They Don’t Know I Won’t Be Here

The room buzzed with chatter, laughter bouncing off the walls as friends and family gathered around, planning holidays, weddings, and career goals. It was a celebration of the future — a collective intoxication with what’s to come.

But I sat there, distant, the noise like static, thinking only of the weight in my chest. It wasn’t that I didn’t care for them or their excitement. It was that I couldn’t see myself in their future. The calendar pages they spoke of felt like an alien concept like I had been removed from time.

They don’t know I won’t be here.

The phrase was a drumbeat in my mind. No one could see it; no one knew. The human experience is often one of shared struggles, but my battle felt solitary. How do you tell people you love that their excitement for the next chapter feels like salt on a wound you can’t close?

I wrestled with these thoughts often, standing at the precipice of existentialism and nihilism. In its defiance of despair, the former urges us to create meaning in a universe that offers none.

“Man is condemned to be free; because once thrown into the world, he is responsible for everything he does.” — Jean-Paul Sartre, Being and Nothingness.

This responsibility, to create purpose in an indifferent cosmos, felt like an unbearable weight. On the other hand, Nihilism whispered seductively of nothingness — a release from the ache of existence. Friedrich Nietzsche warned of this abyss: “He who fights with monsters should be careful lest he become a monster. And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you.”

I gazed into the abyss and found myself staring back.

Conversations at the Edge of Meaning

“I think I’ll take that internship in New York,” my cousin said, her voice bright with anticipation. She turned to me. “What about you? Any big plans for next year?”

I hesitated, plastering a smile on my face. “Not sure yet. I’m just taking it day by day.”

Her response was a nod, casual, as though my answer was neatly within the acceptable range of small talk. But inside, I felt a pang of envy for her certainty. She saw time as a canvas, stretching out endlessly before her. For me, time felt like a cage, suffocating and inescapable.

Later that evening, my best friend cornered me, her brow furrowed. “You’ve been quiet all night. Are you okay?”

I wanted to tell her. I wanted to say, I’m not okay. I don’t know if I’ll make it to next week, let alone next year. But the words felt stuck, like a lump in my throat.

Instead, I shrugged. “Just tired, I guess.”

Her concern lingered in her eyes, but she didn’t press. It was easier that way. Easier for everyone.

Existentialism and Nihilism, Nothing-ism

In these moments, I found myself grappling with two conflicting philosophies. Despite its daunting demand for self-created meaning, existentialism offers a flicker of hope. It argued that life’s lack of inherent purpose wasn’t a curse, but an opportunity.

“Life has no meaning a priori… It is up to you to give it a meaning, and value is nothing but the meaning that you choose.” — Jean-Paul Sartre

But how does one choose meaning when drowning in despair? Nihilism loomed like a shadow, promising relief. If nothing matters, then neither does the pain. But nihilism isn’t neutral; it’s corrosive. Nietzsche’s warning echoed in my mind: the abyss does not merely gaze — it consumes.

One night, I sat with my mother as she told me about her garden plans. “Next spring, I’m planting sunflowers,” she said, her face glowing with excitement. “They’re so cheerful, don’t you think?”

“They are,” I replied, forcing a smile. But in my mind, I wondered if I’d ever see them bloom.

Confronting the Void

Albert Camus offered an alternative perspective in The Myth of Sisyphus. He described life as inherently absurd, a constant struggle between our desire for meaning and the universe’s indifference. The image of Sisyphus, eternally pushing a boulder up a hill only for it to roll back down, resonated with me. Camus argued that Sisyphus must be imagined happy, finding contentment not in the destination, but in pushing the boulder.

Could I find joy in the struggle itself? Could I face the absurdity of existence without succumbing to despair?

One evening, as I walked home under a sky heavy with stars, I thought of Camus’s challenge. The stars didn’t care about me or my pain, yet their indifference felt oddly comforting. If the universe didn’t demand anything of me, then perhaps I‘m free to define my existence on my terms.

Dialogues in the Dark

A week later, I finally opened up to my best friend. We sat on her balcony, the city lights twinkling below us.

“I’ve been struggling,” I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper.

She turned to me, her expression soft. “With what?”

“With everything. Life, meaning, the future…” I trailed off, unsure how to articulate the depth of my pain.

She nodded, her gaze steady. “You don’t have to have it all figured out. None of us do. But I’m here. You don’t have to carry this alone.”

Her words didn’t erase the weight in my chest, but they made it more bearable. In that moment, I realized that while existentialism demands individual responsibility, it doesn’t negate the value of connection. Sartre’s assertion that “hell is other people” isn’t the whole story. Other people can also be a lifeline.

Finding Hope in the Absurd

As I navigated this turbulent period, I saw glimpses of hope — not as a grand epiphany, but as small, quiet moments. A stranger’s kindness. The laughter of a child. The way sunlight filters through leaves. These moments didn’t provide answers, but they reminded me that life’s beauty often lies in its fleeting, inexplicable nature.

“In the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer.” — Albert Camus, Return to Tipasa.

I clung to this idea, even when winter felt endless. The act of choosing to live, despite the pain and uncertainty, was perhaps an act of rebellion against the absurd.

They Know Now

I’m still here. And while the future remains uncertain, I’m learning to live with the questions, to sit with the discomfort of not knowing. My friends and family now know about my struggles. Some were shocked, others quietly supportive. But all of them reminded me of one thing: I am not alone.

Existentialism and nihilism confront the void, but where nihilism surrenders, existentialism persists. It dares to look into the abyss and say, “I will create my own meaning, my own light.”

They didn’t know before, but they know now. And so do I. I may not always feel like I belong in their plans or excitement for the future. But I am learning to carve out a place for myself, to find meaning in living, even when it feels impossible.

Because the truth is, I want to be here. And that’s enough for now.