He wasn’t chasing billions. He wasn’t dreaming of mansions or yachts.

All he ever wanted… was to wear clothes that made him feel alive.

Not because they were expensive, but because they felt like him. A reflection of who he truly was — someone bold, restless, and painfully alive inside a world that often felt too quiet.

He was turning 17 this year. An age too young to give up, too old to keep pretending.

Each morning, he walked through the same narrow street in second-hand shoes and a jacket that was once three sizes too big. People looked at him and saw an ordinary teenager — but inside, he was a universe of dreams waiting to explode.

He loved the wind against his face. The thrill of unknown paths. The sound of trains leaving stations, whispering, “Come with me.” He didn’t just love adventure. He needed it — like oxygen.

He kept a notebook filled with doodles of jackets he wanted to design, stories he wanted to live, and places he wanted to lose himself in. On some pages, he wrote letters to himself — just to remind the boy in the mirror not to give up. Not yet.

The world saw fashion as vanity.

But for him, clothing was freedom.

It was armor. Expression. Escape.

It was the one thing that could make him smile without a reason.

Every evening, under the rooftop stars, he whispered wishes into the night:

“To feel seen. To be understood. To be… me, unapologetically.”

He knew success wouldn’t come easy. But he also knew something most people didn’t — success isn’t about how much you own. It’s about how you feel when you finally look at yourself and think, “Yes. That’s me.”

And one day, when the world asks who he was, and why he never gave up…

They’ll flip to the final page of his story —

where the name is scribbled in bold ink, under moonlight, unread for so long.

“Mayankaditya.”

A name not shouted, not sold… but felt.

A boy. A dreamer. A seeker of joy stitched between fabric and freedom.

Still walking. Still writing.

Still becoming.