Chapter 1 How my life started
When I was younger, I was not invisible.
In fact, I was the head monitor of my class. There were twenty-three students, and almost all of them wanted me to stay monitor every year. If the teacher ever suggested choosing someone else, the class would protest on its own. They would say they were happy with me.
They listened to me.
They respected me.
Many of them even called me their best friend.
From the outside, I had everything a child could ask for — attention, importance, and a place in the group.
But even then, my mind was somewhere else.
While others were excited about games, gossip, or who would sit with whom, I would be thinking about the stray dog that stayed near the school gate.
During recess, most children bought chips, chocolates, or spicy snacks for themselves. I always bought biscuits.
Not because I loved biscuits.
But because he did.
He would sit quietly near the corner, watching children run around. He never barked. He never disturbed anyone. And every day, I would walk toward him with the same small packet in my hand.
At that age, I did not know that biscuits are not healthy for dogs. If I had known, I would have chosen something better — something that would not harm him. But I was just a child who wanted to share what she could afford.
My friends never stopped me from feeding him.
But they never joined me either.
They stayed together.
I walked toward the gate.
They talked loudly.
I sat quietly beside a stray dog.
Maybe I was their friend.
But in those moments, I felt more understood by him than by anyone in my class.
Even as a child, I was always drawn to animal stories.
Cartoons with animals.
Movies about dogs.
Stories where animals stayed loyal till the end.
I did not know why those stories touched me so deeply.
But they did.
When I was in fourth grade, I read something in a newspaper that changed the way I understood love.
It was the story of a dog named Hachiko.
Hachiko was an Akita dog born in Japan in 1923. He belonged to a professor named Hidesaburo Ueno. Every day, Hachiko would walk with his owner to the Shibuya train station in Tokyo. In the evening, he would return to the same station and wait patiently for his owner to come back from work.
This was their routine.
Every single day.
But one day in 1925, Professor Ueno suffered a sudden brain hemorrhage while at work. He never returned to the station.
Hachiko did not know that.
That evening, he waited.
And the next day, he waited again.
Days turned into months.
Months turned into years.
For nearly ten years, Hachiko returned to Shibuya Station every single day at the same time, waiting for a man who would never come back.
People at the station began to notice him. At first, some ignored him. Some even chased him away. But slowly, they learned his story. Shopkeepers and commuters started feeding him. He became a symbol of loyalty in Japan.
Hachiko died in 1935 — still waiting.
Today, there is a bronze statue of him at Shibuya Station. People meet there. They take pictures there. But for me, that statue is not just a meeting point. It is a reminder that an animal’s love can be deeper than human promises.
When I read that story as a child, something shifted inside me.
I remember sitting quietly with the newspaper in my hand. I was too young to fully understand death. But I understood waiting. I understood attachment.
And I remember thinking —
If a dog can love like this, how can people ever call them “just animals”?
From that day, animals were not only companions in my mind.
They became examples.
Examples of loyalty.
Of patience.
Of silent strength.
Maybe that is when my heart decided something —
that if animals could love this deeply,
then they deserved someone who loved them back just as fiercely.
After reading Hachiko’s story, I was not the same child anymore.
I did not cry loudly.
I did not tell anyone about it.
But something inside me had quietly changed.
The next day at school, when the bell rang for recess and the children rushed outside, I walked toward the gate again — with my usual packet of biscuits.
But this time, when I saw the stray dog sitting there, I did not just see a dog waiting for food.
I saw loyalty.
I saw the possibility that somewhere inside him, there could be the same kind of heart that waited at a train station for ten years.
I sat beside him longer than usual that day.
While my classmates laughed in groups, I gently placed the biscuits on the ground and watched him eat. He looked up at me between bites, his eyes calm, trusting, unaware that a small girl was silently making promises in her heart.
I remember thinking —
If someday he waits for me, I will come back.
I will not disappear like the professor.
I will not let him wait alone.
It sounds childish now.
But at that age, it felt serious.
From that day, I began noticing animals differently.
I started observing their eyes.
Their reactions.
Their silence.
I wondered what they felt when people ignored them.
I wondered whether they understood abandonment.
I wondered whether they remembered kindness.
And slowly, without telling anyone, I started choosing them — again and again.
Not because I had no friends.
But because with them, I never had to pretend.
They did not care if I was the class monitor.
They did not care if I was popular.
They did not care about marks or position.
They only cared about presence.
And maybe, deep inside, I needed that kind of love.
Some time after reading Hachiko’s story, I could not keep it inside anymore.
I told my classmates first.
I told them about a dog who waited at the same place for ten years.
I told them how he kept coming every single day, believing his owner would return.
I told them how he died still waiting.
While telling the story, my voice would tremble.
Sometimes I had to stop in the middle because my throat felt tight.
But when I finished…
they just said, “Yes, dogs are like that.”
And then they went back to their games.
No silence.
No questions.
No tears.
Just a normal day for them.
I told my parents.
I told my siblings.
Their reaction was almost the same.
“Dogs are loyal.”
“It happens.”
“Don’t think too much.”
For them, it was just a sad story in a newspaper.
For me, it felt like I had lost someone I knew.
For days, whenever I thought about Hachiko standing at that station, waiting without understanding why his owner never returned… my eyes would fill with tears.
I wasn’t crying only for Hachiko.
I was crying for every animal that waits.
Every animal that trusts.
Every animal that doesn’t understand why humans leave.
But the people around me forgot the story in two minutes.
That was the moment I realised something important.
I was different.
Not better.
Not worse.
Just different.
The pain I felt was not “just guilt.”
It was something deeper — like my heart could not separate itself from theirs.
After that, I slowly started talking less.
Not because I was angry.
Not because I hated them.
But because I understood that the things that moved my heart… did not move theirs the same way.
And that was the first time I felt truly alone — even while being surrounded by people.
And slowly, I started choosing silence.
I stopped talking as much.
I stopped trying to explain what I felt.
When I stepped back, my classmates moved forward —
they made new friends, formed new groups, laughed in new circles.
No one did anything wrong.
Life just rearranged itself.
And I stood a little outside of it.
From then on, whenever I saw a stray animal, I did what I could —
sometimes it was just a biscuit,
sometimes just sitting beside them,
sometimes only a soft “it’s okay.”
I didn’t have much.
I was just a child.
But I gave whatever I could.
I don’t know if I will ever have many friends again.
But I know this:
If someday someone comes into my life —
and their heart is kind,
even if they are not good in studies,
even if the world does not see them as “successful,”
even if they are young or old, strong or weak —
If their heart is good…
I will try my best to be their friend.
I will guide them if they lose their way.
I will protect them as much as I can.
I will forgive their mistakes.
Maybe not because I am perfect.
But because I know what it feels like to be misunderstood.
And if I ever find such a soul,
I think I will hold that friendship carefully —
until my last breath.
Because I have learned something very early in life:
Talent fades.
Popularity changes.
Success comes and goes.
But a good heart…
is the rarest thing in the world.
