The world didn’t make sense to Niranjan.

  For years, he had tried to navigate it with the quiet belief that kindness—genuine, unyielding kindness—was the answer. It was his gift, his purpose. To love when no one else could, to forgive when others would have turned their backs. But lately, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was running on a treadmill, the world spinning faster, and him unable to keep up.

  It was late in the evening when Niranjan was walking through the bustling streets of the city. The sharp hum of traffic, the call of street vendors, and the constant buzz of hurried footsteps filled the air. People hurried past him, their faces painted with frustration, exhaustion, or indifference, consumed by their own lives. Their heads were bent downward, their eyes glued to the small, glowing screens in their hands. A sense of detachment hung over the crowd like a thick fog, as if they were all locked in their own personal cages, bound by the invisible chains of social expectations and the relentless march of time.

  The city’s pulse was frantic, a rhythm built on endless noise, clashing ambitions, and dreams that didn’t quite reach the sky. Niranjan felt like an outsider here, as though he was watching life unfold through a fogged-up window, unable to touch or change it. The overwhelming, oppressive energy of it all was suffocating, and no matter how many times he told himself to push through, to be the light in this chaos, the world seemed to mock him at every turn.

  A woman bumped into him, her shopping bags tumbling from her arms and scattering across the sidewalk.

  "Watch where you’re going!" she snapped, her face twisted in anger, even as she crouched down to gather her things. The irony wasn’t lost on Niranjan—the woman, who had been the one to bump into him, was the one blaming him for it. In her eyes, there was no room for understanding, no space for human error. Only blame. "people will sometimes shift the blame on to you to avoid responsibility"

  "Sorry," Niranjan murmured, crouching to help her, his hand reaching for the fallen bags.

  She didn’t even look up at him. "You’re always sorry, aren’t you?" Her tone dripped with venom. "Sorry doesn’t fix anything."

  The words stung. Sorry doesn’t fix anything.

  He’d heard them a thousand times before, from people he’d helped, from those he had sacrificed his own well-being for. Yet, he couldn’t help it. He couldn’t stop being kind, even if it cost him. Even if it meant being wrong. Irrational. People, after all, rarely reciprocated. Kindness, it seemed, was a currency with little value in a world that demanded instant gratification and selfish gain.

  "To irrational folks who believe kindness is weakness, you're wrong. Kindness is strength—the power to show mercy and generosity to our fellow humans, even when they are at their weakest. It takes true strength to forgive, to show empathy, and to extend a hand when others expect you to turn away. In a world that rewards the hardened, kindness proves that softness doesn’t have to equal fragility."

  He handed her the last bag, smiling gently as he stood. "I hope your day gets better."

  She didn’t say a word in return, turning sharply on her heel and walking away, her heels clicking on the concrete like a ticking clock counting down to something Niranjan couldn’t yet understand. The sound of her retreating steps echoed in his ears, hollow and cold, like the city itself.

  Irrationality.

  That was what it was, wasn’t it? The way people operated, the way they destroyed one another for the sake of their own convenience, never once thinking of the consequences. Everything was a transaction—no one did anything without expecting something in return. It was a world where kindness was weak, empathy was a flaw, and the strong survived because they took. They took and took until there was nothing left to give.

  The woman’s anger, her bitterness, was all rooted in a broken belief system that kindness was for the weak. That to be soft, to offer a smile, to lend a hand, was to be a fool. In this world, vulnerability was a weapon, and those who showed it were nothing more than targets. Niranjan could see that now, clearer than ever. No matter how hard he tried, no matter how much love he gave, it was never enough. The world didn’t work that way.

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  He sighed, a long, tired exhalation as he turned the corner, heading toward the small bookstore he frequented. It was his escape—his sanctuary from the madness of the world. He often lost himself in the pages of philosophy books, searching for answers, trying to understand the irrationality of it all. Maybe, just maybe, there was some sense to all the chaos. But after each new chapter, after each new theory, the answer always seemed the same: there was no answer.

  The bookstore was quiet as he entered, the soft bell ringing above the door. The scent of old paper and the musty aroma of forgotten tomes filled his lungs. The elderly woman behind the counter, Mrs. Sharma, looked up and smiled warmly.

  "Good evening, Niranjan. You’re later than usual tonight."

  Niranjan offered a soft smile, nodding in return. "The world... has a way of making you late for everything."

  Mrs. Sharma chuckled, her wrinkles deepening as she looked at him with knowing eyes. "It’s always been that way, dear. Some things never change."

  He walked past the aisles of books, skimming the shelves, his fingers tracing the spines as his mind swirled with questions. How long could one person continue to endure without losing themselves? How long could he hold onto his belief that people could be saved by kindness, when every interaction seemed to prove the opposite?

  Each book in his hand felt like another theory—another attempt to grasp something intangible. What was the point of being kind if people just took advantage of it? What was the point of loving, of giving, when it always seemed to be returned with indifference or disdain?

  A shout echoed from outside. Niranjan's instincts kicked in—he darted to the window, peering out onto the street.

  A man was shouting at a group of homeless people, his face red with rage. "Get a job! Stop leeching off the system!" he yelled, his finger pointed aggressively at them. The homeless, who had been sitting quietly on the sidewalk, looked up, visibly startled, but they said nothing. The world had conditioned them to expect this.

  Niranjan’s heart tightened in his chest. This wasn’t the first time he’d seen such cruelty. It wasn’t the first time he had witnessed the brokenness of society. But this time, something in him snapped. He couldn’t just stand there. He couldn’t. He had to intervene.

  Before he even thought, his feet were carrying him toward the man who was now kicking a stray cardboard box, his anger unfurling like a storm. The homeless individuals cowered, their eyes pleading for mercy, but they said nothing. They had learned long ago that speaking out only worsened their plight.

  “Hey!” Niranjan called out, his voice firm but gentle. The man stopped mid-kick, turning to face him with a sneer.

  “What do you want, freak?” The man spat, his words thick with disdain, his eyes narrowed in contempt.

  “I want to know why you’re hurting them,” Niranjan said, his voice quieter now, but his eyes unyielding.

  The man laughed, a harsh, ugly sound. "Because they’re worthless. They don’t contribute to society. They’re nothing."

  Niranjan felt the familiar pain in his chest, the same pain he had felt over and over again, each time he encountered humanity’s irrationality. The belief that people were disposable, that kindness was something to be mocked, that a moment of vulnerability was something to exploit.

  “They’re still human,” Niranjan replied softly. “They deserve kindness just like anyone else.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed. "Kindness? You must be an idiot if you think these people deserve kindness. The world doesn’t work that way. They don’t work that way."

  A harsh reality settled in Niranjan’s gut. The world didn't make sense. He knew that now. No matter how hard he tried, there would always be people like this—broken, irrational, and unforgiving. And maybe the worst part was that they didn’t even know they were broken.

  The man sneered and walked away, leaving Niranjan standing there, feeling a deep, crushing emptiness in his heart.

  He turned back toward the homeless people, his gaze softening. "I’m sorry," he whispered, though they didn’t respond. His words felt hollow. Sorry didn’t fix anything. It never did.

  As Niranjan turned to leave, he heard the soft shuffle of footsteps behind him. It was one of the homeless, an old man with a long white beard.

  “Thank you,” the old man said in a hoarse whisper. “For seeing us.”

  Niranjan nodded, his heart heavy. “It’s the least I can do.”

  But even as he walked away, he knew it wasn’t enough. Kindness wasn’t enough. Not in this world. Not in a world where irrationality ruled every decision, every action, every relationship.

  The question lingered in his mind as he walked back through the city streets, the chaos of humanity swirling around him, the uncertainty of his place in it all:

  If kindness couldn’t fix the world, then what was the point of trying to save it?

  The answer, for now, was lost in the noise.

  End of Chapter 1: Irrationality