The alarm goes off at 7:00.
I don't open my eyes. I let it ring until it becomes part of the room, until the sound stops meaning anything at all. When I finally reach for my phone, the screen feels colder than it should. The ceiling above me is cracked in the same place it's always been. I trace the line with my eyes, memorizing it like I've forgotten before.
I get up. I put on clothes I didn't choose. I eat without tasting. Outside, the air is quiet in that way mornings are, like the world is moving without me. On the walk to school, my footsteps sync with everyone else's. No one looks at anyone. We all know where we're going, and none of us look excited to be there.
By the time the day ends, I can't remember when it began.
And somewhere between waking up and coming home, the same question presses itself into my chest again.
What does it mean to live? Does living mean loving? Does it mean money? Does it mean happiness? Or am I meant to drift through these endless days forever, oblivious to a truth I'm simply too naïve to understand?
I want to be more. Is that too much to ask? I know it's greedy, yet I still pray that one day I can rest knowing that all these years amounted to something. Anything at all.
Every day is the same. School drains me, the bright rays of my monitor replenish what I lost. How bland. That's it. That's all. There's nothing behind it, no meaning, no direction. Nothing at all.
So why don't I change? Why don't I try to be special? Do something good. Play sports. Practice a hobby. Help people. Just, do something that really mattered.
Why?
Because I'm useless. I spend every day believing things will work out on their own, relying on everyone but myself. And for that, I disgust myself. Still, somehow, I manage to live. I forget. I move on. I convince myself it's fine. I keep going.
I want to believe I'm kind. I want to believe I'm a good person. I wear the mask of a "nice" guy, acting morally superior while running from my problems because I don't want to face them. I complain about being bored when I'm the one who makes life empty. People ask me for help, and being the nice guy I am, I do nothing. I've lied to myself so many times that I can't even tell when I'm being honest anymore.
I hate it. I despise this.
I judge the hypocrisy of others while knowing the most hypocritical one of all is me. I have parents, parents who love me, parents who want the best for me. And yet, I can't give that love back. Not when I know what they've done. Not when I know how their past was forced onto me. Not when my mother hides a truth I've been aware of for longer than she realizes. The way she looks at me as if my very existence was a mistake, despite knowing well what she did. Giving back isn't something I can do anymore.
I have friends. I care about them. I want to care about them even more. They're the closest thing I have to something real, to something that feels like a proper connection. And even then, I lie. I pretend I don't need help, I run, and keep running till my feet sink into cold stone.
Why don't I ask for help? Do I even need help? Am I trying to victimize myself right now? Am I still lying?
I don't know what's real anymore. I don't know what's true and if what I've convinced myself is false. The only thing I know, the only thing I'm certain of, is that being here isn't enough for me. No matter how much I say it is. No matter how badly I want to believe it is.
I love deeply. I care deeply. I feel too much for someone who does nothing with it. But can't there be something more? Someone who loves as much as I love, feels as much as I feel. Can someone like that even exist without breaking? Can I ever find that someone, or even something, that makes all of this worth it?
…Would that be genuine?