My friend and I have been neglected and left hungry for days, hoping for a miracle as no one seems to care
My friend and I sat together in silence, the weight of the world pressing down on us as we huddled in the corner of the small, dimly lit room. Days had passed since we had last eaten a proper meal, and the constant gnawing in our stomachs was a painful reminder of our growing desperation. We had been neglected, forgotten by the world around us, and now, we were left to fend for ourselves. Our eyes were hollow, our bodies weak, and our spirits nearly broken. All we could do was hope for a miracle, even as each passing day made it harder to believe that anyone still cared.
We had been close for as long as I could remember, my friend and I. We shared everything—our dreams, our fears, our moments of joy, and now, our suffering. The bond between us was one of the few things that still gave me any comfort, even in the bleakness of our situation. But as the days without food stretched on, and the world seemed to close in around us, I could see the weariness in his eyes. It mirrored my own. There was a silent understanding between us now, one that needed no words: we had been left behind, abandoned by the people who once promised to care for us.
It was strange how quickly everything had changed. Not long ago, we had been surrounded by friends and family, people who seemed to genuinely care about us. There had been laughter, meals shared around a table, and the warmth of companionship that made us feel like we belonged. But slowly, those people drifted away. One by one, they found reasons to distance themselves, leaving us alone in a world that felt increasingly indifferent. At first, we didn’t notice the shift—it was subtle, like the fading of sunlight at the end of the day. But soon, the darkness crept in, and we were left to navigate it alone.
As the hunger set in, it became harder to focus on anything else. Our bodies grew weaker with each passing day, and even the simplest tasks felt like monumental efforts. We tried to stretch what little food we had left, rationing it carefully, hoping it would last long enough for someone to come and help us. But no one did. The people who had once been a part of our lives seemed to have forgotten us completely. We had reached out, called for help, but our pleas were met with silence. It was as if we had ceased to exist in their eyes, and the pain of that realization was almost as sharp as the hunger itself.
We talked less as the days went on. There was little left to say, and the energy it took to speak felt wasted on conversations that led nowhere. Instead, we sat together in the growing darkness, waiting for something—anything—that would break the monotony of our suffering. I could see the toll it was taking on my friend, the way his shoulders slumped and his eyes no longer sparkled with the same light they once held. He was always the stronger of the two of us, always the one to lift my spirits when things got tough. But now, even he was losing hope.
There were moments, in the dead of night, when I could hear him whispering to himself, as if praying for a miracle. I didn’t have the heart to ask him what he was saying, but I knew it was something he didn’t want me to hear. Perhaps he was asking for strength to carry on, or maybe he was simply begging for the end of our suffering. I wasn’t sure anymore. All I knew was that the light of hope that had once burned brightly in both of us was now barely a flicker.
We tried to distract ourselves from the hunger, to take our minds off the ache in our bellies and the emptiness in our hearts. Sometimes we would reminisce about better days, talking about the times when we had plenty—plenty of food, plenty of friends, plenty of love. But those memories, once a source of comfort, now felt like taunts. They reminded us of everything we had lost, everything that had slipped through our fingers without us even realizing it.
The most difficult part was not understanding why this had happened. We had done nothing wrong, at least not that we could remember. We had always tried to be good friends, good people, yet here we were, forgotten and left to fend for ourselves. It made no sense, and the more we thought about it, the more it hurt. The world, it seemed, had no room for us anymore. We were invisible, our struggles unnoticed, our existence unimportant.
But despite the overwhelming sense of abandonment, there was still a part of me—a small, stubborn part—that refused to give up entirely. I think it was that part of me that clung to my friend, that stayed by his side, even when it felt like there was no point. Maybe it was foolish, but I couldn’t let go of the idea that, somehow, things would change. That someone would remember us, that someone would care. It was the last thread of hope I had left, and I held onto it with everything I had, because without it, there was nothing.
As the days dragged on, the line between hope and despair blurred. We were tired—so tired—but we kept waiting. Waiting for the knock on the door, for the phone to ring, for any sign that we hadn’t been completely forsaken. But the world outside carried on, indifferent to our suffering. People went about their lives, laughing, eating, living, while we sat in the shadows, hungry and forgotten.
In the quiet moments, when the hunger became too much to bear, I would glance at my friend and wonder how much longer we could go on like this. How many more days could we survive without food, without love, without hope? And yet, there we were, clinging to the smallest sliver of belief that, somehow, things would get better.
But as each day passed without change, that belief grew weaker. We had been neglected for so long, left hungry and alone, that it was hard to remember what it felt like to be cared for. Still, we sat together, waiting for a miracle, because it was all we had left. And in the end, it was better to hope for something, even if it never came, than to accept the emptiness that had become our reality.
