Word Count: 1505

Jonah slept in most mornings, until eleven or twelve. Ten at the earliest. He had nowhere to go and no one to see, and he preferred not to spend breakfast sitting across from his grandfather's too stern gaze. Jonah felt cloistered and oppressed in his own home, to the point where it didn't feel like much of a home anymore. He wasn't really sure if it had ever been one. He was always waiting for the next lecture, the next set of expectations, and the eventual disapproval and disappointment that inevitably came with it.

Sometimes he wondered if his grandfather even loved him. Eventually, he decided he didn't want to know the answer.

He took a shower after waking, and left the house before his hair could dry. He slid his laptop and all the necessary accessories into a messenger bag, then slipped out of the house before he could be seen. He took the bus into the city. Sometimes he would text his sister to let her know that he would be out for a while. Other times he didn't think it mattered. She might express concern from time to time, but no one else did. Mom was away, Dad was on campus devoting himself to his students rather than his family, and Grandpa would only berate him if he was around.

Jonah bounced between coffee shops. Some days he would go to the shop closest to campus, one he'd grown fond of while attending DCU. The next day he might try the hipster place twenty minutes away. Occasionally he went to the shops that more often catered to the business class, to men and women on break, coming in for their daily fix. Jonah bought himself a coffee and a scone with the allowance he received in lieu of a salary, then found an empty table in the corner and set himself up so his back was to the wall and he had a view of the entire shop.

He didn't do much on his computer. Occasionally Jonah might look through job postings, but he never applied. The longer he went without a job, the more afraid he was the seek one. Almost a year had passed since graduation, and his circumstances had not changed. He was still timid, still meek, still terrified of putting himself out there, because trying meant there was a chance that he would fail, and he couldn't stomach failure. He had enough of that in his life as it was.

Sometimes he wondered if he was lazy. He was twenty-two years old, with no job and no plans to return to school. Really, he had no plans for anything. He didn't have a clue as to what he wanted to do with his life, and often wondered if wasting away was a good alternative. He lacked skills, and confidence, and a sense of self-worth. He read online that this feeling of being lost was a generational thing, but when he saw so much success around him, he found it hard to believe it wasn't just him.

He felt like the only one with nowhere to go. He felt like the only kid in the world with no direction.

Jonah still thought of himself as a kid because he didn't know how to be an adult. No one had ever really taught him. He didn't know how to find a job. He didn't know how to take care of himself. He didn't know how to live on his own, without someone else cooking his meals and doing his laundry. He didn't know what it was like to pay bills. He didn't know how to form relationships with people, or even how to keep them going in the event that he did.

Jonah was sure that's why he chose the coffee shops to pass his days, so that he could be alone without really being alone, so that he could be around people without having to interact with them.

When the day ended and evening came, Jonah packed up his things and wandered the city streets until he found something to eat for dinner. It was always a diner, or fast food. He felt less like a social outcast sitting at a diner bar or in a McDonald's booth than he did going to an actual restaurant. Sometimes he looked through the crowd to find other people like him, if only to reassure himself that he wasn't a complete outsider to the rest of the world, but mostly he kept his eyes to himself and made an effort to look as small and as unobtrusive as possible. Instead, he pulled out one of his sudoku books and completed a few puzzles while eating his dinner.

Every once in a while he would take out his phone. He kept it on silent so he wouldn't have to hear it ringing or buzzing. He wasn't sure what he expected. He received texts from his sister. “Where are you?” He received phone calls from his grandfather, who left messages barking at him to come home. But there was never anything from anyone else. Not his mother or his father, not from friends. He didn't have any of those. He'd never grown close to any of his classmates. They came into his life and fell out of it just as quickly.

At eight o'clock every night he packed up his things and went to a dueling piano bar downtown. The crowd was always small when he arrived, so he could usually find a seat in the corner where he felt most comfortable. He ordered fruity drinks because he couldn't stand the taste of alcohol, and sipped them slowly while watching the bar fill up. He never talked to anyone. Most people came with their own group of friends, or else they preferred to be alone like him.

He drank his drinks and listened to the music, and for a while he could pretend like he fit in somewhere, even if he wasn't interacting with anyone. For someone who didn't usually like loud places, he enjoyed the atmosphere of the bar. There was a dance club attached that he never ventured into. He enjoyed the dueling pianos more than the chance that someone might draw too close. They'd only be disappointed in the end. He lacked grace and experience. It was easier to avoid situations in which he might acquire any, rather than embarrassing himself in the process.

Sometimes he liked to imagine himself working in a place like this. He liked playing the piano even if it was something that had been forced on him by his grandfather, and he could sing decently enough. He knew a vast number of songs by heart, and he'd always preferred mainstream hits to classical pieces. But he wasn't brave, and it scared him to imagine himself as the center of attention. The positions were already filled, in any case, and he hadn't a clue as to how to go about inquiring about them.

He stayed until two AM when he bar closed. Jonah was always one of the last ones to leave. He slipped a tip for the piano players into the tip jar, then made his way out into the night. Sometimes he left tipsy. It was a nice feeling. He felt a little happier, a little less tense, a little more free. It made his problems seem less pressing, and he could fool himself into believing he'd gained a confidence he didn't really have.

He took a cab home. He always stayed out late to make sure his grandfather was asleep when he got back. Jonah crept into the house quietly, padded up the stairs, and slipped into his room. Sometimes he saw a light on beneath his sister's door. It turned out once she heard him quietly drift pass.

He put his bag down by his desk and changed from his clothes into his pajamas without turning on the light. Then he brushed his teeth as quietly as he could manage, and climbed into bed when he was done. He stared up at the ceiling thinking about what his life might be like if things were different. Sometimes he cried. Other times he felt too exhausted from the constant stress and anxiety to shed any tears. When it happened, he marveled that he hadn't gotten used to his circumstances by now.

Jonah didn't fall asleep until four. Sometimes five. He rarely got a full eight hours of sleep. He wondered if it was insomnia, but it'd been that way for so long he wouldn't know the difference. He turned onto his side and curled in one himself and he waited for the world to fall away from him. Unconsciousness was better. Most nights, he didn't even dream. Asleep, he couldn't feel, or hurt, or fail. Sometimes he thought it might be nice to never wake up.

He drifted off to sad thoughts of a wasted existence.

The next day, he repeated it all again.