Alienation

This world is quiet. It has always been quiet. The only dim sound penetrating from stillness is of my heart beat. Loneliness is there—lurking. Thames shimmered beneath the waning October sky, faint light folding into its slow-moving surface like forgotten memories. I stood on the embankment with a cigarette perched between my fingers, my other hand tucked deep in my overcoat pocket and kept peering at the waves forming on the river. The cold wind smelled as if the whole city had exhaled centuries of disappointment into the morning air. A seagull flew overhead, screeching briefly before disappearing into the gray clouds like an unanswered question. The Big Ben across the river showed 7:34 in the morning, indicating I still had time to kill before my class at nine. I was used to standing at the embankment. Every day I stood there and stared at the listless waves of the Thames River. The water always looked the same—listless, sluggish, and sad. And by the time Big Ben would chime 8:00 am, I would make my way across the bridge, take the double-decker, and head to the university to take the class. True, I never enjoyed classes; however, they were a good way to kill time—better than lying in bed, wide-eyed, and staring at the cracks in the ceiling.

 I watched the cigarette burn down to the filter and flicked it into the river without a second thought. It sizzled out on the dark surface, with a brief moment of resistance before it disappeared into the cold waters.

 The glacial wind of the river struck at my face, sharp and bit- ing as if trying to wake me up from some endless daydream. The city's noise—dogs, distant honks, footsteps, peculiar conversations with the absence of meaning—blurred together like they always stayed the same and never even changed. For a moment, it felt like London was sleepwalking. And I was just a bystander—floating through it, like a wrapper caught in the wind, unnoticed. By the time Big Ben's chimes echoed across the river, I crossed the bridge, jumped onto a double-decker bus, and sat in my usual seat by the window. The glass was fogged from the morning chill; therefore, I wiped it with my sleeve, watching the streets outside—a blur of narrow alleys, old brick walls, corner cafés, pedestrians, travelers, kids, and faces I'd never see again.

The campus was already alive by the time I arrived; throng of students filled the pathways, some glued to their phones, some exchanging rushed conversations, a couple arguing by the library steps about something peculiar and timid that had no bearing on me, another student scurried past me with headphones attached to his ears as if sealing himself away from reality. Lovers leaned against trees, some sat on the benches with their faces inches apart, oblivious to the world around them. Some were just hanging around, skipping the classes; some were just getting there and rushing to their classrooms. Some were clicking photos of each other and of the university complex. Some were sitting on the benches, reading books with their paper coffee mugs laying beside... and I just watched all of them as I made my way to the class.

 People, who knows why, enjoy assuming that not talking means one is socially inept, that one is awkward, or shy. But that's not it at all. Some, like me, never face any trouble speaking to people. I can talk to anyone, if needed, like making small talk with professors, exchanging some words with the barista at the café near campus, or asking for directions from a stranger. Nevertheless, it never is about being incapable of talking but more about not seeing the point. To put it simply. Some never feel any use for speaking; instead, always storing secret clips in mouth feels much better. As for me, conver- sations felt more like noise—barking without meaning. Why say anything at all if no one really wants to listen? If the words only evaporate into the air, forgotten within seconds? But the people around me… Maybe they understood something that I never would be able to comprehend at all.

 Inside the classroom, the noise didn't stop—it just shifted tone. I walked inside and sat at my usual seat. The professor stood at the front, trying to argue with someone in a room full of distracted students. Some were scrolling through TikTok, and some were scribbling absentmindedly in the margins of their notebooks. In the back, Joseph—the residential class clown—was already in rare form. "How can the sun be a star, huh? Since when did it become one? Yesterday?" He cried, arguing with the professor.

 "Shut up, Joseph. We learned that in the third grade," Alice—the girl who I hate the most for no reason—replied, rolling her eyes. "In the third grade? Then why don't I know?" Joseph yelled, clearly frustrated. "Because you always skipped the lectures, dumbass," Ryan shot back, turning to look at Joseph, who was sitting behind him. Seemed to me they both were childhood friends.

 "How was I supposed to know that today the sun was becoming a star?" "All of you, shut your mouths!" The professor bellowed, silencing the room. "Have any of you done the assignment?" The professor yelled, pointing at everyone.

 "Assignment? What assignment?" Sarah asked, confused. "Isky, have you done the assignment?" The professor asked her. "Y-yess.—yes…terday I was absent," Isky stammered, and the class erupted in laughter.

 "Fazal, have you done the assignment?"

 "I did... but my dog ate it, and then... my cat ate the dog," Fazal said, grinning, and the room filled with laughter again.

 "Joseph?" "Yes, sir, I did it," Joseph replied, smirking. "Oh, thank God someone did it," the professor sounded relieved.

 "But my brother posted it on eBay... the price was very high, therefore... I sold it." Joseph continued, and the laughter grew louder. The professor sighed, pinching his eyes, though he wasn't mad. He liked the banter as much as the students did. "Okay, everyone, quiet now. I swear, I'll fail all of you if you don't finish the assignment by tomorrow." The professor said before picking up the marker and scribbling the topic name. My classmates were too preoccupied with social events or their next Instagram post and also sometimes worrying about the deadlines. There also were times when I sat in the lecture hall, watching everyone around me scribble furiously in their notebooks.

 The class ended earlier than scheduled. And most of the students began making plans. Someone suggested going to the pub; another wanted to go shopping. As usual, my figure prepared to slip away unnoticed, but as I stood up and walked toward the door. "Where're you going?" Fazal's voice startled me from behind.

 "...." I stopped and looked back. He was talking to me. "Where was I going anyway?", I thought, but I didn't even know.

 "Come have coffee with us." He invited me, I joined and followed them to the café down the road. They were walking together, quietly toward the café. And for some reason, I was following them back and forth as if I were clinging to some- thing. No one would meet my gaze; everyone was typing on their mobile phones. They were connected to someone on the phones while ignoring the one walking beside them. Fazal, with his easy confidence, was the son of a wealthy businessman, so he never cared about grades and studies. Alice, always impec- cably dressed, came from a family of lawyers, so she was a little bit into studies. And Ryan's parents were influential politicians.

 At the café, we sat together at a round wooden table. Fazal ordered coffee for everyone, but the others were too busy with their phones to pay attention to each other. Their conver- sations were just fragmented—half spoken out loud, half typed out on screens. I felt like no one could see me; no one could sense my existence. I was about to stand up and leave when finally someone spoke to me, "What's up with you?" Alice asked out of the blue, placing her phone down and stirring her cup. I remained quiet; she was talking to me and I didn't know what to offer in response. "I—uh... I… don't have anything interesting to say." I replied after thinking about something.

 "Where are you going? You seem like a busy person." she asked with a haughty, condescending smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. That wasn't true from any aspect. My university life was about to end and I still hadn't done anything, I still hadn't made any friends. In this huge city where I'd been living for a long time, I still didn't really have any acquaintances other than Uncle Grob. So many pedestrians crossed me every day, some peculiar and some elegant. Some were those who I often saw, like the beggars on the sidewalks, street musicians, baristas at the café, old men at the barber- shop, the pretty girl who sits at Walnut Café in the evening—for a time, I found myself drawn there just to catch a glimpse of her, but gradually I realized she was just another filthy sensualist amidst other filthy dogs around. Then, there were those who often visited Uncle Grob's shop. Nevertheless, I knew so many figures; wandering in the streets of London and watching people bustling through tedious patterns was all I did most of the time. I was acquainted with so many streets, so many houses, buildings, and parks. Saying I had walked all over London wouldn't be wrong. "Just go to the shop where I work part-time, and then walk back to my place," I replied to Alice, but she wasn't even listening to me. "I don't want milk in my coffee," Rayan all of a sudden cried, stopping Fazal from putting the milk in his coffee.

 "Why not? Milk gives you energy." Fazal said, grinning.

 "No, it doesn't," Ryan replied. "I once drank eight glasses of milk but couldn't move the wall. And the next day, I took two shots of vodka and saw the wall moving by itself." He said, and they burst into laughter, I smiled faintly, though it felt like my face wasn't used to the gesture. For a moment, I wanted to join in—say something amusing, laugh with them—but the moment slipped away. I remained quiet and sat there, watching the steam rise from my untouched paper coffee cup. After a while, I excused myself and went to the shop. No one noticed when I left, and that's a good thing about being alone. You can leave whenever you want, and no one ever will complain.

The clouds overhead thickened as I walked in the streets of London. The wind blew through the alleyways, scattering leaves across the cobblestones on the streets. A street performer—who I often saw—strummed a guitar on the side- walk. I stood close to him, listening, and tossed some coins in his bucket when he finished the song. He gave me a smile with a little nod, like always, and nodding back, I walked ahead. I passed by forgettable strangers—some lost in their frivolous conversations, some lost in their quiet thoughts. A business- man rushed past, muttering into his phone and hurrying somewhere to attend an important meeting... A mother dragged her crying child along, who rebelled to buy something from the shop... A dog chased a cat wildly down the street… Beggars sitting on the sidewalks, watching the pedestrians with hopeless eyes... Birds flying overhead... People... dogs… streets… The streets. I knew the drenched streets of London better than I knew myself; I walked on them so many times.

 I passed through back alleys and across crowded squares with my shoes tapping against the uneven pavements as if hoping the sound would fill the emptiness within me. When my legs started to ache, I turned and headed to my part-time job at the local bookstore, which was owned by my uncle. I didn't really work there; I just came to help and kill some time. It was a quaint shop, filled with the scent of old books and wooden shelves. I enjoyed the quiet hours there, organizing shelves and helping customers find their next great read. Even though I never really liked reading books, I still sometimes read philosophical and fiction books while waiting for sleep.

 As I stood behind the counter, a familiar sense of solitude washed over me. Uncle Grob left the shop when I arrived, saying that he had to talk with the printer about the low quality of pages of the recently published book and complaints of the author. Uncle Grob was also a publisher, and he helped many people to publish their work. I sat behind the counter and watched the city outside through the rain-streaked window. Buses roared by, and umbrellas of different colors moved down the streets and on the pavements. The bell above the door jingled, signaling the arrival of a customer, and I straightened up, ready to assist, momentarily pushing my thoughts aside.

Evening wore on, and the store grew quieter after the customer left, and I again started looking out the window, watching the city lights flicker on one by one and casting shadows on pavements. Despite the noise of the rain and bustle of the city, I felt an overwhelming sense of loneliness.

It's not the crowd which makes me whole,

But, just a touch of a feeble soul.