The feeling creeps in, a hollow ache settling deep within. It’s not anticipation, not exactly. It’s…emptiness. A quiet certainty that this moment, buried in pillows, mirrors the unseen moments of others. Are they, too, tracing the contours of loneliness?
Why bother, I wonder, with the pretense of caring. Caring about strangers, about their buried grief or broken hearts, about the justifications offered by those who inflict cruelty. It’s all noise, a swirling vortex of possibility.
I am surprised by how quickly it all comes to me. An avalanche of thought, an overthinking spiral that does nothing but exhaust. It’s a useless habit, a self-destructive tendency. And yet, here I am, spiraling toward the inevitable conclusion: I’m going to kill myself.
I force myself upright, feet landing on the worn red rug. My dog-printed slippers feel soft beneath my weight. The light is on, a careless oversight. Damn. Seven oh six AM. Class starts at eight. Time to move.
The bathroom routine is automatic. Rose-scented soap, a leftover indulgence from my mother. Toothpaste, deodorant, a shield against the world. The ritual is grounding, a small act of defiance against the emptiness.
I pull on a black and gray striped tank top, tucking it into pink jeans. A white zippered hoodie and forest green Vans complete the uniform. It’s a comfortable rebellion.
“Pancakes are hot and fluffy, you guys should put the maple.” My mother’s voice drifts from the kitchen.
“I’m putting chocolate,” I reply.
“Too much sweet, my dear.” She chides gently.
“You should wear t-shirts in school,” my sister, Chloe, complains.
“Jacques, Chloe is right. Those are inappropriate for school.” My mother agrees, siding with Chloe.
“I’m not changing it. Probably next time.” I mutter.
“Eat it up and you can go to school now.”
I finish my pancakes, grab my keys, and head to the car. An aquamarine Beetle, a vintage relic salvaged by my parents. I love the car, the faded charm of its age. I fire it up, a familiar surge of energy.
Driving to school, I acknowledge the truth: I have no friends. I am an introvert, a ghost in the hallways. Glasses, a scattering of pimples…I’ve accepted the judgment. Fair skin, a height above average, and a body I’ve learned to ignore.
I escape into video games, lose myself in books, edit photos for an Instagram feed that bears 694K followers. It’s a quiet life, a source of income from brand deals and sponsorships. I love the editing, the graphic design, the power of social media. I love being an influencer, yet I never reveal my face. The irony is lost on no one.
We live in a suburban house, comfortable enough for four. Wildredfort High is my prison, and I am gay. A secret I keep buried, even in this homophobic town. I don’t want to be seen, not yet.
I watch the jocks, their arrogance masking their insecurities. Maybe, someday, I’ll find someone who sees me, who accepts me for who I am. Someone who understands the quiet desperation that fuels this hollow ache.