College was strange. Older than most classmates, I’d seen things they couldn’t imagine. While they stressed about exams, I was grateful to be alive and have a roof over my head.
Perspective made me a good student, but a terrible social fit.
There was Amy in my computer science class. Smart, pretty, funny. She asked me to study. We got coffee.
She tried to learn about me.
“Where’d you grow up? What’s your family like?”
“I don’t really talk about my past.”
“Everyone has a past.”
“Mine isn’t worth discussing.”
She’d laugh, thinking I was mysterious.
She invited me to a party. I went, thinking maybe I could try to be normal.
Packed with college kids, cheap beer, loud music. Someone asked where I was from.
“Arizona.”
“Oh, cool. Do you go back often? See your family?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
The conversation died.
I felt myself shutting down, building walls.
Amy noticed. She pulled me aside.
“Are you okay? You seem really tense.”
“I’m fine, just not good at parties.”
“We could leave. Go somewhere quieter.”
Part of me wanted to say yes, to try, but the larger part—the damaged part—knew I’d just disappoint her.
Everyone wants to know your story, and mine was too ugly to share.
“I think I’m just going to head home.”
Her face fell.
“Did I do something wrong?”
“No, you’re great. I’m just—I’m not ready for this. For anything.”
I left and never texted her again.
She stopped trying after a week. I saw her around campus. She found some guy who could give her what she wanted.
Someone whole. Someone without a decade of trauma weighing on every interaction.
Good for her.
My apartment in Atlanta. One-bedroom, decent neighborhood. Not fancy, but working kitchen, reliable heat, quiet neighbors.
I furnished it slowly. Thrift store and IKEA finds.
I filled my time with work and personal projects. Coded late into the night, building apps nobody would ever use just because I could.
Control.
That’s what it gave me.
If there was a bug, I fixed it. If something broke, I rebuild it.
Unlike people, code made sense.
My co-workers tried to be friendly. David, my team lead, would invite me to happy hours. I’d go, sit quietly, nursing a beer.
They’d ask about my weekend.
“Nothing much. Working on a project.”
“All work and no play, Marcus.”
I’d smile like I got the reference, like I was part of the joke.
David pull me aside one day.
“Hey, man, I know you’re reserved, and that’s cool, but if you ever want to talk, I’m here. No judgment.”
“I appreciate that.”
“I’m serious. I’ve seen that look before. My brother came back from a rock with it. That thousand-y stare. Whatever you’ve been through, you don’t have to carry it alone.”
I wanted to tell him everything, to unload the whole story, but the words wouldn’t come.