Unique

Harsh Realities

The village had always been Daoyi’s home, but lately, it felt like a battlefield. Every step he took, every glance cast his way, seemed to carry a weight of judgment. His role as a Carrier had once been a source of reverence, but now, it felt like a burden—a label that set him apart from everyone else, not in admiration, but in isolation.

And at the center of his torment stood Abeta.

“You’re hardly even one of us,” Abeta sneered one afternoon, her voice sharp as a blade. Daoyi had been tending to the herb garden when she approached, a group of her friends trailing behind her like shadows. “You don’t belong with the girls, and you’re certainly not one of the boys.”

Daoyi kept his gaze on the ground, focusing on the herbs in his hands, trying to ignore her words. He had learned over the years that silence was often the best defense. But it didn’t stop the sting of her mockery from piercing through him.

“Look at him,” Abeta continued, turning to her friends. “He’s supposed to be a ‘blessing,’ yet all he does is sit here like a child, hiding behind his mother’s skirts.”

The group laughed, and Daoyi felt a burning sensation in his chest. His hands trembled slightly as he resumed his work, pulling at the weeds with more force than necessary.

Abeta stepped closer, her voice dropping to a mocking whisper. “I bet even Kenyai sees you as a burden. Do you think he really wants someone like you? A pretty face with nothing to offer?”

Daoyi froze at the mention of Kenyai, the hurt cutting deeper than he wanted to admit. His betrothal to Kenyai had always been a source of quiet comfort, a promise that there was someone who understood him, someone who might care for him. But Abeta’s words planted seeds of doubt, twisting the warmth he felt toward Kenyai into uncertainty.

He stood up, meeting her gaze with as much steadiness as he could muster. “I’m doing my best,” he said softly, though his voice wavered. “Just because I’m different doesn’t mean I’m weak or I can't perform my duties.”

Abeta snorted. “Weak is exactly what you are. You’ll never be a real man, Daoyi. You’ll never be anything but a pretty ornament for the tribe to gawk at.”

Before Daoyi could respond, another voice cut through the tension.

“That’s enough, Abeta.”

Daoyi’s heart skipped a beat. Kenyai stood at the edge of the garden, his expression hard as he stepped toward them. He had clearly overheard the conversation, and there was a dangerous edge to his voice that Daoyi had never heard before.

Abeta’s smile faltered, but she quickly regained her composure, tossing her hair over her shoulder in defiance. “I’m only speaking the truth, Kenyai. Daoyi may be your betrothed, but he’s—”

“I said, that’s enough,” Kenyai repeated, his eyes narrowing. There was no room for argument in his tone. “You can leave now.”

Abeta’s lips thinned, but she didn’t push further. With a huff, she turned on her heel, motioning for her friends to follow. “Fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you, Kenyai. Some burdens are heavier than they seem.”

As they left, the tension in the air lingered, thick and heavy. Daoyi felt the weight of it pressing down on him, and for a moment, he didn’t know what to say. His hands fidgeted with the hem of his skirt, and he kept his eyes on the ground, feeling small and vulnerable.

Kenyai stepped closer, his voice gentler now. “Are you all right?”

Daoyi nodded, though the tightness in his chest said otherwise. “I’m fine. It’s nothing I haven’t heard before.”

Kenyai sighed, running a hand through his hair. “It’s not right, what she said. You know that, don’t you?”

“I know,” Daoyi whispered, though the words felt hollow. He knew, logically, that Abeta’s cruelty was born of jealousy and bitterness. But that didn’t make the pain of her words any less real. “It’s just... hard sometimes. I feel like I’m always trying to prove something—to the tribe, to my family, even to myself.”

Kenyai’s expression softened, and for a moment, Daoyi thought he might reach out, offer some physical comfort. But instead, Kenyai’s hands stayed at his sides, clenched into fists as if he were holding something back, holding himself back.

“You don’t have to prove anything to me,” Kenyai said quietly. “Or to anyone else, for that matter. You’re more than what people say about you. More than what Abeta thinks.”

Daoyi swallowed the lump in his throat, grateful for the words but unsure how to accept them. “I just... I don’t know if I’m enough. For you, for the tribe.”

Kenyai’s eyes darkened with a mix of frustration and something softer, almost tender. “You’re more than enough, Daoyi. And I wish... I wish you could see that.”

There was a silence between them, thick with unspoken emotions. Daoyi wanted to believe Kenyai’s words, but the weight of his doubts pressed too heavily on his heart. He wanted to say more, to confess the fears that had been building inside him for so long, but before he could find the courage, a small voice interrupted their conversation.

“Daoyi!”

Daoyi turned to see his younger siblings running toward him, their faces lit up with excitement. They barreled into him, nearly knocking him over as they clung to his arms, laughing and chattering about their day. For a moment, the heaviness in Daoyi’s chest lifted, replaced by the warmth of their affection.

“We missed you!” his youngest sister exclaimed, wrapping her arms around his waist.

Daoyi smiled, ruffling her hair. “I missed you too. Have you been behaving?”

His brother grinned mischievously. “Mostly.”

Kenyai watched the interaction, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’re good with them,” he remarked quietly.

Daoyi shrugged, though his heart swelled at the compliment. “They make it easy.”

For a brief moment, the loneliness that had been weighing on Daoyi seemed to fade, replaced by the love and laughter of his siblings. But even as he basked in their warmth, he couldn’t shake the feeling that, with his peers, he would always be different—always be apart.

As his siblings continued to chatter, Daoyi caught Kenyai’s gaze, and for the first time in a long while, he allowed himself to hope that maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t as alone as he felt.