A Monologue to the Boy I Once was - I

This is the follow-up: Monologue from the Boy I Once Was - II

Listen, kid.

I know you can’t hear me where you are - not really - but I’m going to talk to you anyway. Because someone should have. Someone should have sat beside you in that old Belgrade house, with the world pulling you in two directions, and told you the truth.

You were never weak.

You were never lost.

You were never the problem.

You were just a boy standing in the crossfire of adults who mistook their wounds for wisdom.

I remember you.

Sitting on that couch that smelled of dust and old stories, watching Табор уходит в небо like it was a message written in fire. You didn’t understand why it hit you so hard — the music, the passion, the way love and pain twisted together like two snakes fighting in the dark. But you felt it. Deep. Too deep for a child.

You didn’t know it then, but you were watching your own life in disguise.

A mother trying to build a safe haven out of sunlight and hope.

A father waking up after eight years, dragged back into responsibility by a man older than time.

A private detective crossing borders to find you — not because you were lost, but because the adults were.

And you, small and silent, learning to survive without making a sound.

I want to tell you something now, something no one told you then:

None of this was your fault.

Not the distance.

Not the confusion.

Not the tug-of-war between two countries, two parents, two versions of home.

You were a child.

A good one.

A brave one.

Braver than any of them realized.

You carried things no child should carry.

You learned to read rooms before you learned to read books.

You learned to stay quiet to keep the peace.

You learned to disappear so others wouldn’t fall apart.

But here’s the part you need to hear most:

You made it.

You grew into a man who didn’t break.

A man who didn’t become bitter.

A man who didn’t repeat the mistakes that shaped him.

A man who can face a song - a single forgotten melody - and let the memories hit without running from them.

That’s strength, kid.

Not the loud kind.

Not the kind that punches walls or shouts orders.

The quiet kind.

The dangerous kind.

The kind forged in childhood storms.

You survived them all.

And I’m proud of you.

More than you’ll ever know.

So sit there, in that Belgrade living room, watch that film with wide eyes and a heart too big for your small chest. Let the music brand you. Let the story sink in. Let the world be confusing and unfair.

Because one day - decades later - you’ll hear Loli Phabay again, and the memories will come crashing back like a wave that finally found the shore.

And you’ll stand there, steady.

Older.

Stronger.

Still vulnerable, but on your own terms.

You’ll realize you weren’t just a boy caught between worlds.

You were the beginning of a man who would learn to walk through them all.

And walk out whole.