The lecture hall smelled like old books and dust, a scent that settled into every crevice of the room. I sat with Minho sprawled lazily beside me, his head tilted back as if he was about to fall asleep at any moment.

Thomas was a few seats down, scribbling notes with an intensity that made me wonder if he was trying to solve life itself instead of just passing a class. Brenda twirled her pen between her fingers, eyes half-shut but sharp, as always.

Somewhere behind us, I knew Newt was sitting. I hadn't turned to look—I didn't have to. His presence clung to the back of my neck like static, heavy, and impossible to ignore.

The lecturer's voice broke through my thoughts. "Sartre says that we are condemned to be free. Freedom is both a gift and a burden. There's no escape from the responsibility of choosing who you become."

Condemned to be free. The words sat wrong in my chest. Freedom was supposed to be liberating, wasn't it? But there was truth in what Sartre said—freedom was heavy. Crushing, even. You couldn't hide behind fate or blame anyone else when everything fell apart. No excuses. Just you, your choices, and the consequences that followed.

I traced my pen over the corner of my notebook, not writing anything, just dragging the ink aimlessly across the page. The clock ticked loudly in my ears, each second feeling stretched and weighty. The rest of the students faded into background noise as my thoughts lingered on the idea of responsibility—how it could trap you just as much as it set you free. People always talked about choosing a right path, but no one talked about how terrifying it was to stand at the crossroads, unsure whether to go left, right, or nowhere at all.

Minho nudged my arm with a grin, probably bored out of his mind. I forced a faint smile back, even as my thoughts stayed tangled somewhere else—wondering not about answers, but if the questions themselves even mattered.

Vince walked to the center of the room, his eyes scanning the rows. "Some of you may think that what I'm about to say is just theory. But consider this—how often do you catch yourself doing something simply because it's what you're supposed to do? Is that your life, or are you living someone else's idea of it?"

His words were hitting me harder than they should've. I didn't even get the idea of my life, or my existence. Was that my life really? Even if another person was living in my head, constantly trying to take over my thoughts?

Is my life even worth living if it isn't mine? I'll never know.

When I was younger, my entire existence belonged to my mother. She chose what would I do or wear, where would I go and how would I speak. She enforced her own dreams and beliefs on me, like it was the right thing to do. Like that was a punishment for my existence, because isn't that what kept her from doing what she always wanted?

It was understandable, really. My mother's life didn't belong to her either, no—it belonged to my father. He decided if she would work or be a stay-at-home wife, if she would wear dresses or pants. I remember once he even burned all the pants she owned because they weren't 'feminine' and she needed to act more like a woman apparently.

If not me, she would live her life. If not for me, she would've been able to find the purpose of her life, which definitely wasn't to be a mom. At least not back when she became one.

The professor leaned against the desk, arms crossed. "Sartre says there's no built-in meaning to life—no map handed to you at birth. Existence precedes essence. You exist first, and then it's up to you to decide who you are and why you matter. Scary, isn't it? Knowing there's no purpose unless you create it yourself."

If that's the truth, then what could be my purpose? Purpose of a person who wasn't supposed to be born in the first place?

I don't think I can create one, even if I'd try so hard. I could spend nights thinking about it on and on, and I would still have no idea of what am I doing here, on this planet.

"I will fall asleep any minute now," Minho exclaimed, furrowing his eyebrows from frustration and boredom. I chuckled faintly, poking his side. "Oh you little—"

"Is there anything you want to share with us, Minho?" Vince raised his eyebrows, daring Minho to say anything.

He swallowed hard, shaking his head. "No sir."

"Really?" Vince frowned, feigning concern. "I could've sworn that you had something in your mind. Something important, perhaps?"

"No, nothing important sir. I apologize for interrupting."

I snickered at his polite way of talking, like he didn't use at least two curse words in one sentence when he was around me.

Vince had a strange effect on everyone. He was stern when he needed to, although he was often friendly. That made everyone respect him, but not fear him.

'Respect isn't earned through fear,' he used to say. To me, that was a powerful reminder that true respect isn't about instilling fear in others, but about earning it through kindness and integrity.

"As I was saying," The professor leaned forward, his voice firm. "Existentialism isn't just Sartre. Kierkegaard argued that anxiety and despair are part of the human condition. He believed we must take a leap of faith, even without certainty."

I couldn't help but think how strange it was to consider faith when everything seemed so uncertain. It felt like a crutch, a way to avoid confronting the truth about how lost we really are.

The professor continued, "Camus, however, saw life as absurd. No matter how hard we search for meaning, we won't find it. But he thought we could find freedom in accepting that absurdity."

Freedom in absurdity. The idea was almost suffocating—like accepting that nothing mattered. Wasn't that just surrendering to hopelessness? Yet, I could see how it might offer a strange sort of release.

The professor glanced around the room. "Existentialism forces you to face the truth: life offers no inherent meaning. It's up to you to create it."

Create it. I thought about that—how much weight that word carried. If I didn't define my life, what would it even be? It felt overwhelming, like being handed a blank page and told to fill it, with no instructions.

As he looked down at his watch, he paused, sighing before looking up. "For your homework, write an essay reflecting on Sartre's idea of freedom—does it feel like a burden or an opportunity to you? Consider bad faith—have you ever lied to yourself to avoid responsibility? Also, think about how you cope with life's absurdity—do you create meaning, or just go through the motions? Use personal examples to support your thoughts."

He gestured for us to leave and Minho was the first to get up. I got up lazily, stretching my back as my eyes landed on Newt.

He was already looking at me. His jaw was hardened, eyes sharp and unforgiving.

"What's up with him?" I heard a voice behind me. I looked at Anya— my friend. "He's been looking at you for this whole time. Nonstop."

Her words made my chest tighten a bit. I didn't know if it was from excitement but anxiety, but it was there.

"He's so.... slim. Does he not eat or something?" Anya continued speaking, although she stopped to yelp when Brenda pinched her shoulder.

"That's a rude thing to say about someone," She warned, her gaze stern.

"Okay, I'm sorry, geez!" She rubbed the spot on her shoulder, frowning slightly. "Do you know him though?"

I nodded, but didn't explain further. There was no point in doing so, it would make things messier than they already were.

The memories of our previous interaction still lingered in my mind. The way he flinched the moment I raised my voice... it was unusual. Not like Newt at all.

My mind went back to Vince's lecture once again.

I believe there's no purpose here, no reason for any of it. Life simply happens, like an endless stream flowing toward no end. I try to search for meaning, something—anything—that might explain why I'm here. But there's nothing. The questions linger in the air, like smoke dissipating before I can catch hold of them. Every answer seems just out of reach, a shadow that slips away when I try to grasp it.

What am I meant for? What is this all for? I've asked these questions more times than I care to admit. Yet every time, I'm met with silence. There's no voice, no answer from the void, no flicker of understanding.

Perhaps that's the truth—perhaps there is no answer. Perhaps we're all just floating, waiting for something to happen that never does.

Maybe it's absurd, this search for meaning, as if there's some hidden purpose buried beneath the rubble of the days. But in the end, we find nothing. The world doesn't bend to our will, doesn't mold itself around our desires. We're just here.

And maybe, that's the hardest truth to swallow. There's nothing.

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Hey loves! I really want to know your opinions about this chapter, because I wrote a lot about philosophy(what they're studying) and I need to know if it's boring or if you'd like to see and know more about these topics<3

I hope this is enjoyable so far! Give feedback if you'd like<3

Anyway, take care!! Love you all<3