Since childhood, my life had been filled with sorrow, despair, and a revolting naivety that though pathetic kept me alive.

  I was born in a big city, full of opportunities for those with money and connections.

  I used to be enchanted by stories of people who, against all odds, achieved the impossible through hard work and a bit of luck. But as I grew older, I witnessed how many crumbled under the weight of reality.

  I saw contempt most often from those who were supposed to love the most: family, friends, those closest.

  I don’t know when exactly I decided to become a puppet of my own cowardice.

  My lack of assertiveness led me where I never wanted to be studying photography, a field I despised with all my heart.

  I dreamed of being a writer. Something as real to me as dreams of flying: beautiful, but impossible.

  I drowned those dreams in cheap wine and endless brooding over the past.

  I remember the first story I ever wrote. I was proud of it.

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  My brother burned it.

  Burned it right in front of me, screaming over and over:

  "Freak! Freak! Loser! L-loser!"

  My parents said nothing. Deep down, they felt the same.

  Instead of doing something "useful" like medicine or law, I buried myself in books.

  Stupid books, they said.

  And over time, my fear of people turned into physical pain.

  The kind that squeezed my chest every time I had to leave the house for bread.

  The thought of interacting with another human being someone who might judge my trembling hands, my unsure gaze, my stupid smile made me sick to my stomach.

  With every passing day, my hatred for people grew.

  Most of them had someone.

  Someone who supported them, even with a single word.

  Someone who had once said, "You are enough."

  I had no one.

  No one to share a single thought with that wasn’t just an empty lie.

  So... does any of this make any sense?