Some People Drain You… Some leave an impact. That’s rare

 Hi… I am Ayaan.

And this one has been sitting with me for a while.

We are all surrounded by people.

At work…

At home…

In the gym...

In cafes…

In family groups...

In office corridors and lunch tables and late evening calls that go nowhere.

And somewhere in that crowd — you know them — there are the ones who drain you.

Not bad people.

Not enemies.

Just people who have made a habit of seeing everything through a filter of disappointment. Their manager doesn't appreciate them.

Their salary is never enough.

Their colleagues take credit.

Their family doesn't understand.

Their friends have moved on.

Life, in general, is conspiring against them.

And if things are going well? They'll find something wrong with that too.

I have sat across from these people. I have listened. I have nodded. I have tried to offer perspective and watched it bounce off like it was never offered. No matter how hard you want them to look at things in a positive way, they will never have that approach.

And slowly — without even realizing it — something shifts inside you.

You start second guessing your own positivity.

Someone once told me that the stories I write are too soft. Too good. Too full of nice things happening to people. "Feels boring," they said. "Life isn't like that."

And I sat with that comment longer than I should have. I stopped writing for a while. Not because I believed them — but because doubt has a way of making itself comfortable once it finds a way in.

I kept wondering — am I seeing the world wrong?

Am I writing about a version of life that doesn't exist?

And then I remembered something that had happened with me one day when she walked in. It was an ordinary morning.  I had worn what I always wear — a plain, faded blue shirt.

Nothing special.

The kind of shirt you pick up without thinking because getting dressed is just another task before the real day begins. She was a new face in the office.

Young, confident, unhurried. She walked like someone who had already decided to have a good day regardless of what it had planned for her. She glanced at me as she passed my desk and said completely naturally.
“Hey, nice shirt."
And kept walking.. Nice shirt? This shirt? The faded, boring, I-grabbed-it-without-looking shirt? I looked down at it. Then back at her. She had already moved on, smiling at the next person. But something small and warm had already settled inside my chest.

For the rest of that day, I smiled. Not at anything in particular. Just smiled. The way you do when something unexpectedly good happens and you don't fully understand why it affected you so much. One sentence. Five seconds. From someone who didn't even know my name. And my entire day changed color. The next morning, she smiled and said hi as she passed. But that evening I caught myself doing something I hadn't done in a long time — I stood in front of my cupboard and actually thought about what to wear the next day. Picked something nicer. Ironed it carefully. Maybe she'll notice. Maybe she'll say something. Maybe that'll make tomorrow easier. I had been pushing myself quietly and alone for months. But that one small gesture reminded me of something I had forgotten — that being seen feels good. Even briefly. Even by a stranger. On the third day I finally said something back. "Hey — when you complimented my shirt the other day, I actually wanted to say — you were the one who looked nice. Not me. But thank you. Genuinely. It made my whole day." She laughed. The easy, unbothered kind.

"That's the whole point," she said, and walked on. Her name was Aanya. And Aanya smiled at everyone. Not a polished, professional smile. A real one — warm, unhurried, personal. She'd stop for a quick conversation with the chai delivery guy, remember a colleague's name on day two, ask someone how their weekend was and actually wait for the answer. Within a month everyone on the floor knew her. Not because of her designation. Because of how she made people feel. But somewhere in my quiet observation — something else caught my attention. Sometimes, in the moments between conversations, when she thought nobody was looking — there was something behind her eyes. A heaviness she carried so gracefully that most people would never notice it. I couldn't shake the feeling that the smile she gave so freely to everyone — was also the same smile she used to hold herself together. The kind of smile that doesn't come from having no problems. It comes from deciding — despite all of them — to show up with warmth anyway. I never asked her about it. Some things are better respected than questioned. Months passed and I realized she was no longer on the floor. And I noticed the absence. Not loudly. Just the way you notice when a light you got used to quietly goes out.

But here's what she left behind — without knowing it. An answer to that comment that had stopped me from writing. Life isn't always soft. I know that. I live that. But some people choose softness anyway — not because life is easy, but because they understand what it costs someone when it isn't. Aanya understood that. And she reminded me — that writing about the good that exists in people isn't naive. It's necessary.

So, here's what I want to ask you — the person reading this right now: When did someone last make you feel seen with just a small gesture? And more importantly — When did you last do that for someone else? Because you never know whose ordinary day, you might accidentally change. A smile costs nothing. But to someone quietly pushing through,  it can mean everything.

— Ayaan | And I am still learning, one kind moment at a time. 🤝

Some people remind you what's worth writing about. Aanya was one of them.

More Dreams To Come…