I remember the day I got the acceptance letter for this university. My mum framed it on the fridge. Said it was proof that all the extra shifts, all the ramen for dinner, had been worth it. Said I was finally on my way to something bigger than her little world. Now I look around this shoebox of a dorm room, hear the muffled giggles from across the hall, and it feels like a cruel joke. I wanted something bigger. I got smaller instead. My roommates are like ghosts in the machine. Their voices, when they bother to use them, are flat, devoid of any real sound. They communicate through this group chat, a constant stream of memes and inside jokes I don't understand, don't even *want* to understand. I walk in and they'll be sitting right there, two feet away, thumbs flying across their screens, eyes glued to the glow. No hello. No "how was your day." Just the click-clack of keys and the occasional snort. It's like I’m living in a silent film while they're all starring in some bizarre digital comedy. And the WORST part? I catch myself watching them sometimes, trying to decipher the coded laughter, trying to find the punchline that would let me in. Like a dog begging for scraps. It makes my stomach turn, the thought of it. I work two jobs to be here, stack shelves till my feet ache and wash dishes until my hands are raw and prune-like. I spend my breaks studying in the staff room, inhaling the smell of burnt coffee and desperation. I come back to this room, ready to just... exist with another human being for a moment. To hear a real voice. To see a real smile. But I might as well be living alone in the arctic, surrounded by ice and static. And the silence, the sheer, crushing weight of their digital conversations, it makes me so angry I could scream. Not at them, not really. But at the waste of it all. The waste of my time, my effort, my mother's hopes. And the waste of my own damn self, sitting here, wondering if I’m just fundamentally broken for wanting something more than a damn picture of a cat with a funny caption.