Where It All Begins

It was the first semester of the year. The clanging bell sliced through the usual buzz of the hallway, swallowed afterwards by a low rumble of hundreds of voices talking at once. I as walking down the hall, feeling alone like a small boat in a rushing river of backpacks and talking students. Names floated around me – parties, bad grades – but they sounded far away, like people talking in another room. I stared down at the scratched floor, the peeling paint on the walls covered in posters that were once bright. A group of girls zipped past me. Their perfume smelled like candy, then faded away quick. A tussle of hair snagged on to the corner of my eyes for a second before the current of the hall swept them away. I reached up and brushed it off. 

Following the hallway, I found my classroom, the second door on the left. The heavy wooden door stood in front of me, like a giant's entrance to another boring hour. I took a deep breath. The air was stale and dusty, smelling of old books and sweaty teenagers. Stepping through the door, I became part of the background noise. 

Another face in a crowd. 

Homeroom began as usual. And as it was the first day of the year, just like any year prior, our teacher moved through the rows, distributing the handouts among us. 

It has remained the same since middle school. I can still clearly remember, the classroom filled with the soft rustle of paper and the scratch-scratch of pens as everyone started writing. The paper used to have a big, bold title at the top: "Dream in Life." It grabbed your attention right away. This was one of those exercises we all knew by heart, where you had to write down what you wanted to be when you grew up. Every school did it, but at our school, it was a yearly tradition. They believed that writing down our dreams and watching them evolve over time served as a reminder of our personal growth, and the value of pursuing those dreams.

Like drawing a map of where you wanted your life to go.

However, in the end, the contents of our dreams often boiled down to something simple and predictable, like 'I want to be a doctor' or 'A pilot'... or 'An astronaut'... the usual fare. Well, kids aren't meant to plan for theirs dream while being firmly grounded, or well, just plain realistic, unlike adults. And that's how it was for all of us, for me as well.

When I was still a kid, my father would always bring me toy airplanes as birthday gifts. I remember receiving my first one when I was around 7 or something, a sleek silver model, although the rest of it's a little fuzzy. But I remember loving that plane. After that, all I ever wanted were more model airplanes. Nothing else came close. And that's what I always wrote on those papers, year after year: "pilot."

Dreaming big and setting goals, no matter how crazy they sound, is important. It gives you a reason to keep going, reminds you of what matters. But what happens when those dreams just... disappear? Like how the morning sun chases away your nighttime dreams, those maps I'd drawn of my life just faded away. And after each passing year, I just kept getting further and further away from ever getting them back.

As we all moved forward to high school, and everything around us seemed to be sailing straight ahead, it felt like I was lagging behind for the first time. Everyone else seemed to be progressing, whether in academics or other pursuits. It wasn't for lack of effort on my part; I was consistently below average in studies and unsuccessful in anything I attempted. And it had been like this ever since my childhood, when my mother made me try everything under the sun. I have an elder brother, quite a few years ahead of me. He is, what you may call "picture-perfect" in anything he does. The complete antithesis of me.

This year's paper felt different though. Unlike the bold, shouty "Dream in Life" of middle school, this one had a small, stubborn title: "Future Plans." And instead of picking a dream from our heads, this time, we had to dig deeper. It wasn't just about one big wish anymore. The page was covered in boxes, each one asking about a different piece of our future – college, jobs, where we'd live, all that stuff. It wasn't just hopeful anymore, it was filled with questions and a strange kind of nervous energy. I stared down at the paper, my pen feeling like it was stuck in glue. My hand wouldn't move, not even a little scratch on the blank page.

My dream, always, had been pilot. Yeah, pilot. That's what I'd written every year. But now, looking closer, how much of that dream was actually mine?

Was it because of all those toy airplanes my father gave me? Maybe. I was a little kid then, not much bigger than the planes themselves, and that's what I decided I wanted to be. A pilot. Like in the stories he'd read me at night, soaring through the clouds.

Except... those planes weren't really toys I played with. They were more like trophies, proof that I was trying my best. Trying to be the kind of kid they all thought I could be. But as I got older, though, the truth started to crack open. 

The dreams I held onto weren't mine. They were built from other people's hopes and wishes, not my own. My giant imagination, the one that could take me anywhere, started to shrink, leaving a big, empty space behind. Now, with my eyes open or closed, it's all the same. My mind is a blank canvas, covered in a thick, heavy fog of doubt. I'm like a blank canvas myself, painted in shades of "what if" and "maybe not."

Where did that kid go? The one who dared to dream without limits, who believed in a future full of possibilities? It wasn't that long ago, I can still see those memories clear. It's not about time passing, it's not about growing up. So what is it?

In the end, I filled in all the boxes with boring old "yes" answers and wrote down "pilot" for my career. I could already hear the laughter if anyone saw it. 

"Reol? A pilot? Seriously?" or "Have you looked in a mirror, buddy?" or even "Pick something you can actually do."

But my mind was empty, and "pilot" seemed like the least bad option. Does it even matter what I write? It feels like no matter what I pick, it won't be good enough, like I'll always be a disappointment.

"Hey, pesky, you can't avoid this," Hugh yelled, cornering the boy against the wall. A fit of coughing wracked the boy's body as he struggled to hold his ground. "Just hand over the money."

"Like I told you, I don't have any today..." The boy's voice was barely a squeak, barely loud enough to be heard over the pounding of my own heart.

"What's that?" Hugh roared, stomping his foot right next to the boy's shoulder, making him flinch. Leaning in close, his face twisted into a snarl that didn't reach his cold eyes, Hugh hissed, "I said, I WANT THE MONEY!" Even though it was just a whisper, it held a sharp edge. "Do you honestly think you have any say in this situation?"

This scene wasn't unique to our school; it happens everywhere really. It was like there were two sides to a coin – the "haves" and the "have-nots." We all started out the same, blank slates, but somewhere between the first breath and the final goodbye, things changed. Moreover, most of the time, we have little control over the groups we end up in. As a result, a small minority of the guys on top, scared of losing their place, shoved the ones below them even harder to stay there.

Hugh turned his glare on me. "Reol, check if he's holding out on us. He's nearly done for. No point in beating him senseless." I searched the boy's pockets and bag, scuffling through his books and stuff, yet only finding an ID card with the name Kit Turner. Class C, same grade as ours.

I felt like a ghost, invisible in the dim hallway light. But even though I was hidden, I couldn't bring myself to step in. The last thing I wanted was to become another target, another helpless victim sucked into their black hole of violence. My eyes darted, not for escape, but for something, anything, I could do without drawing attention.

"H-he's telling the truth, Hugh. No money on him."

"Are you kidding me?" Hugh's rage was released on a chair, sending it crashing into a nearby desk.

"Um... l-let's leave him be." I stammered. "Another beating won't-" He cut me off before I could finish, shoving me aside with a rough hand. "HUH!? Leave him be? He needs to learn a lesson! I can't let him think he can get away with this!"

Though I was physically safe, the situation repulsed me. Not because of my actions, but my inaction. I loathed myself for allowing this, for being part of their games. I was no different from the boy on the floor, a pawn in Hugh's control. If he snapped, there'd be no escape for me too.

"Reol, you must have some cash on you, right?" Hugh's voice was low and dangerous.

"W-what are you talking about? I don't have anything..." My voice cracked under his icy stare.

"Don't play dumb. You always have something."

"But I already lent you money-" I stopped mid-sentence. Finishing the line wasn't an option here. Or you could say my very final option. The pain from his grip on my shoulder was shooting up my arm. "Lent?" He squeezed even harder. "You call that lending? Aren't we friends?" The way he said "friends" sent another jolt of fear through me. 

It all disgusts me. How did things end up like this? I never wished for getting entangled in this mess. All I wanted was to stay out of trouble, to avoid getting hurt. But somehow, I got dragged in anyway, and now my name was stuck with something I barely had anything to do with. I never meant to be a bother, if anything, I'd rather just melt into the background, be invisible. That would be perfect. But now, everyone was staring – classmates, parents – and I couldn't look any of them in the eye.

If only I had a little more courage, there would've been so many things I could've done right. I want to look back at them straight, and not divert my gaze away. I want to let them know that they're getting everything wrong. But each time, the weight of all the mistakes from before weighs down on me, a heavy burden that wraps around my chest and squeezes until it's suffocating. The gazes of those around me feel like hot needles, piercing right through me, as if they can see every flaw, every insecurity. But never the pain inside. Never.

Standing there, any flicker of courage to change felt like a single grain of sand on a beach – nothing compared to the crashing waves of everyone's opinions. It's like... you know those pictures where the faces are covered in black ink scribbles all over. It's really frightening, that sensation of being the only one unable to grasp anything about them. And it goes both ways. Those scribbles are like walls, or maybe even chains, keeping me stuck as this messed-up version of myself.

I knew couldn't allow myself to be swayed by the opinions of others, but I didn't have enough courage to spare on that too, making me feel so restless... and unstable. My voice was killed and lowered, as I thoughtlessly nodded to things I'd never wanted to do.

"Pathetic!" 

"Keep your head down! Don't even glance our way!" The words echoed in my mind, pushing me further down. It was too much to bear.

It was all just so draining.

As I clung to the belief that there was still time, the regrets for my past inactions and the fear that kept me imprisoned in the gaze of others swirled together like a tangled knot, unclear and overpowering.

Amid this chaos, there was only one thing on my mind...

How many times have I experienced those fleeting moments, those instances when I believed I could wake up and turn into a better version of myself? How often have those moments come and gone? Every single time, I find myself caught in the same cycle, like a broken record endlessly replaying the same mistakes. It's beyond frustrating; it's a continuous struggle that leaves me exhausted.

I'm haunted by the ghost of my own selfish dreams, dreams that I once held close to my heart and believed in with unwavering determination. Yet, I've become the architect of my own disappointment, shattering those dreams with my own hands, piece by piece. It's a bitter irony – to want something so badly, only to let it crumble down when it's within reach.

What can I even do now? Is there anyone, just anyone, who can answer for me? 

The people around me seem so carefree. Their happiness only intensifies my envy. How can I make them understand the chaos that burns me inside out, the storm I battle every day? When will someone step into my darkness and offer a glimmer of light, a hand to pull me out? Is there hope for rescue, or am I left to wander this abyss alone?