Destiny

Oh no, this traffic. I will be late today. Not today, please, God, not today. She will be really upset, thought the man sitting right next to me. Dressed in a sleek black tuxedo and clutching a bouquet of freshly cut roses, his left leg jiggled with anxiety. He was a bundle of nerves, desperately waiting for his stop, his mind racing with the fear of disappointing his girlfriend. His thoughts were so loud, almost as if he were shouting inside his head. Their thoughts crashed into my brain like a marathon of bullet trains. Every wish, every desire, wild fantasies, and solemn pledges were laid bare before me, naked as moonlight. I could hear them all. The cacophony was overwhelming. The woman in front of me didn’t want to go back home to her abusive father, and the sorrow in her silent plea pierced my heart. They all think too much, and it’s my curse to hear every thought.

It’s too loud. I can’t take it anymore. My head feels like it might burst from the pressure of their unspoken words. Desperate for relief, I pulled out my earphones and cranked up my HYBS playlist to the highest volume. Music, my only sanctuary, drowns out the relentless noise. As I gazed out of the window, the first drops of rain began to fall, quickly turning into a downpour. People scattered, seeking shelter, while children danced and splashed in the puddles, carefree and joyous. I wondered what they might be thinking. Every person was lost in their world of pain and pleasure. But I don’t have to wonder—I can just take off my earphones and listen to them, clear as day. I gained this ability to hear people’s thoughts when I was thirteen, and my life has been chaotic ever since. Each mind around me, a symphony of emotions, an orchestra of secrets and desires, played incessantly in my brain. The rain continued to pour, a soothing rhythm against the chaos in my head, as I clung to the music to keep the storm of thoughts at bay.

With a ding, my stop was here. I got off the bus and hurried back to my apartment, my sanctuary, my den. Here, within these walls, I was blessedly alone. No intrusive thoughts crashing into my mind, no relentless noise—just the peaceful hum of my reflections. After getting fresh, I sat down to check my mail. Bills to pay, the mundane rituals of daily life.

Scanning through the messages, one subject line caught my eye. “Congratulations, you made it to the next step.” I opened it, “We found your CV impressive and would like to schedule you for an interview tomorrow at 3 PM.” I stared at the screen blankly. Did I start getting others’ emails now too? Were the thoughts not enough?

I read the email again. It was mine, but the name was wrong: Finn Michael, not Finn Wyatt. His email must be similar to mine, poor guy. He’s probably wondering why he hasn’t heard back about the job. I felt a twinge of empathy; I knew what it was like to be lost in the chaos of unanswered questions. I checked the interview address. If I could let them know they had the wrong Finn, maybe they could get back to him. But I couldn’t reply to the email—it was a no-reply address. My mind raced, thinking of ways to fix this. Maybe I could show up and explain the mix-up in person. After all, I knew what it was like to be misunderstood, to be overwhelmed by the world around me.

I put on my coat and stepped back into the rainy evening. The sound of the raindrops was soothing, almost musical, as I walked. Each drop seemed to carry a part of the world’s thoughts away, leaving me with a brief moment of clarity. I decided I would go to the interview address tomorrow, not for me, but for Finn Michael. Sometimes, it’s the small acts of kindness that make the biggest difference.

As I walked, the rain washed away my worries. Tomorrow, I would face a new challenge, one that didn’t involve the cacophony of other people’s minds but a simple act of setting things right. And maybe, just maybe, it would bring a little peace to someone else’s chaotic world.

I got back home, only to be greeted by the familiar, searing pain in my shoulder. It had been two years now, this relentless agony that no doctor could diagnose. Despite countless visits, they all said I was perfectly fine. Yet the pain persisted, often accompanied by tremors that shook me to my core. Maybe one day this pain would be the end of me, a final release from the cursed ability to hear every thought. The idea was both terrifying and oddly comforting. In death, perhaps, there would be silence—true, unbroken silence.

As I sat there, the room gradually grew darker, the only light coming from my computer screen. I thought about all the thoughts I had heard today, the man in the tuxedo, the woman with the abusive father, the countless others whose silent screams and whispered hopes invaded my mind. I took the pill Dr. Melissa gave me. I think it’s some kind of painkiller to ease my shoulder pain. I laid down on my bed, ready to call it a day. It was silent—no thoughts shouting around. I was alone, truly alone, as I always am. Sometimes, I listen to people’s thoughts because it distracts me from how lonely I feel.

I don’t know who my parents are. Professor Joseph, the head of Green Orphanage, told me I was delivered to him one rainy night by a person in a black cloak. They didn’t say anything about who I was or who my parents were. They just left a note that said, “He is the child of the night”.

As I lay there, the pain in my shoulder started to ease. I stared at the ceiling, thinking about my past. Growing up in an orphanage, I always felt different. The ability to hear people’s thoughts started when I was thirteen, and life has been tough since then. But the worst part isn’t the noise; it’s the loneliness. In the silence of my room, with the rain softly tapping on the window, I let myself drift into sleep, hoping for a better tomorrow.

You got the music in you baby tell me why. music ripped out of my earphones as I waited in this air-conditioned waiting room of the HitLab building. “Miss Rebecca would like to meet with you now” The lady in a black formal dress before I had the chance to tell her I was not the Finn she was hoping for left the room, and I could hear her think why she was in hurry, apparently Ms. Rebecca was not in a good mood.

Taking a deep breath, I pushed open the door to Miss Rebecca’s office. Inside, the room buzzed with activity. Five people moved about purposefully in the dim light. But my attention was drawn to her immediately—she sat in a plush chair that spun gently. She exuded an air of elegance and authority that filled the room with a mysterious energy.

Her eyes were mesmerizing emerald green, both intense and enigmatic. They seemed to gaze into the soul, revealing mysteries known only to her, their depths captivating yet unsettling. In her presence, I felt a strange familiarity, as though she held the key to secrets that resonated with my existence. Her demeanor suggested a life lived with purpose, each glance from those piercing eyes affirming a connection beyond mere words. She was a presence—a tapestry of experiences woven with threads of wisdom and an aura of quiet mystery that demanded exploration.

When our eyes met, time seemed to slow down. The usual noisy thoughts that filled my mind faded away, replaced by a rare calmness. It felt like we understood each other without saying a word—a silent connection that felt profound and almost mystical.

Reluctantly breaking the spell, I turned away and the chaos of thoughts rushed back, overwhelming me once again. I looked back at her, seeking solace in her gaze. Surprisingly, her presence seemed to calm the storm inside me. Her eyes held a quiet assurance as if she had the power to ease the turmoil caused by my unusual ability.

Okay, that’s new, what is happening? This is new. “Hello, Finn. Finn?” the second time she called my name, I was back to my old self. The endless thoughts emerged with a killing pain in my shoulder.