It starts like this: You don’t notice the walls closing in until the only thing left is the space inside your head. At first, it’s a slow fade, like a badly written TV character disappearing between seasons. You’re just skipping an outing here, a class there. Then one day, stepping outside feels like stepping onto an alien planet where the gravity is all wrong, and everyone is staring at you even though you know, logically, that they aren’t.
For me, the tipping point was sometime after high school, though I can’t tell you exactly when. The years have melted together into one long, unbroken line of late nights and later mornings, microwaved meals, and digital companionship that never quite fills the space it promises to. My parents still live just on the other side of my door, but I’ve mastered the art of moving like a ghost. The house is quietest after midnight, so that’s when I emerge—shuffle to the kitchen, eat in silence, slink back into my room before the world stirs awake again.
I used to have ambitions. Maybe I still do, buried under all this inertia. There was a time when I thought I’d learn an instrument, get in shape, be someone worth talking to. But every self-improvement project starts with one small step, and every small step feels like an insurmountable climb when you’re this deep in the fog. To leave this room, to even engage with another human being, is to risk exposure—of what, exactly, I can’t even say. My own failure? My own irrelevance? My own glaring lack of place in the world?
The internet used to be my refuge. A place where I could slip between the cracks and disappear into conversations that weren’t really conversations, relationships that weren’t really relationships. Now, even that has started to feel exhausting. The threads repeat themselves, the same discussions looping endlessly, and I can feel myself aging out of them without actually growing. Even when I try to reach out—to comment, to engage—I second-guess every word. Am I trying too hard? Saying too little? Does it even matter?
I saw my reflection yesterday. I mean, I always see it in that passing, unconscious way—when the screen goes dark for a second, when I catch a glimpse in the bathroom mirror before I turn away. But this time, I really looked. And I saw it: a thinning patch at my hairline. Just enough to remind me that time is still moving, even though I’m not. I stood there for a moment, hands gripping the sink, and felt the weight of it pressing down on me. A physical reminder that the days don’t stop, even when I do.
Most of my days are spent lying in bed, shifting between half-sleep and mindless scrolling. I try to play video games, but they don’t hold my attention the way they used to. The thrill of leveling up, of completing quests—it used to feel like progress, like I was achieving something, even in a digital world. Now, it just feels like going through the motions. I queue up a show I’ve seen before, let it play in the background, let the dialogue blend into white noise. I don’t know if I’m even watching anymore or if I just need something to fill the silence.
The years pile up. At first, I thought of this as temporary—a break, a moment of pause. But the pause stretched, extended, became my life. I’m 37 now, still in the same room, still waiting for something to push me forward. Time has passed without me, like a show I meant to keep up with but abandoned somewhere in season three. People my age are married, have children, careers, things to look forward to. I still have the mind of a 16-year-old, locked in that moment when I first stepped away from the world.
I’ve never had a job. Never been in love. Never been kissed. My entire life exists within this room, between the screen and the silence, between the night and the next night. People love a comeback story. The underdog who gets back up, the recluse who finds their way into the light. But there are no swelling orchestras in real life, no perfectly timed epiphanies. Just an endless string of days where you either claw your way forward or sink a little deeper.
I don’t know which one today will be. But I know this: the walls are still here. The door is still closed. And I am still waiting for something—anything—to change.