My name is Vrishti. I’m 19 years old, a school pass-out, and a dropper. Not in the dramatic, “I’m done with this system” way—just in the “I couldn’t care less” way. My parents think I’m wasting my potential. Teachers always said I was capable of more. But honestly, I’ve never seen the point.

And according to my parents, that’s part of the problem. They think I’m... off. They haven’t said it outright, but their actions scream it loud enough. “You need to talk to someone,” they said. “It’s for your own good.”

So here I am, walking to a therapy center. It’s not like I think therapy is useless. It helps people, sure. But what am I supposed to tell them? That I’m not sad or angry—just... disconnected? That everything feels dull and pointless? That the world around me doesn’t make any sense?

I’ve always been this way. Detached, quiet, different. I’ve never had friends—not even when I was little. Other kids played their silly games, formed their cliques, but I was never part of them. They didn’t exclude me outright; they just didn’t notice I was there.

It’s not like I didn’t try. I joined their games sometimes, but I could never keep up with their energy or excitement over things I didn’t care about. I just didn’t fit.

Now, as an adult, it’s the same. People group together, laughing, talking, sharing their interests, but I’m always on the outside looking in. It’s not that I hate them—I just don’t share their enthusiasm for the things they obsess over. And that’s why no one ever sticks around. No one likes someone who doesn’t care about their hobbies or passions. Relationships need common ground, and I don’t have that with anyone.

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A lover? Forget it. How could I attract someone when I can’t even pretend to be interested in what they love? I’ve met people, gone on dates, but it always ends the same. I don’t get excited about their favorite shows, their weekend plans, or their social media lives. They notice. They always notice. And then they leave.

The road is busy, as always. People rushing somewhere, heads bowed to their screens, their steps mechanical. I weave through the crowd, but it’s like I’m not even here. Not really. Everyone’s too wrapped up in their own little bubbles.

And this city—it’s suffocating. Concrete buildings stacked like blocks, neon signs flashing “Buy Now” or “Limited Offer!” Even the air feels synthetic, recycled through machines instead of trees. It’s not just the place, though. It’s the people. They’re so... predictable.

Everyone’s chasing something. Success, fame, approval. It’s like they’re on this endless hamster wheel, running in circles but going nowhere. They spend their days staring at screens, worshipping strangers they’ll never meet, pretending every little thing they do matters.

I get it, though. Maybe they’re just trying to survive in their own way. Maybe it’s easier to lose yourself in the noise than to face the silence. Still, I can’t help feeling like I’m the odd one out. Like I’m the only one who sees how hollow it all is.

But what do I know? Maybe they’re right, and I’m the problem. I don’t cry when I should. I don’t laugh when I’m expected to. I just... float through, pretending to care because it’s easier than explaining why I don’t.

The therapy center looms ahead—a squat, gray building with glass doors and a sign that reads “Restoring Balance.” Balance. Like it’s something you can fix with a checklist and a few deep breaths.

I stop at the entrance, my reflection staring back at me. I look normal enough. Average. But there’s a gap between what people see and what I feel. And that gap? It’s starting to feel like a chasm.

With a deep breath, I step inside. Let’s see what they have to say about me. Maybe they’ll figure something out. Or so my parents think.