People think I have everything. I live in a private dorm that feels more like a suite in a five-star hotel—glass windows, smart lights, a walk-in closet full of expensive clothes I barely wear. My tuition is paid in full, my car’s always polished, and I carry the latest phone before most people even know it’s released.
But none of that fills the silence.
I walk through campus and smile when I have to. I laugh when I’m expected to. But inside, it’s always quiet. It’s always cold.
My parents say they’re proud of me. They text sometimes—usually just to transfer money or remind me to stay focused. “We’re doing this for you,” they say. But I never asked for this kind of life. I never asked for endless credit—I asked for connection.
I eat alone most days. Not because I don’t have people around me—but because no one really knows me. It’s hard to let people in when you’ve spent your whole life feeling like a second thought.
Growing up, my home was like a museum—spotless, beautiful, and silent. Mom was always at meetings, Dad always flying somewhere. We had help for everything except the one thing I actually needed: presence, time, and warmth.
Now in college, I have freedom, but I still feel trapped.
I can buy anything I want, except for a real hug. I can party all night, but I come back to a bed that no one ever tucked me into. People envy my lifestyle, yet they don’t see the part where I stare at the ceiling at 3 a.m., wondering if anyone would notice if I just disappeared for a while.
Sometimes, I wonder what love is supposed to feel like. I see it in movies. I watch it in cafés—parents visiting, hugging their kids, bringing home-cooked food. I tell myself thatI don’t need it. That I’m fine.
But I’m not.
Because luxury without love is just emptiness dressed up in gold.
And every time I open the door to my perfect room, with no one waiting inside, I remember what I’ve always known—I have everything.
Except what matters.