Harshita Kushwaha--My Boyfriend

It's 1.27 AM in Seattle. It's raining. The town is quiet. Streets empty, the silence being broken only by the hum of soft falling showers and thunderstorms. A nineteen year old boy stands partially drenched in an empty garage of a shared home after thirteen hours of shift. Exhaustion engulfs him, and yet, instead of collapsing into the bed, he waits, with phone in hand, to hear a familiar voice on the other end from someone 7500 miles away.

Alhough his nights did not always look like this. At 18, when he was home in Haryana, India, where the sky was clear, the wind hummed, and the crickets sang, his eyes gleamed with the dream to study aerospace, to get into a good university abroad, and study while everything falls into right place. The story isn't like that though. Yes, sure, he was brilliant. He was accepted into several American universities, and even some of Japan's prestigious schools. A dream so many chase, but only few reach. He had the intellect, the determination, the spark that would make anybody proud. But when money speaks, dreams go down, the sky dissolves, and rain pours because opportunity doesn't always open its doors, not when you come from where we do.

For Indian citizens, a visa isn't just a document, it's a gatekeeper. It decides whether all your hard work, all your nights of working hard will matter or not. Twice he faced rejection, twice he prepared, dreamed, and then watched it crumble down in a single letter. But here's what I admire the most in him, he didn't stop, he didn't let the weight of rejection crush him, he made a choice, he made an opportunity for himself. He tried again, and passed his visa test on the third try.

So, he left his family, his friends, and every familiar thing behind to carve a life in America. At 19, instead of crossing oceans as a student, he did as a worker. Not for luxury, not for adventure, but because someone had to. He left everything behind. When he said goodbye to his home in Haryana, the home-cooked meals, the warmth of festivals, the comfort of his home, and the noise of his familiar city. Back in India, he loved reading, playing volleyball, and enjoying rain. Simple joys. But in the US the rain doesn't thrill him in the way it used to, the food is okay, but he misses the warmth of family meals. He traded the stars he wanted to reach for the roof he wanted to keep over others.

When I think of struggles, I don't imagine battles fought with weapons or loud declarations. I think of him, a ninteen year old boy standing at an airport with a one-way ticket, leaving everything behind. To start a life thousands of miles away, in a new country, all alone.

America was anything but easy. His days were long, and his body ached, more than it should at that age. But if you ask him, he'll never complain. He'll shrug, smile, and change the subject, as if carrying this much responsibility and homesickness was ordinary and expected.

Even after such long and tiring days, he somehow finds the time and energy to be kind to his co-workers, his friends, his family, me, and even strangers. He waits for me time through time zones, so that I never see the distance as sharply as I should. After all those whiles, hours at work, he still manages to make space for others, to listen, to laugh, to debate politics or anime, as if he hasn't been on his feet all day. That's the kind of person he is, the kind who makes you feel like you matter, no matter how much weight he's carrying himself. Watching him has taught me what resilience really means. It isn't always glamorous or loud, it's very persistent. It's filling out visa applications again and again after rejections, it's never giving up, it's facing dreams and responsibilities even if it means leaving everything behind. It's showing up to work every day, even when your body aches, because you know, people are counting on you. And it's practicing kindness, even when bitterness seems easy to do.

His patience, quiet sacrifices and the strength he shows, to me they told a far greater story than any other one's I've heard.

But even from miles away, his goofy humor lights up conversation. Even after a long, exhausting day, he makes space for humor, laughter, debate, and conversation. He'll joke with me, share thoughts on politics or anime, and tease me while carrying a weight that would break many. As someone who sees him every day, even from thousands of miles away, I've witnessed the courage, resilience, and quiet determination that define him. Watching him navigate life's challenges has taught me that true strength isn't always loud or celebrated. It's persistent, patient, and kind. His story is not just about leaving home or surviving hardship. It's about compassion and showing the world the courage that comes in quite unwavering form.

He is extraordinary not because life has been easy, but because he makes the impossible seem ordinary, carrying burdens most would crumble under. His story is a reminder that courage doesn't always roar; it whispers in determination, shines in quiet acts of love, and persists when no one is watching. Witnessing him has been a lesson in what it means to be human: to be strong, compassionate, and relentlessly kind, even in the face of immense challenges.

And in witnessing all of this, I feel lucky-to stand beside him, to hear his stories, to laugh with him, to learn from his resilience, to watch him transform challenges into lessons of strength. He has taught me that life's struggles are not just obstacles to endure, but opportunities to grow, to care, and to inspire. And that is why I proudly call him my boyfriend.

I am Harshita Kushwaha from India currently studying in highschool. I like to write poems, only sometimes. I like the simplicity of it..