The Silent Struggle of a Boy

The alarm clock rings—shrill, unrelenting, like a hammer striking against the walls of his mind. The boy opens his eyes to the dim glow of another morning, another beginning that feels no different from all the ones before. The same walls, the same ceiling, the same weight in his chest that never seems to leave. He sighs, forcing himself to sit up. Time doesn’t wait, and neither does life.

His hands move mechanically—brushing his teeth, getting dressed, buttoning his shirt. The actions are practiced, lifeless. As he steps out of his small room, the soft murmurs of his parents fill the air. Their words aren’t new. They speak of responsibilities, of stability, of preparing for a future he does not desire but cannot ignore. He respects them, so he sometimes opens those books, skimming through pages of formulas and theories, but his heart is elsewhere.

His heart is lost in an untold dream.

Stepping outside, he starts his bike, the cold wind hitting his face as he rides through the familiar streets. He drops his sister at school, his father at work. Their goodbyes are brief, routine. The city moves in loops—people walking, cars honking, vendors shouting. A cycle that never breaks. As he stops at a red light, he watches the world. It feels as if everyone knows their place but him.

Reaching his office at 10 AM, he takes his seat. The screen before him glows with emails, tasks, deadlines. He types, he codes, he completes assignments, but inside, he is elsewhere. His hands are here, but his mind is lost in a distant world. The hours move like molasses, slow and suffocating.

At lunch, he takes out his phone and calls his friend who lives in another country. The screen flickers, and his friend’s face appears—tired, yet familiar. They talk of work, of struggles, of life that moves forward without meaning. "Do you ever feel like you're just existing?" he asks. His friend exhales, looking away for a moment. "Every day," he replies.

The call ends. The feeling doesn’t.

Evening comes, and he leaves the office. The roads remain unchanged, the people just as hurried, the lights just as bright yet meaningless. He reaches home, changes his clothes, and sits for a moment. His mind is heavy, filled with exhaustion and sadness. Some days, he thinks about skipping the gym. What is the point? What difference does it make? But then, he looks at himself in the mirror. His body has changed, his bodyfat has grown. Perhaps this is the only thing he has control over. With a deep sigh, he pushes himself to go.

The gym is the only place where his mind quiets. Here, it’s just movement—lifting, pushing, pulling. It’s the only time he feels control over something. The weights may be heavy, but at least they make sense.

After returning home, he eats dinner with his family. Their words mix with the sound of clinking plates. Talks of future plans, of stability, of what must be done. He listens but does not answer. His silence is mistaken for agreement.

Night falls, and he lies on his bed, staring at the ceiling. His phone is in his hand. He scrolls through reels, watching random videos to distract his mind. For a moment, he feels lighter. He watches anything—humor, travel, people living a life he doesn’t have. Then, a thought strikes him. Maybe he should watch something meaningful. Something educational. He searches for a video on government exams, finds some study material. He tries to focus, but his mind drifts. The reels call him back, offering an escape, and once again, he gives in.

The weight of another day presses against his chest. He feels small, powerless. His dreams seem distant, like a forgotten melody in the wind. He wonders if life is supposed to be like this—an endless loop of expectations, duties, and silent disappointments.

The alarm clock rings again.

Another day begins.