Psychological Disconnection
From a psychological perspective, disconnection is a profound state of feeling removed or isolated from one's environment, social circle, or even one's own sense of self. It can be a significant source of anxiety and fear, particularly when a person feels they are "just going through the motions," observing their own life as if it belongs to someone else. This can lead to a sense of invisibility, where one feels like a ghost moving through the world, unseen and unheard. The search for connection, even in a place of shared despair, can become a desperate, irrational attempt to prove one's own existence.
In this state, a person's identity becomes fragile, fragmented, something you hold together with trembling hands. And sometimes, you start looking for a final, dramatic act, not because you want to die, but because you want proof that you ever existed in the first place.
For me, it wasn't just about grades. Academic failure had split me down the middle. My parents' disappointment wasn't just disapproval. It was an eraser, rubbing away who I was supposed to be. My sister shone in her achievements, while I drifted further into the shadows. I didn't recognize myself anymore. The message I sent to "The Starlight Society" wasn't a cry for help. It was a test. I wanted to see if anyone could see me at all.
Niran's POV
The notification came like a faint tap on my shoulder, small, but sharp enough to cut through the fog of my night.
I was lying in bed, in that half-conscious state where thoughts blend into static, staring at the ceiling as if the plaster might give me answers. My phone lit up beside me. Just another meaningless glow, I thought at first. Spam. Promotions. Unread messages from people I didn't have the energy to answer.
But something about this one felt heavier, like a stone dropped into still water. My thumb hovered above the screen, my pulse thudding in my ears.
For months, my room had been my self-made cave: curtains drawn, corners cluttered, the air stale with old coffee and unwashed clothes. The only light came from my screen, a fragile monument to a life I'd quietly stepped away from. In this house, I'd become a shadow, seen but not noticed.
Scrolling late at night, I'd found the Society. The name caught me first: The Starlight Society. It sounded almost romantic until you read what they were about. No pretenses about hope or recovery. Just people who'd already given up, looking for others to share in the quiet, final act.
The post said, When the last star fades, will anyone notice?
That line had stayed with me. I answered with nothing more than a star emoji. Not a plea. Not even a word. Just a signal flare into the void: Is anyone out there?
And now, there was an answer.
To: Niran
From: Akin
Time: Friday, 9:00 PM
Location: The abandoned storage room behind the old gymnasium
Instructions: Look for the lost trophies.
No emojis. No greetings. Just coordinates in cold, clean text.
It didn't feel like an invitation. It felt like a code. It is something you obey or ignore, but never question. My mind kept circling the phrase lost trophies. It sounded like a riddle, and I hated riddles. But maybe that was the point.
The logical part of me whispered: Delete it. Forget it. Stay here. Survive another night. But another voice, smaller, desperate, was already pulling me toward the door. This stranger, Akin, wasn't offering comfort. He was offering a witness.
I got up. My feet met the cold floor, the shock pulling me fully awake. The house was in its usual nighttime rhythm: Aom's music thumped faintly from behind her door, my parents' voices floated from the living room as they watched some soap opera.
I paused in the hallway, leaning against the wall for a moment. From here, I could hear my sister laugh. It is a bright, ringing sound, so far from where I was. She was perfect in the ways I wasn't. I wondered if she even remembered I'd failed my exams, or if she'd quietly filed me away under hopeless.
The living room glowed with TV light. My parents sat close together, my mother's hair shining under the lamp. They looked warm. Connected. Whole. The kind of picture you'd see in an ad for life insurance.
I was halfway to the door when my mother's voice caught me.
"Niran?"
I froze. She turned slightly, her eyes still on the screen. "Where are you going, sweetie? You're not going out, are you?"
"I just… need some air," I murmured.
My father looked over his glasses. "It's late," he said, that warning tone coiled under the words. "Don't be out too long."
I nodded, already edging toward the door. I could feel them watching me, as if they were trying to decide if I was worth stopping.
The knob was cold in my palm. When I stepped outside, the night air hit me—sharp, damp, alive. I stood there for a moment, letting my eyes adjust. Streetlights flickered like tired sentries. Somewhere down the road, a dog barked twice and fell silent.
Every step away from the house felt like peeling off another layer of the person I pretended to be.
I wasn't heading toward salvation. I was heading toward proof.
Lesson on Psychological Disconnection
In the end, this is the lesson of psychological disconnection: it is the quiet, suffocating pain of being invisible. For Niran, the cold, impersonal message from Akin was not a deterrent; it was an invitation. He saw the Starlight Society not as a way to end his life, but as a place where he could finally prove his own existence.
He wasn't looking for a new life. He was looking for a final, undeniable audience.
And sometimes, the silent, empty space of home is more dangerous than the darkness outside.