My name is Alex. I've lived a pretty average life since birth, or at least since the earliest memories I can recall. I was born into a world that didn't give me much, and I've lived a life that hasn't asked much from me in return. My parents passed away when I was young—too young to remember the sound of their voices, or what it was like to feel the warmth of a family. I grew up in an orphanage, surrounded by other kids who were just like me—alone, forgotten by the world, waiting for a stroke of luck that never came.
I wasn't lucky, though. No one came for me, no family to take me in. When I turned eighteen, I was on my own. The orphanage gave me a pat on the back, handed me a few hundred dollars, and wished me good luck. I remember walking out of there, looking at the world like it was a vast, uncharted ocean, and I was a ship without sails.
I didn't have big dreams. I didn't have anyone to guide me, either. The world taught me early that life was about survival, not ambition. So I found a job—a basic 9-to-5 corporate gig that paid just enough to keep the lights on and my stomach from growling. It wasn't glamorous, and it sure as hell wasn't fulfilling, but in today's world, even having a job was something to hold onto like a lifeline.
My life became a pattern. Wake up, go to work, come home, repeat. Days bled into weeks, weeks into months, and before I knew it, years had slipped through my fingers like sand. The monotony was suffocating, but it was comfortable in a twisted way. I knew what to expect, day in and day out, and that predictability became my shelter.
I had no friends, no close ties to anyone. When you grow up alone, you learn not to depend on people. You learn that attachments are just opportunities for disappointment. So, I kept to myself. Even in college, when everyone else was forming lifelong bonds, I was more comfortable on the sidelines, watching but never joining in.
At first, I tried to keep in touch with my classmates after graduation. I'd call them every couple of weeks, send the occasional text. But slowly, as life pulled everyone in different directions, the calls became less frequent. Weeks turned into months, and eventually, years. One day, I woke up and realized I didn't know anyone anymore, and no one knew me.
For the past three years, I've been living in a shell. My routine: office, home, office, home—on repeat. I didn't go out, didn't socialize, didn't have any hobbies. Life was a series of empty motions, and I had accepted it as my reality.
If someone had asked me what I was working for, I wouldn't have had an answer. I had no family to support, no girlfriend to spend money on, no friends to share a drink with on the weekends. My paycheck came and went, accumulating in a bank account that I never bothered to check. What did it matter? There was no one waiting for me at home, no one depending on me. So, I usually donate all my of my salary left after my necessary spendings to the orphanage that raised me, as a way to give back. It wasn't much—my paycheck was modest at best—hardly enough to call it payback. It felt more like a token gesture, one that went unnoticed, much like me. My existence felt like a shadow, passing through the world unnoticed.
But even in the grayness of my life, I found something to cling to. Books. In college, I'd started reading as a way to pass time when everyone else was out partying or hanging out with friends. Over the years, reading became my escape. In those stories, I could be anyone, live any life. I didn't have to be Alex, the orphan with a dead-end job and no future. I could be a hero, a villain, a wanderer in some far-off land.
When reality felt too heavy—when the silence in my apartment became deafening, or when the weight of my own loneliness pressed too hard—I'd pick up a book. And for a few hours, I could forget everything. The world around me would fade, and I'd lose myself in the lives of characters far more interesting than my own.
There's something powerful about stories. They pull you in, make you believe that there's more to life than what you see in front of you. They made me believe that, even if only for a short while.
Still, once I closed the book, reality would always come crashing back. And the reality was simple: I was alone. I had always been alone, and as far as I could tell, that's how it would always be.