The real cool

 People around me have their own definition of "cool." The kids who spend money recklessly, go clubbing, own the latest trends, and have the loudest laughs in the hallways are often the ones admired. But I've always found a different kind of cool. Someone standing on a podium, gold medal in hand, national anthem playing. Someone who lifts weights not to impress, but to be strong in ways no one else sees. Someone who doesn’t just wear expensive shoes but walks through fire for something they believe in.

Friendship breakups feel like tearing pages from a book you thought would last forever. One day, someone is your person, your history, your comfort, and the next, they are just a story you tell in past tense. It’s almost cruel how fast it happens. But maybe it’s the universe’s way of pruning us, cutting away the weak branches so we grow stronger, taller. Some friendships fade like old ink, others shatter like glass, leaving cuts you can’t see but feel for years.

But isn’t it strange how we keep growing? Even when we're alone, even when the people we thought were permanent leave, we still evolve. It’s like a tree that keeps stretching towards the sun, even when storms rip off its leaves. We think we need people to become who we are, but sometimes, being alone chisels us into something sharper.

And yet, what about the parts of us we don’t talk about? The ugly, selfish, insecure, jealous, weak parts? The versions of us that we hide behind filters, behind words, behind laughter that isn’t real? Maybe growth isn’t just about becoming better but about dragging those bad parts into the light, looking them in the eye, and saying, “Okay, I see you. But you’re not all of me.”

The truth is, we are constantly changing and are not the same people we were last year, last month, or even yesterday. That’s the real cool. The kind of cool that doesn’t need an audience.

I’ve always noticed something about the quiet kids in my class. They sit there, almost like background characters in a story, blending into the silence while the rest of us fill the air with half-baked jokes, unnecessary arguments, and opinions that sometimes even we don’t fully believe in. But then, something strange happens. Over time, these quiet ones evolve. They don’t just get better; they become the best versions of themselves, almost like they were secretly charging up while the rest of us were draining our batteries on mindless conversations.

It’s eerie when you think about it. Like they exist in some secret dimension, a parallel world where words aren’t wasted, and thoughts are sculpted before being spoken. Meanwhile, me being loud, opinionated, constantly throwing words around like loose change, realize that maybe, just maybe, silence is an incubator. The quiet kids? They’re like hidden incubators. While we’re out here broadcasting half-formed thoughts to anyone who’ll listen, they’re collecting, refining, preparing. My best friend does it too. I’ve always observed this when it comes to him.

It’s like we’re all in a race, but some of us are sprinting without a destination, while they walk steadily, knowing exactly where they’re going. We burn fast and bright, like fireworks—dazzling, loud, but gone in seconds (not me, obviously). They, on the other hand, are like distant stars. Unnoticed at first, but constant. And as time passes, while the fireworks fade, the stars remain, quietly shaping the night sky.

Not that I won’t become the best version of myself. I will. But I’m beginning to wonder if the real power isn’t in speaking the most, but in knowing when to stay silent and let the world wonder what you’re thinking.