hikikomori: The Endless Administration of Remaining Alive (Narrative)

### Hikikomori is a form of extreme social withdrawal where a person isolates themselves at home for months or ### even years, avoiding school, work, and most face-to-face social contact. It was first identified in Japan, ### but similar cases have since been found around the world. While some people with hikikomori also have ### mental health conditions such as anxiety or depression, others withdraw mainly because of overwhelming ### stress, social pressure, or repeated negative life experiences. I wake up around three in the afternoon. Not because I planned to. The sunlight reaches my room long before I do. My phone says there are messages. I read the notifications. I don't open them. They can remain unread for days. Sometimes weeks. It feels easier that way. My room is small. A mattress. A desk. Three empty bottles beside the monitor. The same blanket I've been using for years. The curtains stay closed. Not for darkness. For distance. The outside world feels louder when I can see it. Most mornings begin with inventory. How much rice is left. How many instant noodles. How much money remains after rent. How many days before I have to speak to another human. Some days I win. Some days I don't. When groceries run low, I wait until evening. Less people. Less questions. Less chance of being remembered. I walk quickly. Head down. Self-checkout. Back home before anyone notices I existed. The apartment door locks. My shoulders relax immediately. The real day starts then. Games. Videos. Forums. Music. Watching strangers talk to each other. Watching streamers laugh. Watching people travel somewhere I'll never visit. Sometimes six hours disappear. Sometimes sixteen. Time behaves differently indoors. Weeks arrive without permission. Months leave without saying goodbye. My mother still calls. I usually answer after the third attempt. Not because I dislike her. Because explaining myself requires energy. And energy feels expensive. She asks if I've eaten. I say yes. Usually that's true. Mostly. I learned many ways to survive. Online banking. Food delivery. Remote work when I can find it. Selling old belongings. Stretching money. Stretching days. Stretching excuses. The hardest part isn't loneliness. It's maintenance. Laundry. Dishes. Paperwork. The endless administration of remaining alive. Nobody prepares you for that. People imagine isolation as silence. It isn't. The refrigerator keeps talking. The computer fans keep talking. The upstairs neighbor keeps moving furniture at impossible hours. The building never truly sleeps. Neither do I. Sometimes, around four in the morning, I open the curtains. Just a little. The city looks different then. No expectations. No crowds. No schedules. Only distant apartment windows. A few of them still illuminated. I wonder about those people. Night shift workers. Students. Insomniacs. Someone crying. Someone falling in love. Someone else hiding from the world exactly like me. For a moment, the distance feels smaller. Then I close the curtains again. Another day passes. Another week. Another season. The calendar changes without ceremony. The room changes slowly. New boxes. New cables. Different posters. A plant I nearly forgot to water. Small evidence that life continues. Even here. Even when nobody sees it. Tomorrow I'll probably wake up around three again. Check my phone. Ignore half the messages. Make coffee. Open the same websites. Listen to the same creators. Exist quietly. Not moving forward. Not moving backward. Just learning another way to remain. And somehow... Year after year... I do.