MeLogging

It was a rainy day when a small, shivering puppy lost his way and stumbled upon our home. He was trembling from cold and fear, his tiny body soaked from the relentless rain. Despite his condition, his tail wagged with a hopeful energy when he saw me, as if pleading, "Please help me; I am scared." I was only 13 years old at the time, but I knew instantly that I wanted to give him a safe place to call home. When I told my mother about the puppy, she initially refused. But my father and sister stood by my side, and together we convinced her. We brought the puppy inside and named him "Kaliya," lovingly shortened to "Kalu." His name suited him perfectly, as his jet-black fur glistened with hints of gold on his cheeks and above his eyes. He had the most adorable features—a tail curled like a jalebi, one half-lingered ear, and white paws that looked like he had stepped into paint. Kalu became much more than a pet; he became a beloved member of our fam...

There’s a strange loneliness in realizing that people only reach out when they need something. They call me a “good friend” in those moments, but I know it’s not true. To them, I’m just someone useful—a problem-solver, a helper. Once their need is fulfilled, they forget me. What hurts even more is when I seek help. I’ve reached out in my moments of struggle, only to hear, “I’ll get back to you.” But they never do. Their promises feel hollow, and I’m left wondering if they even considered helping or if it was just a polite way to brush me aside. It stings because it shows that the care I offer is not something they’re willing to return. I’ve asked myself if I’m to blame. Maybe I’m too available, too eager to help, making it easy for them to see me as a convenience rather than a friend. But should I have to guard my kindness just to feel valued? I still help, even knowing the pattern won’t change. Maybe it’s hope—hope that someone will eventually see me for who I am, not just what I can ...