i'm no longer human

I don’t even know how many times I’ve read No Longer Human at this point. It’s not one of those books you revisit because it makes you feel good—it doesn’t. It drags you down into this dark, cold ocean, and somehow, I keep diving in.

I first picked it up during a night at the hospital, while my mom was asleep and my dad was pretending he wasn't in pain. I was curled up in one of those stiff chairs they never meant for overnight stays, light from the hallway bleeding across the pages. I read it straight through. Then I read it again the next night. And the one after that.

I remember putting the book down and staring at the ceiling tiles, feeling something twist inside me—tight, sharp, familiar. Yozo Oba, this man who never figured out how to be human, who only knew how to pretend to be okay... he wasn’t just a character. He was a version of me I’ve never wanted to admit existed.

Those nights in the hospital, I wore a thousand masks. I cracked jokes. I pulled faces. I danced like an idiot in front of my dad just to get him to smile through the morphine haze. I did bad impressions, sang old cartoon theme songs, acted like everything was fine. Especially when it wasn’t. I thought if I looked scared, they’d be more scared. So I wasn’t scared—out loud.

But inside? I was Yozo. Or at least, the part of me I hide was. The part that can’t quite connect. The part that feels like a permanent outsider, even in a room full of people who love me.

Every time I reread No Longer Human, it cuts a little deeper. Because I get him. I get the shame that sticks to your skin, the guilt for not being able to just be normal, the exhausting effort it takes to be what people need you to be. I get the terror of being found out—not for doing anything wrong, but for just being how you are.

And every time, I close the book and wonder: am I heading to the same place he ended up? Alone, unraveling, numb to everything that once meant something?

That thought scares me more than anything. Because when I laugh too loudly, or make everyone coffee in the morning like nothing’s wrong, I wonder—am I protecting them, or hiding my true self from them? Is there a difference?

I don’t have a clean ending to this post. There’s no lesson here, no neat wrap-up. Just a strange confession: I see myself in Yozo Oba. And I’m scared of what that means.

But maybe writing this down is a kind of rebellion. Maybe it’s me saying, I’m still here. I still want something different.

Maybe there’s still time.