My name is Jonathan Gao. I am a high school student. I am seventeen-years old. Okay. Now I remember everything. I went to bed last night after a long study session. Good. I have some ground on reality.

I sit myself up. I woke up just in time for school. I fit my school uniform on, buttoning the white shirt before I start cooking breakfast. My parents are still abroad in China for their company, so it’s up to me to take care of myself.

I make it to my school. It’s strange: high school. It’s supposed to be the time of my life, but it feels nothing short of a waste. I either choose to be with people I know I will never meet again. Or I choose to drain myself for “my benefit.” Even though I may never see what this benefit is or where it takes me.

But it still annoys me. The babbling of kids as they pretend that everything is fine. As they pretend that they don’t secretly hate each other. As they pretend that their world won’t end in one day. As they pretend that whatever place they have in this world is completely fragile.

“John! Are you even listening to me?!”

“What?”

Shit. Yasmin had been talking to me this whole while. I must’ve been so deep in thought that I didn’t even notice. Jesus, I’m unfocused.

Yasmin’s this girl who likes to sit by me and talk. She has long, curly, dark hair which reaches to her shoulders and solid, black glasses to match. I don’t know why she wants to sit by me all the time, but I don’t exactly mind her presence.

“Anyways,” she sighs, “Mr. Kim wanted us to choose partners for the presentations, and I was wondering if you were willing to–”

“I already finished mine,” I tell her.

She gives me a strange look. She’s surprised, but I can taste a little bit of disappointment which sits in her eyes like an unwanted guest. “Oh,” she says. “Did you already choose a partner or something?”

“No,” I answer her. “I was just going to do it by myself.”

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“Oh.”

Now I can return to what I was doing: working on practice tests. I’m right now stuck at a 35 for the ACT, but I’m off by one point for the reading portion. That means that I have to sharpen that corner, even though I also know very well that a good college would rather have a “relatable” person than me.

Something I also noticed about high school is that every class is virtually the same. Sitting in a place for an hour or two, moving my pencil and pretending to think that this is going to save me, and then going to the next class. It’s all the same thing: pretend.

“John! Were you not listening to me?!” Yasmin’s yelling at me again. I must’ve been droned out in thought. Sitting at the lunch table with me, Yasmin’s still determined to talk to me even though I have my computer out.

“Anyways,” she says, “are you free anytime soon?”

“I don’t think so,” I answer her. “I have a lot of things to work on.”

I’m not lying to her. I’m kind of at the front of our school’s coding competitions since everybody else just uses the club as a hangout space. But that’s fine. I’ll just keep working.

Now I’m back to my classes. I sit, move, sit, move, sit, move, and, most importantly, pretend. Then, finally, the bell rings and the school day ends. But my day isn’t over yet. I have more to do.

They say that martial arts is supposed to make you feel better. And maybe for some people, throwing some punches and kicks is what’s needed to keep them going. But I’m not like that at all. For me, it’s just another extra-curricular.

“John! Go easier on him!” Oh shit. Sitting in front of me is the guy I just knocked down. What happened? I think I threw a combo and ended it with a kick to his head. At least he’s still conscious. I need to pay more attention.

Now I’m back home. I take a shower and then change into a new pair of clothes. I eat my dinner with rice I keep in the cooker, spam I keep in the cabinet, and vegetables I buy on the weekends. My parents text me.

“Here is the money. Keep up the good work!” They send my money every week or so to make sure I can survive. They also give words of encouragement. I want to be encouraged. But it doesn’t really work.

I’m done eating. I brush my teeth and get back to work. I finish most of my work in class or during school and then finish everything else when I get home. Right now, I’m working on the presentation for Mr. Kim as I swallow the remorse from lying to Yasmin. She’s a nice girl. But I don’t think I want to work with anyone.

It’s late. I get in my bed. I should feel tired. But I don't. In fact, I don’t feel anything at all. What am I supposed to feel? Achieved? On top of things? Ready? I’m none of those things. I’m just a guy who likes to pretend. That’s all I am.