by definition, shallow and meaningless. Prepare for life, my son — not by chasing happiness, but by becoming a man of purpose and meaning.”

Without uttering another word, father and son strode back toward the car, their steps purposeful, their silence filled with newfound confidence and depth. Both felt the unspoken sense of accomplishment that comes after a difficult but necessary journey.

Prov didn’t ask to drive this time. He felt no need to assert control. Instead, he reclined his seat, shut his eyes, and let the wind play through the open window. The blissful breeze carried with it the rustle of trees and the calm rhythm of the journey. Both Howard and Prov turned a blind eye to the past and the future, surrendering fully to the precious present.

The ride back was long and serene, the tranquility as profound as their earlier conversation. Prov, although still tethered to his depression, felt a sense of renewal. For the first time in months, he felt comfortable in his sadness. He no longer craved pleasure or power; he yearned for meaning.

As they neared home, Prov did something unexpected — he picked up his phone and called Dimitri. This time, not to seek fleeting pleasure or distraction, but to share a meaningful moment with his childhood friend. He suspected happiness might follow as a by-product, but it wasn’t his goal.

When Howard dropped Prov off at Dimitri’s, he felt his own spirits lift. His son hadn’t recovered, not fully. But Howard could sense a shift — Prov had begun to embrace purpose over despair.

“Did you see that blonde hottie?” Dimitri blurted out as Prov walked up, his eyes still fixed on a woman who had just passed by.

“Well, hello to you too,” Prov replied, a rare smile tugging at his lips as he stole a surreptitious glance at the girl.

“Women are God’s most beautiful creation,” Dimitri declared dramatically. “I wish I had one by my side instead of you — tall, wrinkly, and dumb as you are.”

Prov chuckled. “You don’t even believe in God, do you?” Dimitri continued, his tone shifting to mock seriousness.

“It’s… complicated,” Prov said after a pause, shoving his hands into his pockets, his expression turning contemplative.

“Maybe that’s your problem,” Dimitri responded, his voice softening. “I wouldn’t wish your suffering on anyone, brother. But maybe humbling yourself before God could help. You might find peace there.”

“Humility, you say?” Prov asked, his tone laced with irony as he smirked faintly.

“Yes. Religion teaches humility — at least, in most cases,” Dimitri replied, his voice rising slightly in eager conviction.

Prov took a moment, gathering his thoughts. “It’s often claimed, almost aggressively, that religion instills humility. ‘He who exalts himself will be humbled, and he who humbles himself will be exalted,’ says the New Testament. ‘Successful indeed are the believers, those who humble themselves in their prayers,’ the Qur’an asserts. Society tells us that the religious are humble, that they reject pride and narcissism in favor of modesty and restraint. Or so it seems.”

“I’m surprised an atheist like you would have verses from the Qur’an and Bible committed to memory,” Dimitri interjected, his tone both teasing and curious. “But go on, continue.”

Prov smiled faintly, unfazed. “Well, atheists, as you seem to imply, are often stereotyped as lacking not just belief in God but also moral virtue and humility. We’re perceived as arrogant, detached from humanity, and impoverished in our ethics. Statistics reveal that this stigmatization is widespread, even in the so-called land of the free — the United States. But isn’t the humility of the religious exaggerated and that of atheists underestimated?”

“You’re the only atheist I know,” Dimitri admitted, lighting another cigarette and inhaling deeply. “But I still think religion instills humility, while atheism detaches you from the rest of humanity.”

Prov leaned forward, his confidence bolstered by his thoughts. “Some astute thinkers have identified a paradox in the humility espoused by religious texts. I’d argue the opposite of what you claim: religion can sometimes breed arrogance, while atheism — however unsettling or offensive it might appear — can foster humility and self-abnegation.”

“That’s a stretch, come on!” Dimitri exclaimed, exhaling smoke that curled lazily in the air.

“Just hear me out,” Prov said, raising a hand. “In many religious contexts, humility is framed as recognizing oneself in relation to a deity. You humble yourself, as you suggested I should, before an omniscient, omnipotent God. It’s an attractive idea: acknowledging forces far greater than oneself. But this notion has consequences — ones that, in my view, undermine the very humility it claims to promote.”

“Such as?” Dimitri asked, leaning in with genuine curiosity.

“Belief in religion often comes with a powerful promise: eternal life in paradise. A place with rivers, palaces, and, depending on the text, throngs of virgins awaiting the faithful. But opposite paradise lies a hellish realm reserved for non-believers — or for those who simply picked the ‘wrong’ religion. In hell, the wicked are burned, their skin peeled away and regenerated, only to endure the agony again, for eternity.

“This belief creates an implicit schism between believers and non-believers. While the religious may humble themselves before their God, they are encouraged, consciously or unconsciously, to view those outside their faith with contempt or pity. If you’re a Muslim, for instance, you might believe that you’ll bask in heavenly luxury while your Jewish or atheist colleague burns in hellfire. Even if you act courteously toward them, this belief plants a subtle seed of superiority — a conviction that you are part of the chosen few.”

Dimitri murmured thoughtfully, his cigarette dangling between his fingers.

Prov pressed on. “And isn’t it egocentric to believe there’s a deity who cares deeply for you and your fellow believers while condemning others to eternal torment? Isn’t it arrogant to think that, among thousands of religions throughout history, yours just happens to be the true one?”

Dimitri nodded slowly, his usual jovial demeanor replaced by quiet introspection. “So how, in your view, does one achieve humility?”

“To humble oneself,” Prov began, his voice steady, “is to acknowledge how much you don’t know — about the world, about life, and especially about the afterlife. It’s to regard your fellow humans as equals, not as souls destined for damnation simply because they hold different beliefs. True humility is not claiming you are part of the creator’s chosen people. It’s not declaring that the universe was designed with you in mind. It’s understanding our insignificance on a cosmic scale — recognizing that we live on a tiny planet, orbiting an average star, within a small galaxy in an incomprehensibly vast universe. Humility isn’t religion; it’s the acknowledgment of uncertainty.”

Prov paused, taking a deep breath. Dimitri looked at him with renewed respect, clearly moved by his friend’s words.

“But who knows,” Dimitri said suddenly, his tone lightening, “maybe it’s your denial of God that makes you depressed.”

Prov laughed, shaking his head. “You and your damn cigarette,” he said, grinning. “I hate to admit it, but even you look profound when you smoke — with your silly eyes closed.”

His smile faded as he continued, his tone growing somber. “Let’s assume, for the sake of argument, that my suffering stems from my lack of belief — that I’m being punished for my disbelief, like Adam eating the apple. Let’s confine this argument to children, though — innocent, vulnerable children. What about the child born into abject poverty in Africa, diagnosed with stage-four bone cancer? That child endures not only poverty but excruciating, unnecessary pain before dying in the arms of parents who can barely put food on the table.

“What about the children burned alive in the Holocaust simply because of their ethnicity or religion? Tell me, Dimitri, how do we reconcile the existence of such evil with the idea of an all-powerful, all-knowing, and all-good God?”

“What are you getting at?” Dimitri asked, his voice tentative.

“I’m saying this: If God is all-knowing, then He must know about every instance of needless suffering. If He is all-powerful, He has the ability to end it. And if He is all-good, then He should want to end it. Yet, suffering persists — purely unnecessary suffering that serves no purpose. How can we reconcile that with the notion of a benevolent deity?”

Dimitri frowned, clearly grappling with the question. “You’re saying the existence of evil disproves God?”

“Not necessarily,” Prov said, his voice calm but firm. “But it challenges the traditional attributes ascribed to Him. It forces us to confront the possibility that either God isn’t all-knowing, all-powerful, or all-good — or that He doesn’t exist at all.”

The two friends fell silent, the weight of the discussion settling over them like a heavy blanket. Dimitri took another drag of his cigarette, his gaze distant. For Prov, the conversation felt like a release — a cathartic expression of thoughts that had haunted him for years.

Feeling that his intellectual appetite had been thoroughly satiated, Dimitri decided to shift the conversation and ramble about a girl he liked. His plan? To borrow her notes as a pretext to get to know her. Meanwhile, Prov, exhausted by the density of the arguments he had engaged with earlier in the day, retreated to his room.

But when the time came to sleep — a task that had become agonizingly arduous since depression hijacked his consciousness — he found himself unable to drift off. Tossing and turning in a futile search for comfort, he finally resorted to his sleeping pills, which worked inconsistently at best.

As Prov lay in bed, his mind rehearsed the day’s conversations. The harrowing nature of his situation struck him anew: his despair stemmed, ironically, from the potential of his life — not its impossibilities. Yet, this realization felt less harsh tonight. Perhaps this potential, he mused, was built on exaggerated and erroneous views of how life should be.

His bed was positioned near the window, where the boundless night sky stretched out, glittering with dancing stars. It stared starkly back at him, as if posing the unanswered questions he had avoided during the day. Insomnia, Prov reasoned, was his mind’s severe revenge for neglecting these thoughts.

During the summer, particularly around Eid al-Adha, Prov visited relatives, many of whom were culturally different from him and his father. It was a stark contrast to the jubilant boy he had been a few years ago. Back then, the excitement of Eid would keep him awake all night, his heart brimming with anticipation. Now, his days felt hollow, his state lamentable.

On the third night of Eid, Dimitri arrived unannounced at Prov’s house, wearing a sharp black suit with a red tie. He looked as festive as a Christmas tree.

“Two hundred and forty Dollars!” Dimitri exclaimed as he entered, his grin as wide as an eagle’s wings. “That’s how much I got from the relatives!”

Prov embraced him with a faint smile and replied dryly, “You do realize that’s just your father’s money circulating back to you, right? Your dad gives your cousins fifty Dollars, and then your uncle gives you the same in return. It’s all just redistribution.”

“All I know is that I’m getting that Apple Watch Series 3 — chicks are gonna love it,” Dimitri said, lighting a cigarette. “Anyway, how’ve you been?”

Prov sighed deeply, glancing at the night sky. “You know, I can’t help but feel happiness intertwined with poignancy during times like these — times when we’re expected to be exuberant,” he began, his voice measured. “It’s this awareness of how fleeting happiness is, how it’s hardly sustainable when we’re told we must feel it. It almost forces me into a spiral of self-deprecation.

“Worse still, I can’t shake the guilt. My happiness often depends on the suffering of others — people who labor in ways I can scarcely comprehend. Like maids who leave their families, cross oceans, and endure language barriers just to work in the homes of strangers. Their sacrifices, their unimaginable hardships, make my well-being possible.

“So when I go around with my father, visiting relatives, exchanging frivolous stories and wide grins, I can’t help but think of them — the maids, the workers, the invisible people who bear the weight of the world alone. It’s… unbearable sometimes.”

Dimitri exhaled smoke and shook his head. “It’s Eid, man. You’ve got to lighten up! You know what? I’m buying you some ice cream to kill this gloomy mood. And the chicks at the ice cream shop? They’re from another planet — seriously, you’ve got to see them.”