Bab 1: Chapter 1: A Life of Silence
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Mark sat quietly at the breakfast table, the soft ticking of the wall clock blending with the rhythmic clinking of his mother's spoon against her coffee cup. Every scrape against the ceramic seemed to pierce through the quiet morning air, though Mark was used to it by now. Across from him, his father thumbed through the morning paper, engrossed in stock charts and economic reports. David rarely looked up from the columns of numbers that fascinated him. The tranquility in the room was both comforting and suffocating, a persistent rhythm of silence that had woven itself into the fabric of their daily lives.
Their home, tucked away in the leafy green suburbs of Palo Alto, was a modern study in elegance. The house was spacious yet reserved, its clean lines and minimalist design reflecting the personalities of the people who lived within it. The walls were white, almost clinically so, punctuated only by the occasional abstract painting that Ellen had insisted on purchasing, though no one could say for sure whether she even liked them. The furniture was sleek, all sharp angles and muted tones—grey, black, and the occasional splash of navy. The house was a reflection of success, but it lacked warmth, and Mark often felt like he was inhabiting a carefully curated museum exhibit rather than a home.
He stared at the untouched bowl of cereal in front of him, the milk forming small bubbles at the surface. He wasn't particularly hungry, but routine demanded he sit there, every morning at 7:00 a.m., just as his parents had done for as long as he could remember. The routine had been there before he went to college, and it was there now, during the rare mornings when he came home instead of staying at his dorm.
Ellen sipped her coffee, her eyes scanning over a legal brief resting beside her plate. A corporate lawyer, Ellen never truly seemed to be off-duty. Even when she was at home, her mind was elsewhere, dissecting cases, running through arguments, preparing for meetings that would determine the fate of mergers and acquisitions Mark barely cared to understand.
"Mark, are you sure you don't want me to look over your summer internship applications?" Ellen's voice broke through the silence, a professional efficiency to her tone. She always spoke as if time were a commodity, something to be managed and accounted for, even in casual conversations. "I could make sure you're highlighting the right things—your coding projects, your GPA, the work you did with that professor last semester."
Mark blinked, looking up from the cereal he had been absently stirring with his spoon. "It's fine," he replied, keeping his voice low, neutral. He knew she meant well, but the idea of his mother micromanaging yet another aspect of his life filled him with a familiar dread. She already dictated so much—his schedule, his career path, even the way he communicated with others. Mark had long ago given up trying to argue with her, as it was never a fair fight. Ellen was a lawyer through and through, and every conversation felt like a cross-examination.
His father folded the newspaper and set it down, finally acknowledging the world outside of finance. David was a man of few words, but when he did speak, it was always deliberate, as though he had weighed the importance of each word before uttering it.
"Summer internships are important, Mark," David said, his voice carrying the authority of a man who was used to being listened to. "You'll need those connections if you want to get anywhere in the tech world."
Mark nodded, though inwardly, he recoiled. He was tired of hearing about "connections" and "networking." His father spoke about the tech industry as if it were some intricate web of favors and deals, a place where who you knew mattered more than what you could do. Mark wasn't oblivious to the truth of that, but it still irritated him. He wanted to believe that his abilities, his intelligence, would be enough. The thought of glad-handing executives and schmoozing at corporate events made him want to crawl out of his skin.
"I'll take care of it," Mark said finally, more to appease them than because he intended to actually do anything about it right away.
His parents exchanged a glance, something passing silently between them that Mark couldn't quite interpret. It was moments like this, when they didn't say anything but clearly communicated something important to each other, that made him feel the most isolated. They shared a world he wasn't part of—a world of high expectations, ambition, and a kind of social fluency that had always escaped him.
Mark's mind, however, wasn't slow or hesitant like his social skills seemed to be. On the contrary, it moved at a pace that often left others behind. His thoughts zipped from one complex idea to another, assembling pieces of information like a high-speed puzzle. It was this mental velocity that allowed him to excel in his computer science courses at Stanford, but it was also what isolated him from his peers. They couldn't keep up, or they didn't care to. Either way, Mark had learned to stop trying. It was easier to retreat into the world of algorithms and theories, where the only conversations he had were with himself and the pages of his textbooks.
He thought of his collage now, of the sprawling campus with its red-bricked buildings and carefully manicured lawns. It had been his mother's idea for him to go there, though Mark didn't put up much of a fight. The school was prestigious, and its computer science program was among the best in the country. It made sense. But that didn't mean it felt like home.
Every day was the same. He'd wake up, go to his lectures, sit silently in the back of the classroom, and take meticulous notes. Then he'd retreat to the library or his dorm, working on projects or reading ahead in the syllabus. Other students seemed to thrive in the chaotic energy of college life—loud parties, impromptu hangouts, late-night debates about philosophy or politics. Mark didn't see the point. He wasn't uncomfortable around people, exactly, but being around them felt exhausting, as if he had to constantly put on a mask just to blend in. The more he tried, the more it seemed to slip off.
His parents had never understood his solitude. Ellen was always pushing him to be more social, as if friends could be scheduled into his life like meetings. She talked about how important it was to "network," to build connections that would help him later in life. She didn't seem to realize that he wasn't interested in later in life. Mark lived in his head, and his head was always in the present—fixated on whatever project he was currently working on or the next problem to solve.
"Mark, are you even listening?" Ellen's voice broke through his thoughts again, sharper this time. He realized he had been staring at the table, his spoon still moving in slow circles through his cereal.
"Yeah," he mumbled, sitting up a little straighter. "I'm listening."
Ellen sighed, setting down her coffee cup. "I just don't want you to fall behind, that's all. You're so smart, but if you don't put yourself out there, no one's going to notice."
Mark nodded automatically, though he didn't agree. If people couldn't notice his work, then they weren't paying attention. The idea of performing for the sake of being noticed felt shallow to him, though he knew his parents would never see it that way.
David, who had been silent for a while, spoke again. "It's not just about being smart, Mark. It's about being visible. You could be the smartest person in the room, but if no one knows it, what's the point?"
Mark didn't have an answer to that. He wasn't sure there was one. Instead, he stood, pushing his chair back and picking up his half-eaten bowl of cereal. "I'm going to head out," he said, turning toward the kitchen sink.
"You're not staying for lunch?" Ellen asked, a frown creasing her forehead. "I thought we could all go over your plans for next semester."
Mark dumped the soggy cereal into the sink and ran water over the bowl. He kept his back to them, not wanting to see the disappointment on his mother's face. "I've got a project I need to work on," he said. It wasn't a lie—there was always a project, always something to work on. It was just a convenient excuse to avoid another conversation about his future.
There was a brief silence before Ellen spoke again, her voice softening. "Just… don't shut us out, Mark. We're here to help."
Mark nodded, but didn't turn around. He knew they were trying to help. But their version of help felt like a slow suffocation, a gradual closing in of expectations that he couldn't quite live up to. He grabbed his backpack from the chair and headed toward the door.
"See you tonight," he muttered, though he didn't know if that was true. Sometimes he stayed late at the library just to avoid the routine of dinner at home, the endless small talk that always felt like a prelude to something heavier.
Outside, the air was cool and crisp, the morning fog still clinging to the streets. Mark walked down the quiet suburban road, the sounds of birds chirping in the distance. His mind was already shifting away from the awkwardness of the morning, focusing instead on the algorithm he had been working on last night. There was something comforting in the precision of code, the way it followed rules, logical and predictable. Unlike people.
As he neared the bus stop, Mark thought again of his parents. He knew they loved him, in their own way. But it was a love that came
with conditions, with expectations that felt more like obligations. They wanted him to be successful, to be happy—but only in the ways they understood success and happiness.
Mark didn't know if he could ever meet those expectations. More than that, he wasn't sure he wanted to.
....
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