A LONER

THE FIRST JOB (ONE)

(Part One)

Graduation was supposed to feel like freedom, but for me it felt like standing at the edge of a cliff with no rope, no wings, no parachute just the dizzying drop into a world I didn’t know how to survive.

For a few weeks after the ceremony, I convinced myself that maybe I could rest, that maybe people got some sort of grace period before stepping into adulthood. I spent my days in my room, the blinds half-drawn, my laptop glowing in the darkness like some kind of portal to a safer world. I scrolled through forums, tinkered with little programs, and read articles about technology. It was comfortable, familiar.

But my parents didn’t see it that way.

One evening at dinner, my father set his fork down with a sharp clang. “So, Christian,” he said, his voice steady but carrying that edge I knew too well, “what’s next?”

I swallowed a mouthful of rice that suddenly tasted like chalk. “Next?” I repeated, stalling.

“Yes, next. You’ve graduated. High school is behind you. You need to start thinking about your future.”

My mother, ever the peacemaker, smiled softly at me. “Your father just means… maybe it’s time you look for a job. Or college. Something.”

The word job made my stomach twist. I nodded weakly. “I’ll… I’ll figure it out.”

But I didn’t figure it out. Days turned into weeks, and my parents’ patience thinned. My father began leaving newspaper clippings of job listings on my desk. My mother started dropping hints “I saw that the bank downtown is hiring,” “Your cousin Sarah just got a job at the clinic” as though their success stories could somehow push me into action.

Eventually, my father took matters into his own hands. One night, he knocked on my bedroom door and entered without waiting for me to answer. He stood there holding a slip of paper.

“I spoke with an old colleague of mine,” he said firmly. “He can get you an interview at his firm. Office work. Nothing too complicated. You’ll start as an assistant, learn the ropes. It’s a good opportunity.”

My chest tightened. “Dad, I don’t”

“You need this, Christian,” he cut in. “You can’t hide in this room forever. Life doesn’t wait for anyone.”

I wanted to argue, to explain that offices and crowds weren’t places where I could function. But the weight of his expectation crushed the words in my throat. I nodded instead.

The interview itself was awkward. I sat in the reception area, my palms slick with sweat, my heart pounding like it wanted to escape my ribcage. The secretary smiled at me, but I couldn’t smile back. I rehearsed answers in my head short, simple, safe. When they finally called me in, I stumbled through the questions.

Somehow, maybe out of pity or because of my father’s connection, they offered me the job. My parents were thrilled. My father clapped me on the back with rare pride, my mother hugged me so tightly I thought I might suffocate. “See? I told you you could do it,” she said.

But inside, I felt dread. I hadn’t done anything. I had been carried there by someone else’s string. And now I was trapped.

The first day of work was a nightmare.

The office was everything I feared: open spaces, rows of desks, people bustling around with coffee cups, conversations flying in every direction. Phones rang, keyboards clacked, laughter echoed. The air itself seemed thick with noise.

As soon as I walked in, I could feel my body betraying me. My hands trembled. My throat dried up. My heart raced so fast I thought I might faint. Everyone seemed to look at me, even though I knew logically they weren’t. Still, the weight of imagined eyes pressed down on me, suffocating.

A woman from HR gave me a tour, but her words blurred into meaningless sounds. I nodded at the right moments, pretended to follow, but I was too busy fighting the rising panic in my chest. By the time she dropped me at my desk, I was shaking.

The desk itself wasn’t bad a computer, a phone, a neat little space. But it was surrounded by people. To my left, a man in his thirties typed furiously while chatting on the phone. To my right, a woman laughed with a coworker. Behind me, footsteps and conversations never ceased.

I sat frozen, staring at the monitor, praying no one would talk to me.

Of course, someone did.

“Hey, you must be the new guy,” the man on my left said, glancing at me.

I forced a smile. “Y-yeah. Christian.”

“Nice to meet you, Christian. I’m Mark.” He reached out a hand.

My palms were sweaty, but I shook it anyway. He didn’t comment on my weak grip, though I saw the flicker of something pity, maybe cross his face.

The rest of the day passed in a haze of introductions and small tasks. I was asked to file documents, deliver papers, sit in on a meeting. The meeting was the worst. Ten people in a small room, voices overlapping, eyes darting around. When the manager asked for my input, my mind went blank. I muttered something incoherent, cheeks burning, and the conversation moved on without me.

By the time I got home that evening, I was drained. My parents asked how it went. I lied. “It was fine,” I said. “Just a lot to take in.” They beamed, relieved.

But it wasn’t fine. It was unbearable.

The days turned into weeks. Each morning, I woke with a pit in my stomach, dreading the office. Each evening, I came home exhausted, not from the work itself but from the constant performance of trying to exist in that space.

I avoided conversations, but they still found me. A coworker asking if I wanted to join them for lunch. Someone jokingly asking why I was so quiet. The manager encouraging me to “speak up more.” Every interaction felt like climbing a mountain with broken legs.

One day, during a team meeting, the manager suddenly called on me again. “Christian, what do you think of this proposal?”

My throat closed. The room blurred. I could feel sweat dripping down my back. Words wouldn’t come. I opened my mouth, but only silence came out. People shifted in their chairs, waiting. Someone coughed. Finally, the manager sighed and moved on.

The humiliation was crushing.

That afternoon, I had my first real panic attack. I was sitting at my desk, staring at the monitor, when suddenly the room felt too small, the air too thin. My chest tightened, and I couldn’t breathe. I stood abruptly, muttered something about needing the restroom, and rushed out. In the stall, I gripped the edges of the sink, gasping, tears blurring my vision. My hands shook violently. I thought I might die.

It passed after a few minutes, but I was left hollow, trembling, ashamed.

When I got home that night, my mother asked if I was okay. I nodded, forcing a smile. My father talked about responsibility, about how proud he was that I was “becoming a man.” His words cut deep, because I didn’t feel like a man. I felt like a child lost in a storm.

Still, I kept going back. Day after day, I forced myself through those doors, sat at that desk, endured the endless noise and the constant fear of being noticed. But each day chipped away at me a little more.

After a month, I began to wonder if I could keep doing this at all.