Do you know who you are?

Chapter two: Echoes Of Isolation

He's gone.

At least for now, whatever he wanted to say I didn't hear, at least for now.

People are all around me, they laugh, they don't care.

What frivolous nonsense is this? Why won't you care? Why do you..-?

Then it hit me, like a speeding truck where the driver had fallen asleep long ago.
It's not them, or their way of romanticising life, nor their ability to love being alive, being with other people.
It's me, my ratchet brain, my rotten soul, everything that makes me feel like gutting myself out in front of all those people, because they can't see, they can't feel the dread feeling that it's inside of me.

It's me.

"Of course it's you."

Here it is again.

Go away.

"They don't like you."

A pit in my stomach upon hearing those words.
They don't, why would they?

I always feel out of place. When I enter a room, whether it's a classroom, a party, or a casual gathering, I instantly feel a wave of discomfort. It's not just shyness, I'm not shy, but a gnawing sense that I don't belong. Conversations seem to swirl around me, people laughing and chatting as if they share some secret language I can never quite grasp.

I often wonder what it is about me that feels so... wrong to others. I try to be friendly, to smile at the right moments, to nod along in agreement. Yet, despite my efforts, I always sense a barrier, an invisible wall that keeps me from truly connecting. I see the way people glance at each other when I speak, a flicker of something in their eyes that makes my stomach knot. I'm not sure if it's pity, indifference, or something worse.

"They're talking about you."

Here it is again.

Go away.

They are not talking about me, are they?

I've never been one for great conversations, I'd watch groups form around me, friends laughing and sharing stories, while I picked at my food in silence. It's not that I never tried to join in; I did. But the conversations would die down when I approached, or someone would make an offhand comment that stung more than it should have. Eventually, I stopped trying.

The isolation seeps into every part of my life.

What hurts the most is the creeping self-doubt that comes with it. I can't help but internalize the rejection. I question my worth, my personality, my very existence. Am I boring? Annoying? Unlikable? These thoughts haunt me, making it hard to sleep at night. I lie awake, replaying every interaction, every misstep, every moment where I feel like an outsider looking in.

"You are pathetic, that's what you are."

His voice continues filled with his usual sarcasm, his boney fingers, long and black move back to reach for the lighter.

A cigarette between my lips.

He lights it.

In quiet moments, I find times when I can escape the crushing weight of loneliness and just be. But even then, the shadow of my isolation lingers, a constant reminder that I'm different, that I don't fit in.

My journey is one of quiet resilience. Despite the loneliness, I continue to move forward, hoping that one day, I might find my tribe—people who see me, truly see me, and embrace me for who I am. Until then, I carry on, navigating a world that often feels indifferent, holding onto the small, flickering hope that maybe, just maybe, I'm not as alone as I feel.

"I'm here."

His gruff voice breaks my train of thoughts, the cigarette's smoke burning my eyes.

And I weep.
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