CHAPTER 1 — Alone in the World

Some people grow up wrapped in love, the kind that cushions every fall and warms every cold night. My life wasn’t like that. Mine was the quiet kind of loneliness, the type that doesn’t bruise the skin but leaves marks on the heart—thin, invisible lines only I could feel.

My parents were never cruel. They fed me, clothed me, and gave me a place to sleep. But love was something that lived outside our walls. They moved around me rather than with me, brushing past like I was furniture they were used to but didn’t particularly enjoy. When I was younger, I tried to earn their attention with drawings, good grades, or just standing a little too long near them, hoping they’d look my way. Most days, they didn’t.

I learned early that silence could feel heavier than anger.

As I grew up, I tried to fill the emptiness with people outside my home. Friends, classmates, and anyone who smiled at me felt like a lifeline I needed to cling to. I didn’t realize I held onto them too tightly. I mistook politeness for care, small kindness for affection, and temporary attention for permanence. And when people realized how much I needed them—needed connection, warmth, something to make me feel less invisible—they quietly stepped back.

“You’re too emotional.”

“You take things too seriously.”

“I think you’re better off with someone who understands you.”

They always said it gently, as if gentleness softened the blow. It didn’t.

I changed myself for people—molded my personality to fit whatever would make them stay. But every version of me still ended up alone. The truth was simple: they didn’t want too much from me, and I always wanted too much from them.

Relationships were worse. I fell fast. Too fast. A smile felt like a promise. A hug felt like forever, and a few sweet words felt like proof that someone finally wanted me. But wanting someone too much makes them run. And they did. Every time.

“You’re clingy.”

“I need more space.”

“This relationship is too intense.”

Eventually, I stopped fighting it. I accepted that maybe I was just… too much for the world and not enough at the same time. A contradiction with a heartbeat.

Days blended together into something colourless. Wake up. Work. Eat. Sleep. Repeat. I didn’t have goals or dreams anymore—those were things meant for people who believed tomorrow had something good waiting for them. I just existed because stopping felt too dramatic, and continuing felt too automatic to question.

The loneliness became something like a roommate—always there, always quiet, always watching. I got used to the ache in my chest when I saw families laughing together. I got used to looking away when couples held hands. I got used to telling myself I didn’t need that kind of warmth, even though I did. More than anything.

My apartment was small, but the emptiness inside me made it feel spacious. Too spacious. I’d come home, drop my bag, sit on my bed, and stare at the wall because there was nothing to break the silence. No one waiting. No one caring if I arrived safely. No one to talk to about my day. Sometimes, I spoke out loud just to hear a voice, even if it was my own.

Life felt like a long hallway with no doors.

And then, one day, without warning, without drama, without a single sign that it would be different from any other, everything changed.

I remember walking. I don’t even remember where I was going—maybe work, maybe home, maybe nowhere important. The sky was dull, and the air felt heavy. My thoughts were drifting the way they always did, slipping from one quiet sadness to another. My feet kept moving because that’s what they always did.

Then suddenly… they didn’t.

There was a sharp, cold sensation in my chest. Not pain—just surprise, like being splashed with icy water. My vision blurred at the edges first, colours smearing into shapes rather than things. The world tilted, my knees buckled, and I felt myself falling.

No one called my name.

No one rushed to catch me.

No one screamed or held me or tried to comfort me.

The ground met me hard, but even that felt distant, as if it wasn’t really happening to me. My breathing turned shallow. The city noises faded into a muffled hum. I tried to lift my hand, maybe to hold onto something, anything, but my body didn’t respond.

My last thought was painfully simple:

No one will notice.

Then everything went dark.

And that was the end.

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