S.25.23:

Today, the sun shone brightly as I stepped outside. Despite greeting a few people, none of them responded. It made me wonder if I am the reason why. Nobody ever talks to me. Does anybody ever see me?

M.26.23:

I really don’t want to be alone. I’ve never said this out loud before, but the fear of being alone consumes me. No matter what I do, I always end up alone. The thought of dying alone terrifies me. I crave human connection, longing to be recognized in this world. Instead, I'm just a stranger to everyone, a person to avoid.

A stranger to everyone I pass, to everyone I smile at, to everyone I talk to. They just look at me, and they tell each other, “Don’t talk to that stranger.”, “Don’t talk to the stranger over there.”

I’m a real person.

T.27.23:

Last night, I talked to God. I didn't have much to say, but I wanted to see if he remembered me. I spent the entire day in my room, afraid to face the sun again. Seeing it for the last time would hurt. I'm not afraid of death, I think, but I fear seeing everything for the last time. The idea of saying, "I'm going to die tomorrow; it's the last time I'll see you." feels strange. How do you say goodbye?

W.28.23:

Today, I said goodbye to everyone I saw. I was afraid at first, but nobody even responded, so it didn't seem to matter. It's astounding, isn't it? No one said a word. Sometimes I question why I bother speaking at all. It's a melancholic feeling, this awareness of death.

I feel it everywhere, but it's in my heart where it hurts the most. When I stand on that bridge, I hope the sun will shine my face one last time. That’d be a sweet thing.. one last connection. If you could call it that. I wonder, on my tombstone, will they write “the stranger”? I don’t think anyone knows my name.

Should I say it, scream it out the window so that everyone can hear me? I won't, but the temptation is there. Sometimes I want so badly to be heard, yet deep down, I know that as time passes and days grow old, everything I once said will be forgotten.

I hope someone discovers this notebook so they know I existed. Spoken words can fade from memory, but if I record everything in writing, maybe nobody will forget.

I am real, and I was here.