The school halls buzzed with energy, but Rodensky moved through them like a ghost. The voices of his classmates blended into a background hum, the foreign syllables washing over him without meaning. He clutched his books tightly, keeping his gaze fixed on the floor, hoping to avoid attention.
The language barrier was only part of the problem. The other students didn't seem unkind, but they also didn't seem interested. To them, he was just "the new kid"—a puzzle they weren't in a hurry to solve. The teachers weren't much better. Their explanations were rushed, their patience thin.
At lunch, he sat alone, picking at the unfamiliar food on his tray. He could hear laughter from nearby tables, groups of students talking about things he didn't understand. His stomach churned—not from hunger, but from the heavy weight of isolation.
---
Home wasn't much better. The small apartment felt even smaller with each passing day. Emily and Clara adapted quickly, their chatter and laughter filling the living room as they shared stories about their new friends.
Rodensky couldn't bring himself to join in. His sisters' happiness only highlighted his own loneliness.
One evening, Emily knocked on his bedroom door.
"Rod, wanna come watch a movie with us?" she asked, her voice bright and hopeful.
"I'm busy," he said, not looking up from his desk.
"You're always busy," she muttered before walking away.
He wasn't busy. He was scrolling aimlessly through forums, searching for anything to distract himself from the growing void inside him.
---
His mother's new schedule didn't help. She left early in the morning and came home late at night, her exhaustion evident in the way she slumped into a chair as soon as she walked through the door.
One evening, as she unpacked groceries, Rodensky finally spoke up.
"Do you even care about how I feel?" he asked, his voice sharp.
His mother paused, a carton of milk in her hands. "What are you talking about?"
"You dragged us here, to this place where I don't belong. You don't even notice that I'm miserable."
She set the milk down, her expression hardening. "Rodensky, I notice everything. I notice that you've stopped talking to your sisters. I notice that you barely eat. I notice that you've shut yourself off from the world. But what do you expect me to do? I'm trying to keep this family together."
He clenched his fists. "You're not keeping it together. You're replacing it."
Her eyes widened. "What are you talking about?"
"You know exactly what I'm talking about," he said before storming back to his room.
---
Rodensky's refuge became his gaming console. The glow of the screen was the only light he allowed into his world.
At first, he played casually, cycling through games he'd started but never finished. But as the days stretched on, gaming became more than a pastime—it became a lifeline. The worlds he explored were vast and full of possibilities, the characters he controlled capable of feats he could only dream of.
But even in the digital realm, he felt the sting of loneliness. Playing solo was satisfying at first, but eventually, he craved connection—even if it was just through a screen.
Late one night, he found himself browsing for something new. He stumbled upon an RPG he vaguely remembered his father mentioning. It wasn't flashy or particularly well-known, but something about it intrigued him.
He downloaded the game and launched it, the opening sequence filling his small room with the sound of orchestral music.
As the game loaded, he felt a flicker of something he hadn't felt in months—anticipation.