"Who am I?"
A question I lack the courage to answer, for every attempt ends in a wall of silence. I am not a remarkable name, nor a face people remember, nor an achievement worth pointing at. Perhaps I'm just a passing entity, insignificant, living only because time decided to give me a chance to cross this world.
Every time I search for the meaning of my existence, I find myself trapped by a more painful question: "Should I have been here at all?" The world moves on without noticing me. Passersby walk past me without sparing a glance. My friends—if I even have any—barely acknowledge my presence. Even my family… I think I'm just a burden they wish they could cast away.
If I have no purpose, no talent, no voice... am I even truly alive? Or am I just a shadow in a world that only recognizes light?
---
Amid the hustle and bustle of the city, a young man, twenty-three years old, stood still on the crowded sidewalk. The street throbbed with life—cars raced past, their horns blaring like chaotic music—but no one paid attention. People rushed past him, each absorbed in their own destinies, their steps, their goals. Meanwhile, he stood motionless, as if he were a part of the pavement beneath his feet.
He raised his head toward the sky, where faint stars peeked through the city's haze and artificial lights. He wished he could reach them, to shine for just one fleeting moment before disappearing into oblivion. In a voice so soft that no one could hear, he murmured to himself:
"What's the point of striving, of persevering? What's the purpose of struggling in this world? Even if I became a brilliant name, I'd be like these stars—lighting the night, only to vanish and be replaced by another. Such is the fate of mankind… inevitable extinction. So why all this struggle?"
For a moment, he lingered there, silent, feeling like one of those distant stars—present but unseen, glowing yet meaningless. Finally, he turned and walked away, heading toward his home, his mind clouded with thoughts.
---
Seventeen years ago, at the age of six.
The family sat around a small dinner table. The father, the mother, and the young boy. The room was modest, furnished with simple items, yet it felt warm with their presence together.
Father: "Son, did you like school today? It's your first day there."
Son (with childlike excitement): "Yes, Father! It was fun, and everyone was kind."
Father (smiling with pride): "I have high hopes for you, son. You see, your mother and I didn't finish our education, and we've had to work hard. But you're different. You'll be someone great. I believe in you."
Son: "Yes, Father. I'll be what you want me to be."
The father dreamed of a bright future for his child, but life had other plans.
Over the years, the boy fell short of his father's expectations. He struggled academically, showed no apparent talents, and always seemed to lag behind others. He dropped out of school at an early age—not by choice but as an escape from constant failure. He began taking on menial jobs: lifting crates, sweeping streets, anything to keep food on the table.
In 2020, when the plague swept across the world, their lives took a tragic turn. His parents lost their jobs, and they barely survived on what little savings they had. But the worst came quickly—his parents both succumbed to the disease within a month of each other, leaving him utterly alone.
The young man thought life might give him a new chance after the plague ended. He found work at a small grocery store and spent three years there. It was simple, but for the first time, he felt some semblance of stability. That hope, however, was short-lived. The store replaced him with artificial intelligence.
---
Now, standing in the present, unemployed and unable to pay his rent for the coming month, he trudged toward his tiny apartment, burdened by the weight of his thoughts.
On his way home, he veered into a quiet alley to escape the city's noise. There, in the shadows, he noticed an old man sitting on a worn wooden crate by a cracked wall. The man's clothes were tattered, and his wrinkled face seemed to carry untold stories.
Old Man: "You look lost, son."
The young man hesitated, then replied:
"Isn't everyone?"
The old man smiled faintly and said:
"There are two kinds of lost: the kind where a person searches for themselves, and the kind where they've given up on finding anything. Which one are you?"
Young Man: "The second kind. I have nothing, and nothing waits for me."
Old Man (calmly): "Nothingness is a heavy feeling, but sometimes, it's the beginning. Nobody is born with a map of their life, son. Even I was like you once. But the difference is, I chose to live, even without a reason."
Young Man (mockingly): "And what did that get you? A long life to sit here alone?"
Old Man (chuckling softly): "Perhaps. But at least I made my own stories. I lost a lot and gained little, but I didn't let the world erase me as if I never existed."
The young man stood in silence. The old man's simple words seemed to pierce the armor of despair that encased him. As the young man turned to leave, the old man spoke softly:
"Even the shadow you think is worthless cannot exist without the light."
The young man, moved though he wouldn't admit it, nodded slightly and left the alley, heading toward his apartment.
---
At home, the room was cold and empty, a reflection of his soul. He sat on his bed and gazed at the stars through the cracked window.
He whispered to himself:
"Maybe the stars don't care if one of them disappears… so why should the world care if I do?"
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