A LONER

ALONE IN THE CROWD(ONE)

PART ONE

I remember the first day I stepped into high school as clearly as I remember the sound of my own heartbeat whenever I walked into a crowded hallway. It was like being thrown into the middle of an ocean, with voices crashing around me like waves and faces turning like tides I couldn’t predict. Everyone seemed so sure of themselves where to go, who to smile at, who to sit with. And then there was me, frozen in the doorway, clutching the straps of my backpack so tightly that my fingers ached.

High school was supposed to be a fresh start. That’s what my mother kept saying. “Christian, you’ll make new friends there. You’ll see.” Her smile had been hopeful that morning when she handed me a sandwich wrapped in foil, but I knew the truth. New buildings didn’t erase old habits. And I wasn’t the kind of boy who suddenly turned into someone else just because the classrooms were bigger.

I found my seat in the back corner of my first class and kept my eyes low. My heart hammered in my chest, and I prayed the teacher wouldn’t call on me. She didn’t not that day. But the students noticed me almost immediately. Not in a good way. There’s something about silence that draws attention. When you don’t speak, people start to wonder why. And in high school, “different” was a dangerous thing to be.

During lunch, I sat alone at a table near the wall. My tray felt like a spotlight, as though every bite I took was being measured by the people laughing around me. Their laughter wasn’t about me I knew that logically but in my head, it was always about me. Every giggle, every glance, every whisper. My palms grew sweaty, and I picked at my food until the bell saved me.

That was the first week. By the second, the whispers had started.

“Why doesn’t he talk?”

“He’s always by himself.”

“He’s so weird.”

It wasn’t cruel at first, just curiosity. But curiosity has sharp edges, and it didn’t take long for sharpness to cut.

One afternoon in English class, the teacher announced a group project. My stomach dropped. Group work was my personal nightmare the forced conversations, the awkward silences, the expectation that I’d contribute in ways that involved talking. I wanted to sink into the floor.

“Christian,” the teacher said brightly, “you’ll be with Daniel and Mia.”

I nodded stiffly, but inside I was screaming. Daniel was one of those boys who thrived on attention, and Mia was loud, confident, always surrounded by friends. I knew before we even began that I would be invisible in that group. And I was. They didn’t even ask my opinion; they just divided the work between themselves. I was assigned the boring task of typing up notes. It suited me fine. At least it meant I didn’t have to open my mouth. But I caught the look Mia gave Daniel when I didn’t speak half amusement, half pity. It burned.

The worst moment came two weeks later in history class. The teacher asked me to present something from the textbook. My mind went blank the instant my name left her lips. My chest tightened, and my throat closed. I stood, the book trembling in my hands, my voice catching on the first word.

“C-c-c…” I stammered, and laughter erupted behind me.

It was the kind of laughter that digs under your skin, sharp and hot, the kind that stays with you long after the sound fades. I wanted to disappear. My vision blurred, and the teacher, sensing my panic, quickly moved on to another student. I sat down, burning with shame, wishing I could melt into the chair.

That was when I realized something important: in high school, invisibility was safer than exposure. If I kept my head down, if I stayed silent, if I pretended not to exist, then maybe just maybe I could survive.

So I perfected the art of invisibility.

I walked the hallways with earbuds in, music turned off, just so no one would talk to me. I avoided eye contact. I always sat in the same corner of every class. At lunch, I chose the table near the trash cans because no one else wanted it. My world shrank to small, safe routines. And while the others lived in technicolor with football games, parties, sleepovers I lived in grayscale.

But here’s the strange thing: I didn’t hate it. I hated the stares, the whispers, the laughter, yes. But the solitude itself? That was my refuge. When I was alone, I could breathe.

My mother didn’t understand.

“Christian, you can’t keep shutting people out,” she said one evening, her voice full of worry. “You need friends.”

I didn’t answer. How could I explain that friendship felt like an exam I hadn’t studied for, one I was destined to fail? My father just sighed and muttered, “Leave the boy. He’s fine.” But I wasn’t fine. Not really.

The only place I felt something close to fine was the computer lab. It was quiet there, filled with the soft hum of machines. The computers didn’t ask me questions I couldn’t answer. They didn’t laugh if I stammered. They simply obeyed. I could sit for hours typing commands, experimenting with simple programs, losing myself in the logic of code. It was like discovering a language that finally made sense to me.

Late at night, when the house was silent, I would sit at my desk by the window and scroll through online forums. I never posted, never dared to join conversations. But I read everything guides on programming, tutorials on building websites, discussions about technology. Online, I could observe without being seen. It was safe.

Still, there were moments when the loneliness hit hard. When I saw groups of kids laughing in the cafeteria, I felt a hollow ache. I wanted that, too or at least I thought I did. But every time I tried to imagine myself in their shoes, the anxiety suffocated me. I would picture myself trying to join a conversation, and the panic would rise until I convinced myself it was better not to try at all.

There was one boy, though Ethan. He was quiet, too, though not like me. He was quiet because he chose to be, not because he was afraid. One day he sat next to me in the library.

“Hey,” he said casually.

I froze. “H-hi.”

“You like computers?” he asked, nodding at the book in my hands.

I nodded quickly.

He smiled. “Cool. Me too.”

For a moment, I thought maybe this was it the start of a friendship. But when he asked if I wanted to hang out after school, my chest tightened. My mouth went dry. I panicked.

“I I can’t,” I stammered. “I’m busy.”

He shrugged, not offended, but he never asked again. And I regretted it. God, I regretted it. But the fear was stronger than the regret.

By sophomore year, I had fully embraced my role: the loner. People stopped trying to talk to me. I was a background figure, the kid no one invited to parties, the one who existed only on attendance sheets. Rumors spread, of course. Some said I was stuck up. Others said I was depressed. Neither was true, but I didn’t bother correcting them. Let them think what they wanted. Silence was safer.

And so the years blurred together. Classes, homework, solitude. Nights spent with books and computers. Days spent avoiding people. It wasn’t a life full of joy, but it was a life I could endure.

Senior year crept up before I realized it. Graduation loomed, and with it came a new kind of fear: the future. High school had been its own kind of prison, but at least it was a prison I understood. What came after college, jobs, adulthood that was unknown. And the unknown terrified me even more than crowded hallways.