A New beginning

A year had passed since I last attempted to embrace college life. This time, I had chosen something different—a traditional college where rules were looser and expectations less suffocating. Phones were allowed, the environment seemed freer, and for a brief moment, I let myself believe this could be my chance to rebuild.

But the journey to this supposed new beginning wasn't easy. Every morning, the 40 to 50-minute commute reminded me of one irrefutable truth—I had terrible motion sickness. The rumble of the bus, the sharp turns, the endless stop-and-go—it all felt like a cruel joke. I would grip the seat handles tightly, my heart churning with every lurch, counting the minutes until it was over. By the time I arrived, I often felt like a hollowed-out shell of myself.

The first few days at college were a haze of introductions, orientation speeches, and bustling crowds. I tried to immerse myself, to convince myself that this time, I could fit in. I walked into classrooms filled with strangers, exchanged pleasantries, and sat with classmates during breaks. For a fleeting moment, I felt like a part of something—a participant in the chaos rather than a spectator.

But beneath the surface, a storm was brewing. As the days passed, I came to a quiet, painful realization: I didn't knew how to connect with people. Somewhere along the way in my life, I had lost the ability to share myself, to open up, to be vulnerable. I was carrying emotions too heavy to ignore but too tangled to express.

I wanted to speak, to laugh, to share pieces of myself with the people around me. But the words never came out right. They felt clumsy, inadequate, like a bridge that collapsed before it could reach the other side. Every conversation felt like an uphill climb, and I always ended up retreating, exhausted by the effort.

I became quieter as the days turned into weeks. At first, I tried to convince myself that it was just my nature, that I was simply an introvert who thrived in solitude. But the truth was harder to admit. I wasn't just quiet—I was lonely.

There were moments when I would sit in a crowded room, surrounded by the chatter and laughter of my peers, and feel an ache so deep it was almost physical. It was a strange kind of loneliness, the kind that comes not from being alone but from being invisible.

And yet, despite my silence, people noticed me. My appearance had always been a topic of conversation. My thick, jet-black hair, my sharp jawline, my tall frame—they were features that people seemed to admire. My pale brown skin, contrasted with my dark eyes and long lashes, often drew compliments, though rarely directly. The small mole beneath my lip—a birthmark I had once been self-conscious about—was often described as "unique" or "charming."

I clung to these compliments as if they were lifelines. For a while, I let myself believe that my looks might bridge the gap between me and the world. If I couldn't express myself in words, maybe my presence could speak for me.

But admiration from afar is a hollow comfort. I began to notice the way people talked about me—not to me, but about me. I would catch whispers in the hallways, hear my name mentioned in passing, accompanied by vague descriptions of my appearance.

"Tall guy with beautiful looks."

"You know, the one with the mole by his lip."

"He's attractive, but he's so quiet."

It was as if I were a character in their story, a piece of scenery to be observed but never truly understood. No one approached me. No one tried to know me. The compliments that once boosted my confidence now felt like reminders of how far removed I was from everyone else.

I started to question everything. Was I really attractive, or was I just a novelty? Did people admire me, or was I just something for them to talk about? My reflection became a stranger, a mask I wore but didn't recognize.

The loneliness deepened. I watched as friendships formed around me, as connections blossomed in the spaces I couldn't seem to occupy. I wanted to reach out, to break through the invisible barrier that kept me apart, but every attempt felt like a failure.

And so, I withdrew further. My days became a routine of quiet observation, my nights a swirl of restless thoughts. I would lie awake in the dark, replaying moments from the day, wondering what I could have said or done differently. The weight of my isolation pressed down on me, heavy and unrelenting.

There were rare moments of clarity, flickers of hope that reminded me I wasn't entirely lost. A kind word from a kid, a shared smile with a stranger—small, fleeting instances that made the walls around me feel less permanent. But they were few and far between, and they weren't enough to pull me out of the shadows.

I had come to college hoping for a fresh start, but instead, I found myself falling back into old patterns. The world around me was vibrant, full of life and energy, but I felt like I was watching it through a window, unable to step inside.

For now, I remained a quiet observer, trapped in the solitude of my own mind. But somewhere, deep within me, a small voice whispered that this wasn't the end. That maybe, just maybe, I could still find my way back to the world.

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