On my birthday, I was left alone here; As a forsaken, unloved dog, I’ve been without food and hungry for days
On my birthday, I sat alone in the dim light of my small, quiet room, the shadows of the evening stretching across the floor, echoing the emptiness I felt inside. The day, meant to be a celebration of life, felt more like a cruel reminder of how far I’d fallen—abandoned, forgotten, and unloved. There were no greetings, no messages, no voices calling to wish me well. I was left alone here, as if I no longer mattered to anyone. The silence around me was heavy, and it pressed down on me like a weight I could no longer bear. Like a forsaken, unloved dog, I had been left without food and hungry for days, not only for something to fill my stomach but also for the warmth of human connection, which had eluded me for far too long.
The loneliness wasn’t new; it had crept into my life over time, unnoticed at first, like a slow leak that eventually floods a home. Yet today, on my birthday, the ache of isolation was sharper, more painful, as if the world had conspired to remind me of my insignificance. Birthdays were supposed to be a time of joy and celebration, a time when people came together to show you that you mattered. But as the hours passed, and the sun began to set, it became clear that no one was coming, no one remembered, and no one cared. I was entirely alone.
My mind wandered back to days when birthdays were different, when there were cakes and candles, laughter and friends. The memories felt like they belonged to someone else, another version of me who had once known love, connection, and happiness. But now, those days felt like distant dreams, fleeting images of a life I could hardly remember. The more I thought about them, the more they hurt, like a sharp reminder of everything I’d lost, everything that had slipped away over the years.
The emptiness in my stomach mirrored the emptiness in my heart. It had been days since I’d eaten anything substantial. Not because I didn’t have food, but because the hunger for nourishment seemed pointless when there was no one to share a meal with, no one to sit beside me. The loneliness had taken such a toll on me that even the act of feeding myself felt like a burden too heavy to bear. I had become like a stray dog, wandering through life in search of scraps—not just of food, but of affection, of companionship, of some small sign that I still mattered in this vast, indifferent world.
As I sat there, staring at the bare walls of the room, I couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of abandonment. Like a dog left on the side of the road, forgotten by the people who were supposed to care for it, I had been forsaken by those I thought would always be there. The silence of the room was punctuated only by the occasional growl of my stomach, reminding me of the days without food, but the real hunger came from a much deeper place. It was a hunger for connection, for love, for a sense of belonging that I hadn’t felt in so long that I’d nearly forgotten what it was like.
I thought about all the stray dogs I had seen in the streets over the years, wandering aimlessly, their eyes dull and tired, their bodies weak and frail from hunger. They were always searching for something—a meal, a kind hand, a place to rest—but most often, they were ignored, passed by without a second thought. I had always felt sorry for them, wishing I could help in some way, give them the love they so desperately needed. Now, I realized, I was one of them. I, too, was wandering through life, searching for something I couldn’t quite find, something that seemed always just out of reach.
The hunger gnawed at me, not just in my stomach, but in my soul. It was a hunger for the love that once filled my life, for the people who once surrounded me, for the sense of purpose and belonging that had slowly faded away over the years. As I sat there, alone on my birthday, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had been abandoned, left behind by the world, much like those dogs who once had homes but were now left to fend for themselves.
The night grew darker, and the loneliness deepened. I tried to distract myself, but nothing seemed to work. The television flickered in the background, its noise doing little to drown out the silence that echoed in my heart. I scrolled through my phone, looking for messages, for missed calls, for any sign that someone had remembered me on this day. But the screen was blank, as empty as I felt. I turned it off and set it aside, knowing that no one was going to reach out. The realization hit me like a punch to the gut: I was truly alone.
I thought about how easy it would be to disappear, to fade away like a shadow, unnoticed and forgotten. The world had already moved on without me; it wouldn’t even notice if I were gone. Like a dog left to fend for itself, I had been cast aside, no longer needed or wanted by those who once claimed to care. The thought was both terrifying and oddly comforting. At least then, the hunger, the loneliness, the pain would stop.
But deep down, despite everything, a part of me still clung to the hope that someone, somewhere, would remember me. That someone would reach out, would care, would remind me that I still mattered. It was a faint hope, but it was all I had left. So I sat there, in the dark, waiting, hoping for a sign that I wasn’t entirely forgotten, that I wasn’t completely forsaken.
Yet, as the night wore on, it became clear that no one was coming. The emptiness in my stomach grew, the ache in my heart deepened, and the silence of the room became unbearable. On my birthday, of all days, I had been left alone, like a forsaken, unloved dog, starving not just for food, but for the one thing that seemed impossible to find—love.
