A LONER

THE FIRST JOB(TWO)

I lasted two more weeks before everything came crashing down.

It was a Thursday morning, and the office was unusually busy. Phones were ringing nonstop, people were rushing back and forth with folders in their hands, and the manager seemed to be in every corner at once. I was at my desk, trying to focus on a spreadsheet, when Mark leaned over.

“Hey, Christian, can you take these files to the meeting room? They need them right away.”

I looked at the stack of papers. My heart immediately began to race. Carrying files wasn’t the problem it was stepping into that meeting room, where at least a dozen people would be gathered, where I’d have to open the door, walk in, and feel every eye land on me.

Still, I nodded weakly and stood, the papers trembling in my hands. As I walked down the hall, my chest tightened. Each step felt heavier than the last. When I reached the door, I froze. I could hear the muffled hum of voices inside, laughter, someone speaking confidently.

I couldn’t do it.

My vision blurred. My throat closed up. I turned abruptly, nearly colliding with someone in the hallway, and muttered, “Sorry,” before retreating to the restroom. Inside, I locked myself in a stall and sat on the closed toilet seat, clutching the papers to my chest as though they could protect me.

I stayed there until the voices in the hallway quieted down, until my breathing slowed, until I could at least stand without collapsing. When I finally returned to my desk, Mark gave me a puzzled look. “Didn’t you drop them off?”

“I… I couldn’t find the manager,” I lied, placing the papers back on his desk.

He frowned but didn’t press. Still, the shame burned inside me.

The breaking point came the following Monday. There was another team meeting, and I had already begun dreading it the night before. Sleep evaded me I tossed and turned, sweating through the sheets, my mind replaying every humiliating silence I’d endured before. By the time morning came, I was exhausted, running on nerves alone.

The meeting started. I sat near the corner of the table, trying to make myself invisible. Notes filled the whiteboard, numbers and strategies tossed around like casual conversation. I kept my head down, scribbling nonsense in my notebook just to appear busy.

And then it happened.

“Christian,” the manager said, his voice sharp but not unkind. “What’s your take on this?”

The entire room turned toward me.

The air left my lungs. My pen slipped from my hand and clattered onto the table. Dozens of eyes bore into me, waiting. Expecting. My lips parted, but no words came. My tongue felt thick, useless. My brain screamed at me to say something anything but my body refused to obey.

Seconds stretched into eternity. Someone cleared their throat. A chair creaked. Heat flooded my face, and the pressure in my chest became unbearable. Finally, in a voice barely above a whisper, I stammered, “I… I’m not sure.”

The manager’s eyes softened slightly, but the moment had already destroyed me. He nodded and moved on, but I couldn’t hear the rest of the meeting. I sat there, trembling, wishing I could vanish into the floor.

When it was over, I excused myself and walked straight to the restroom. I locked the door and collapsed against the sink, sobbing silently, my body shaking with each breath. My reflection in the mirror was unrecognizable red eyes, pale skin, hair damp with sweat. I looked like someone on the verge of collapse.

And maybe I was.

That evening, I couldn’t bring myself to eat dinner. My mother asked if something was wrong, but I mumbled that I was just tired. My father, oblivious to the storm inside me, spoke proudly about how I was “gaining real-world experience.” Each word felt like a knife.

I didn’t sleep that night. Instead, I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, my mind spinning in endless circles. The conclusion became unavoidable: I couldn’t do this anymore. The office, the people, the constant pressure it was killing me from the inside out.

The next morning, with trembling hands, I typed up a resignation letter. Simple. Polite. Cowardly, maybe. I printed it out and carried it to work, the paper folded neatly in my pocket like a confession note.

When I handed it to the manager, his brows furrowed. “Are you sure about this, Christian? You’ve only just started.”

I nodded, unable to meet his gaze. “I… it’s not the right fit.”

He sighed, as though disappointed but unsurprised. “Well, I can’t force you. Best of luck.”

Walking out of that office for the last time, I felt a strange mixture of relief and shame. Relief because the crushing weight had been lifted from my shoulders. Shame because I had failed not just the job, but my father’s expectations, society’s path, the “normal” life everyone else seemed to handle so effortlessly.

When I got home and told my parents, the reactions were predictable.

My mother’s face fell, sadness clouding her eyes. “Oh, Christian…” she whispered. “Are you sure? Maybe you should have given it more time.”

My father, on the other hand, erupted. “You can’t just quit every time things get hard! Do you think the world cares about your feelings? This is life! You need to grow up!”

His words cut deep, but I had no defense. I just stood there, silent, absorbing the storm.

Later that night, alone in my room, I sat at my desk and stared at my computer. The glow of the screen felt like a familiar friend. The internet was full of possibilities courses, tutorials, guides to skills I could learn. Skills I could practice alone, in the safety of my room.

Maybe, I thought, I could find another way.

So I tried.

I downloaded a free graphic design program and followed a YouTube tutorial. My lines were crooked, my colors garish, my designs laughable. I tried again. And again. Each attempt looked worse than the last.

Next, I dipped into coding. I signed up for an online course, typing out basic “Hello, World” programs. At first, it felt exciting like I was unlocking a secret language. But then came the harder lessons, the logic puzzles that twisted my brain into knots. Error messages haunted me. I slammed my fist against the desk in frustration more times than I could count.

I tried writing. I thought maybe I could be one of those bloggers who made money online. But every sentence I wrote sounded clumsy, hollow. I abandoned draft after draft, convinced I had no voice worth sharing.

Failure followed me like a shadow.

And yet… something inside me refused to stop. Even as frustration mounted, even as I felt useless, I kept coming back to the screen. I wanted to believe there was a space for me here, somewhere hidden in the vast expanse of the digital world.

The solitude was comforting. There were no coworkers watching, no managers waiting for me to speak, no expectations I couldn’t meet. Just me and the glow of the monitor, battling myself in silence.

I didn’t know it then, but this was the beginning of everything.