Crouching on her knees, she reaches for the pen underneath her bed. There is no one there, no one to help her, no one to listen to her, no one to attend to her – yet the room next door echoes of snores. She muffles a plea, but they do not come. She bends a little more, a little again, yet again – and then, she falls. Pain shoots up her spine, tears well in her eyes, blood forms in her mouth for she has bit her tongue. But no one comes, No one.

She is alone.

His beats are slow and he is asleep, but he can hear their words. They are shouting for him to get up, and drag his lazy ass to work. It is important, he knows. His widowed mother and young siblings cannot get as much work done as he could – a boy of eighteen, a proper man. Yet when he tries to move his legs, he fails. He is alive, but there is no feel in him. He wants to get up, but he can’t.

A tear shakes out through the closed eyelids, lying to rest on his nose. He is helpless.
He is alone.

The room is dark, yet a lamp is lit. In the very corner of the cubed space, she sits, her back bent, eyes focused on a page. A to-do list is stuck at the table, and she eyes it every half hour to cross out tasks she has done. Inflation, Employment, Power Resources, Homeostasis: She has yet to cover some topics. Night races, her head aches, and her stomach grumbles, yet she has to work if she has to live. She turns around to see her family contently sleeping. They are lucky. They don’t have to fight for survival. There are no tears, only lines of worry, although crying would have helped. But she has no time, none at all.

She is alone.

One of these three people is me. One of these three might be sitting on the other end of the world. One of these three people might be dead by the time I write about it, but they must be voiced. They are the reflection of us, the niche that strives among the dense population. They are the fighters – the group of people who do not have enough physical strength; the group of people who battle themselves every second of their lives, and are frequently misunderstood. They live in misery and die in loneliness. This is the story of life daring us to live. This is our story – using up every last ounce of our strengths to barely get through the day.

We are not lazy. We are not couch potatoes, not hazy drunkards, not lame burdens on their parents. No, we are none of it. We did not choose to be deprived of the energy our peers have; we were blessed with the curse. We were forced to live with an issue that no one understands; after all, how do you explain it to somebody that you could not come to school yesterday because you just couldn’t get up? No, we are not malnourished; we are not choosy-food-pickers. We are not kids who make excuses. We, of all people, would love to get up and run through the day like there is no stopping us.

But we can’t. Yet we have to see you laugh fiercely as you actively spend the day. I could have been a tennis player, but I can’t help if I suffocate after the fourth throw. I would gladly be Arya Stark sprinting across the seven realms with a sword in hand, but I just can’t. If I tell you that I spend a good deal of fifteen minutes trying to challenge all my will power, just to get that glass of water across the room, you wouldn’t believe me. You would label me a liar, a story teller, I know. You already have. But no, I am not.

I am none of those lazy bones you imagine in your stories. I am simply a person with a lack of physical strength. No, I don’t want you to pity me! No, don’t you dare sympathize with me. I have all the resolution in the world, I have my wits as sharp as an axe, I have my words, and I have my senses. I can write stories that would rip your heart to pieces. I can command an entire business at my feet. I can make a yearly appearance in your social circles and yet be charming. But I could also readily give it all up.

You know why, don’t you? It would just to be with you! You, mum, if you would listen to me and give me hope; You, sister, if you would share your secrets with me; you, brother, if you would not disown me just because I can’t play catch with you; you, friend, if you would not isolate me as a boring, fat snail. I would give it up for you all, if you would ever love me, understand me, laugh with me, cry with me, dine with me - if you could ever, ever make me feel that I was too a human, and not just a biological product gone wrong.

But you wouldn’t, would you? Your standards are too high; your ego too big to spare…