The Outsider

Part 1

New York, right? Let's just say it is. A big city, maybe the fourth largest in the country. But like every city, it has two sides. The side everyone talks about is shiny, glamorous, the stuff of dreams of the Upper Side. But destiny put me on the other side, the one that doesn't make it into postcards. And let's just say, it's not as shiny. My brother Jasper, for instance, wakes up every morning, trying to convince himself that today will be different. He hops out of bed, clinging to whatever scraps of optimism he can muster. But the funny thing about him is that, despite his efforts, he's one of the most introverted and negative people I know. It's almost hypocritical, but maybe that's what makes him interesting the constant battle between what he wants to be and who he really is. That internal fight, the tug-of-war between you and your mind, it makes you want to scream sometimes. But you don't. You swallow it down because the consequences of letting it out might be worse.

To really understand Jasper, though, I've got to take you back to the beginning, back when school was this massive, suffocating place, not a place of learning but of survival. He wasn't shy because of fear but because he genuinely didn't like people. And honestly, was he wrong? People lie, steal, manipulate. He just couldn't be bothered to engage. He wasn't interested in school, and he made no effort to hide it. To him, "Manhattan" was where dreams came to die, not where they were made. Instead of homework, he'd spend hours in front of Dad's old computer, using it as a portal to escape into a different reality. Escape that word would pop up again and again in his life, becoming almost a part of his identity. And why did a young boy feel the need to escape at all, especially at an age when he was supposed to be representing his future, his potential? The answer is simple but not something we're allowed to say. If we did, we'd be labeled traitors, or worse, "free thinkers" the kind of term people throw around like an insult these days.

Jasper did have one friend, though. Eliot Ashton Rivers. A name that sounds like it belongs to some pretentious aristocrat, doesn't it? But Eliot was a friend Jasper made on his own, not through me. I should probably talk more about Eliot, but inspiration to do so comes and goes. He wasn't all that fascinating, honestly. He was the kind of guy who only ever talked about video games. "Wanna play?" was about the extent of his conversational skills. He had no real ambitions beyond fooling around, gaming, and chasing girls. A perfect example of someone fully absorbed by the system, content to play his role. And sometimes, much to my dismay, Jasper would follow along, playing the part of a sheep himself, despite knowing better. He'd come home after hours of gaming and start spouting off about how to "escape the matrix," quoting videos he'd seen online, totally convinced that it was all going to happen one day. I could've said something. I could've intervened. But I didn't. Partly because I didn't want to, and partly because I wasn't sure I was any different. Wasn't I also lost in my own form of escape, hiding behind movies, shows, and other distractions?

As I grew older, I began to see where this was all headed. The most predictable ending. A story no one cares about. The feeling of being an outsider crept in, stronger than ever. People say you can't choose where you're born, but they never talk about what it means to stay where you are. Jasper, for instance, became obsessed with anime, and at one point, he even wanted to move to Tokyo. He majored in computer science, retreating further into the virtual world. He'd watch motivational videos, convincing himself he was on the right path, while I observed how naïve he was. I wondered if it was worth it, all this hope he clung to.

One day, caught off guard, he asked me, "What're you looking at?" I was lost in thought, as usual. All I could manage was a weak "What?"

"You tell me, Alex. You're the one staring at me. It's bothering me." His voice cut through my haze.

"Sorry, I'll leave," I mumbled and walked away. Just like that, I drifted back into my own thoughts, where I could escape, where I could pretend I wasn't like everyone else. I'd leave the house, and wander the streets, pretending to be social. I'd walk for hours, trying to stop myself from thinking, though I'd convince myself otherwise. I'd watch people, groups of them in cafés, restaurants, or bars, talking about nothing, laughing about nothing, watching sports, and pretending it all meant something. Everyone has their way of escaping, don't they? Maybe I should name this book *Escape*if it ever becomes one. How would I even know for sure?

Now and then, I'd run into people I knew. I'd smile, fake a laugh, and engage in pointless conversations. Man, if acting were my career, I'd have a shelf full of Oscars by now. I'd keep pretending, waiting for a convenient excuse to leave, but not before observing them, and their petty, surface-level problems. A cracked phone case, a motorcycle that's more fashion statement than a vehicle, all of it just an effort to impress someone, anyone. They couldn't see the truth, but that was for them to figure out. As I walked further, I spotted an old man, wrinkles carving deep lines into his weathered face. Was it sadness in his eyes? Confusion? Regret? I couldn't tell. Maybe next time I'll have my answer. If he was still around. How long did people like him last in this city, anyway?

Along my endless walks, I'd see girls, carefree, foolish, living in their own bubbles. I'd glance at them, but not for long. Not because I wasn't interested, but because it's practically a crime these days. And even in that quick glance, I knew what they wanted—shoes, clothes, their latest crush to reply to a DM. Their lives seemed so simple. I almost envied them. Almost. How could I ever fit in, though, when I despised everything about the society they adored?

If you've made it this far, you're probably thinking I've lost touch with humanity. Maybe you're right. I've never seen myself as a normal person, but honestly, who is? What does "normal" even mean? Everyone's got their flaws, but society loves to slap meaningless words like "perfect" or "flawless" on people as if that hides the truth. The Upper Siders don't worry about any of this. They don't need to. Their futures are already set, while the rest of us are struggling just to get by. So tell me, how can you stay "normal" when you're already losing, two steps behind from the start?