It started as a joke — like it always does.
In the “Launda League” group chat, someone noticed the blue ticks.
Salman:“Boys… has anyone seen Ahmed? Ghost mode pe hai.”
Usman:“Probably finally ran away to the mountains 😂”
Ali:“Or got married secretly and forgot us. Block him.”
Three laughing emojis. One skull. A dramatic crying sticker.
A moment later, someone sent a reel. Another complained about load-shedding. Within seconds, the chat drifted, and Ahmed’s name slipped under the noise.
Nobody scrolled up.
They would’ve noticed the trail if they had:
At first, the messages blended into the usual late-night venting — the kind everyone dismisses with a “same” or “mood.”
Then the tone shifted.
Ahmed’s sarcasm thinned out.His late-night messages shrank into short, heavier lines:
They laughed. He tried again.
After that, replies stopped coming from him.No reels. No jokes.Eventually, even his DP vanished.
Salman:“Okay but for real, where is this man?”
Ali:“Busy hoga. Chill.”
Everyone thought someone else would check in.Everybody assumed he was fine.Those assumptions turned out to be wrong.
Pakistan’s mental health reality paints a sharp backdrop. On World Mental Health Day 2025, a leading psychiatrist revealed that 57 million Pakistanis live with some form of psychological disorder — nearly 1 in 4 people. Despite that, the country has around 500 practising psychiatrists, barely 0.19 per 100,000 individuals.
Millions are struggling with almost no safety net.
Men especially fall through the cracks.
A 2023 analysis showed that 62% of recorded suicide deaths in Pakistan involved men. WHO estimates highlight a rising trend: 7.3 (2019) → 8.9 (2020) → 9.8 (2022).
Sindh reflects the same reality.The Sindh Mental Health Authority noted 700+ suicides between 2016–2020, and 462 of them were men. Another 2023 report documented 646 suicide deaths in the Mirpurkhas range alone — many between ages 21–40.
Jokes like “I’m done with life 😂” echo constantly in group chats, but real data shows something far more alarming: men often mask their pain behind humour.
Weeks later, a message appeared.
Not in the group — in a private chat.
“Bro, sorry I disappeared. I wasn’t okay. It got… bad.”
Panic attacks had been hitting him at night.Sleep barely came.On one evening, he lingered on the balcony longer than was safe.He booked a doctor, then cancelled.Saved a therapist’s number, then froze.
Reaching out felt impossible.
Every attempt to type “I’m not okay” in the group turned into something people joked about.
Salman read the private message and felt the guilt rise.Scrolling up the group history made the pattern painfully clear.
Missed calls.Double-ticked messages.That “you’d miss me if I disappeared, right?” everyone buried under emojis.
The signs weren’t subtle — just inconvenient.
Group chats can be chaotic. What they shouldn’t be is blind.
No one wants the group chat to transform into a deep emotional circle.Keep the roasts, the nonsense voice notes, the cursed reels — those matter too.
Still, there’s a point where the energy changes.
A loud friend suddenly goes quiet…Dark humour becomes the only humour…“I’m tired” starts sounding like a goodbye —
That’s when the gear shift needs to happen.
A direct message can open a door:“Oye, reply nahi kar raha tu. I’m actually worried. Kya scene hai?”
Sometimes that’s all someone needs.
Professional care matters. It can mean therapy, counselling, or emergency mental health assistance.
In Sindh, SIEHS (Sindh Integrated Emergency & Health Services) is part of the system that handles both physical and psychological crises. Their teams guide families toward immediate, structured care — fast.
When a person:
you don’t debate.You act.
Mental health emergencies are as dangerous as cardiac ones.
Across Pakistan, 1122 provides emergency medical help.Within Sindh, SIEHS operates 1123, offering ambulance access and telehealth guidance that connects families to emergency psychiatric support and trained responders.
Think of it as calling in proper backup — the kind the boys alone can’t provide.
The jokes.Late-night messages.Sudden silence.
Patterns begin in these small spaces. Tone shifts, hints, tiny cries for help — they all show up here first.
Group chats can reveal the problem, but they can’t fix it.
So the next time an Ahmed goes quiet, don’t shrug, ask “where is he?” and drop another reel.
Scroll up.Look again at what he said before he disappeared.Notice the shift you missed earlier.And when your gut whispers, “Something’s off,” trust that more than the emojis.
Often, the line between losing a friend and saving one is surprisingly thin:
Someone cared enough to check in.
