...
The alarm rang three times before I finally reached out and silenced it.
It was 6:15 a.m., and the house was quiet, as it always was.
My uncle leaves for work early. His name is Tom. He's kind, and I rarely see him except on weekends. Still, his presence in the house feels sufficient, as if it fills the empty spaces.
My name is Adam, and I'm a first-year high school student.
I sat on the edge of the bed, pulled on my school trousers, then grabbed the neatly ironed white shirt from the chair.
The room was almost too tidy—perhaps because I dislike disorder, or perhaps because I don't own enough things to make a mess in the first place.
I left a little early. The walk to school usually takes no more than ten minutes, yet today it felt longer than usual.
People hurried past, cars rushed by, voices overlapped… life moved around me, while I felt as though I were watching it all from behind a pane of glass.
I am an ordinary person. I have no remarkable beauty.
Black hair, brown eyes.
Neither tall nor short—my height is 173 centimeters.
Today was my first day of high school.
New faces. A new beginning.
I took a seat at the back of the classroom, near the window.
Beside me sat my classmates—people for whom everything seemed effortless: their laughter, their conversations, the way they naturally drew attention.
And me? My life felt gray in comparison. A strange feeling mixed with envy. Sometimes I blame myself; other times I wish I could be like them, even if only for a brief moment.
I tried to focus on the lesson, but every word dissolved into their laughter. Every movement reminded me of what I lacked.
That familiar feeling crept in again—a blend of jealousy and self-contempt.
Why does everything seem so easy for them? Why is their world full of color while mine remains dull and gray? I always promise myself not to compare, yet my mind refuses to obey.
During the morning break, they gathered around the large table, talking about the latest video games, their favorite movies, and weekend plans.
And I… sat far away, pretending to be occupied, while something inside me screamed: I don't belong here.
Every time I catch a glance from my uncle when I return home, I see his concern—yes—but it's different. His quiet presence and silent watchfulness cannot replace my parents' absence, nor can it grant me the life I dream of—the life my classmates seem to live so effortlessly.
After coming home, I sat on my bed, slipping the bag off my shoulder, and stared out the window.
The street outside was overflowing with life, while I searched for a place of my own in this world—a place not defined by chance, but by effort… and perhaps, a little luck.
This is how my high school days began:
between silence and envy,
between the desire to belong and the fear of failure,
and the depression left behind by what happened to my parents—
an inner struggle that shows no sign of an easy ending....