Standing in the kitchen, the boy heard the animated chatter coming from the window. Outside, a class of schoolchildren was walking by back from an excursion, their spirits high from being out of the classroom on this sunny day. Peeking through the kitchen blinds, the boy looked at the children, envious and fearful. He felt an impossible longing. A trial he has already failed countless times. He could not join them and he never would.

    He watched the last of the children walk past as the silence of the house stretched out towards him. It was eleven thirty on a working day. His mother somewhere far away and his brother at school. This was his domain now, familiar yet undesirable. He piled the dishes and continued his routine, walking back to his room upstairs.

    “School is not for me, you know that” the boy said to himself. “You can learn whatever you want yourself and it is a waste of time anyway.”

    Many years ago, he found that he was the best conversation partner. No misinterpretations, physical language, tone (all which are easily misunderstood), or impossible eye contact necessary.

    His room was small with a bed and a few book cases. He loved to read. After finishing a book he would lie on his bed and imagine himself as a character in the book. Strong and always in control. Closing the curtains, the boy would hide under his blankets in the darkness. Catatonic, staring at the wall for hours and hours, his body only an anchor to the real world.

    On other days, he would lie in his bed and simply listen to all the sounds out there. The soft light filtering through the window blinds. The sound of the tree from the garden outside, the bird, the occasional passerby, or zoom of a vehicle. Sometimes, he could even hear the sound of the train braking at some distant station.

    On those soft summer days, he did not mind as much, the impossible longing. The boy found comfort in his home, the familiar, the safe, the welcoming.

    “Besides,” he said, “I won’t grow old anyway, so why even bother.”

    All was well.

Author Bio: Milan Ismangil studied musicology and Asian studies after landing in the communications department to pursue a PHD. He writes about culture and everyday life at: https://notjustaboutculture.com