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"Most of my earliest memories are from there," he said as his voice trembled slightly. "I was the oldest child there. The day I was left there... all I had was an old brown suitcase. My entire life packed away into a tiny, shabby thing. It was hard, you know. It was no home. The meals were tasteless, regimented. The toys were communal, nothing I could call my own. The bed...it was small, cold, always reminding me that it was just a place to sleep, not a place to dream."
His voice held a note of sadness as he spoke of his past, of a child's innocence lost to the harsh reality of life in an orphanage.
"I saw so many kids come and go," he continued, each word heavy with an emotion that made my heart clench. "They'd arrive, scared and confused. But then a family would choose them. Take them home."
I could see it then, a parade of eager families, a whirl of laughter and joy, all revolving around a child that wasn't Mike.
"They never chose me," he admitted, a hollowness creeping into his tone that sent a pang through my heart. "I was always the one left behind, the one nobody wanted.”
I imagined young Mike, observing the joyous occasions from afar, a forgotten specter. His happiness for the departing children shadowed by a crushing reality: he was the older one, the overlooked, the unwanted.
"People started whispering, just like they're doing now at the club," he continued. His gaze was focused somewhere far away, locked onto some distant point in the past. "Why's Mike still here? Why doesn't anyone want him? Is he too much trouble?"
His body seemed to draw in on itself, a physical manifestation of the shame and worthlessness these whispers had cultivated in him.
"I started believing them," Mike admitted. "I thought I was unlovable, discarded, like an old toy no one wants to play with."
His voice cracked on the last words, the vulnerability he displayed piercing my heart.
"The nights were the hardest," Mike murmured as he swallowed hard, as if struggling to keep the swell of emotions at bay. "It's the silence at night. The way it amplifies everything. Makes you feel all the more alone. I used to lay in bed at night, just thinking, you know? Trying to figure out why I was still there. Wondering if there was something wrong with me."
"Mike..." My heart ached for him, for the small boy he was back then, struggling with questions too big for his age. For the love that he was denied, the family he yearned for, the whispers that gnawed at his self-worth.
"It felt like maybe I was the problem," he confessed. "Maybe I was too much, or not enough, or...just wrong somehow. Like I wasn't deserving of a family."
“I’m so sorry you had to go through that.”
"You know," he continued, his voice adopting a lighter note. "I wasn't always this mopey. Back in the orphanage, I was the funny kid."
I blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift. "The funny kid?"
"Yeah, the jester of the joint," he affirmed, cracking a small grin. "I decided that if I couldn't be the youngest or the cutest, I would be the most memorable. The one who could make anyone laugh.”
"And it worked?"
He shrugged, his smile lingering. "Well, I did make the others laugh. The staff, the kids... even the grumpy old caretaker who seemed to have a permanent frown. I became the entertainer, the spotlight kid. I figured, if I was funny enough, cheerful enough, then maybe someone would want me. Love me."
It explained his nature, his drive to be the life of any gathering, the source of joy and laughter.
"So, your humor..." I trailed off, letting the realization sink in. "It wasn't just about being funny. It was about feeling loved."
"Yeah," he admitted. “But now, these rumors at the club... they are like a nasty echo from the past." He paused, swallowing hard, his fingers tightening around his stuffie. "I thought I left that boy, that overlooked, unwanted boy in the orphanage. But he's here. In me. Still yearning to be noticed, to be chosen. To be loved."
"Mike," my voice trembled, reaching out to him, "you're not that boy anymore. You are loved, so loved."
A bitter chuckle slipped from his lips. "Yeah," he agreed, yet his gaze remained haunted. "But sometimes, I can't help but feel that I'm still him. Still the funny kid, trying to earn love, to prove his worth."
The charming, quick-witted Mike was merely a facade, a role he'd perfected over the years to protect the vulnerable boy within.
"Mike," I began. He turned towards me, his eyes red-rimmed and gleaming under the dim glow of the car's interior lights. "You're not just the funny guy. You're so much more."
His eyes searched mine, looking for some sort of validation in my words.
"You're so incredibly kind. Your heart...it's full of warmth. And that's what everyone truly admires about you."
"Thank you, Lina," he murmured, the raw gratitude in his voice sending a wave of relief washing over me.
Slowly, I reached out, my fingertips gently catching a tear that had escaped down his cheek. He didn't pull away, merely watched me, an unspoken understanding passing between us.
