Amarilla

It was a normal Sunday. I woke from a long dream, and the world felt empty. No one seemed to care for me—everyone was busy, already in relationships. For a second, I remembered the good dream I had yesterday.

Then I reached for my phone and checked Instagram and WhatsApp. No “good morning,” no “are you fine?”

I reminded myself it wasn’t a school or college day. Friends wouldn’t text me like that on Sundays. So I began my usual routine—cooking breakfast, cleaning my room.

Later, I picked up my phone again.

A message popped up in a Telegram group: “It’s time for you.”

Curious, I opened it. People were sharing poems, short stories, and thoughts from the real world. Some I already knew from my school days. Others were new and gave me hope—like the man who gave away his books in a tea shop, or another who built a house stone by stone. None of the stories mentioned names or places. They weren’t like novels, more like short films. Since I had time that Sunday, I read them all and felt as if I lived inside them.

Then I saw movie and anime recommendations in the group: The Shawshank Redemption, One Piece, Se7en, Attack on Titan, Vinland Saga, Go Ahead, Dead Poets Society. Famous names. I wanted to watch them, but by then it was already 4 p.m. I realized I had skipped lunch and chores. Quickly, I washed dishes, cleaned, and checked the fridge. I needed groceries, so I went to the supermarket.

By the time I finished, it was 7 p.m. The world felt small, like a dark room. Some people say the world is big, full of places to see. But for me, it has always felt like a tiny house—a single room without panic or fear.

After shopping, I sat in the park. Around 9:30, a man walked toward me. His face was stern. “Hey girl, don’t you know what time it is? Go home—the gate is closing.”

I realized he was the watchman. I apologized, saying I was fine, and prepared to leave. But then he asked again, more gently,

“Are you okay? Do you need help?”

That night I thought about him. How many strangers stand guard in the dark, alone?

A watchman’s job might be one of the hardest in the world.

I went home and slept deeply.

The next morning was a working day. I cooked for myself, then saw a message in the office group: the owner’s mother had passed away after a long illness. We were given two days’ leave. I felt sorry for them—but also relieved. I finally had a couple of empty days.

In that feeling, I returned to the park. There were many parents there—especially men with small children and even pregnant women. From a wooden bench, I watched them. It felt strange.

On a Monday, I had never seen so many fathers spending time with their kids. I always thought men only focused on jobs and money. But none of them looked forced or tired. They seemed happy, enjoying themselves.

It gave me a spark of hope.

Later, I glanced at Telegram again. A new message stood out:

“Closing time for new joiners—we’ve reached 1395.”

So this group was special. Only one admin ran it. Out of 1395, he had chosen me. But why? That question stayed in my mind.

Just then, a voice interrupted: “Hey, same girl?” It was the watchman.

“Yes, I’m here again,” I said.

He smiled warmly. I asked, “So you work here morning and night? When do you sleep?”

“No, I’m only the night watchman. From 9:30 p.m. to 10:30 a.m. After that, someone else takes over.”

He seemed lonely, yet easy to talk to. A mix of introvert and extrovert. Slowly, he shared more about himself. He was 76, had been working here for two years. His sons had adopted him into the city, where he lived with his wife for the past decade. His salary was only 10,000—for 13 hours a day.

I felt bad. At his age, doing such work for so little.

He asked about me. I told him, “It may seem like I earn a lot, but I don’t. When I first joined my magazine crew, I earned only 5,000. Now, after two years, I make 15,000. But I live alone. I have no one.

I’m lazy, uninterested in saving money or collecting gold and land. I just use what I earn for daily needs. I don’t expect anything more.”

That morning, after saying goodbye to him, I walked back home.

Later, I shared a thought in the group:

The world often feels busy and cruel. But today I saw it differently—a simple mix of colors. After twenty years, I finally wondered: do we see the world only through our own eyes? If I were blind, maybe someone else’s story would become my vision—a new world through their words.

They responded to my few words.

The chat shifted like this:

“Yeah, maybe.”

“No, it’s not like that. You also need to change your viewpoint.”

“Yes, because no one is behind us to share their own view.”

“So, you’re not a book reader?”

“But she wrote in her bio that she’s an article writer.”

“Yeah, I saw that too. Then why is she behaving like this?”

“Hey admin, I think you picked a dumb person.”

Slowly, the chat turned against me, making me the joker of the group.

I froze. I read every message, but I couldn’t reply to a single one.

Yes, I am a writer—but in truth, I’ve never read a single book. I’ve never watched movies or series. My life is simple: I wake up, go to the office, and write on the given topic. I don’t use books or apps to guide my articles.

I’m just a lifestyle writer. I write about cooking, shopping, gardening, friendship, loneliness, and how we move through a busy world. But I’ve never explored the other side of myself.

That’s why I was stuck. At that moment, I realized—I’m not truly a writer. I don’t know what the world really is. I don’t know humanity. I don’t know the power of money. Most of all, I don’t understand why half the people in this world choose entertainment—sports, films, series—over spending their time on jobs or with family.

Then another message appeared—but not in the group. It was from a personal account named Joyboy.

Joyboy: Amarilla… why did you stay quiet? Say something in that group.

I replied:

My name is not Amarilla. And what could I possibly say in that group? Are you the admin? Why did you add me?

There was no reply from him after that. I never opened the group again.

That night, my friend called me.

“I heard some news,” she said. “I don’t know if it’s true, but…”

“Stop. What is it?” I asked.

“Our magazine publisher’s studio is letting some employees go for a new opening. And… your name is on the list. I heard it from my boyfriend.”

I gave a small smirk. “So this news came from HR?”

She went silent for a moment. That pause told me the truth—her boyfriend was in HR.

Then she admitted softly, “I was the one who recommended you. He helped me put your name forward. That’s why you got the job—even without much knowledge of stories.”

I cut the call. At that same moment, my doorbell rang.

When I opened the door, a boy stood there in a raincoat. Only then did I realize—it had been raining all this time, while I was lost in my phone.

He leaned in slightly, studying my face. He didn’t say a word. Two, three minutes passed. I stayed still, like a stone.