2002
Julian, age 18
The kitchen light was cold—
a single bulb hung from the plastic ceiling, washing the fake woodgrain table in the sterile tint of a medical intake form.
Julian sat still, fingers clamped around the mouse, eyes locked on a single blinking square.
"Congratulations! You have been accepted to the London School of Economics."
He didn't react immediately.
Just let go of the mouse, leaned back. The chair creaked softly.
Behind him, at the gas stove, his mother's spatula paused.
"You got in?"
He couldn't speak. Only nodded.
She turned off the flame, wiped her hands, walked over and stood behind him. Her fingers brushed his hair—some strands were damp and stuck to his forehead.
"I told you," she said, smiling. "Your brain works just like your father's."
Julian smiled, too.
But it caught at the corners of his mouth—held there for a few seconds, then faded.
He didn't say thank you. Didn't say he was happy.
He just clicked the "Accept offer" line.
The system popped up a confirmation:
"You will receive your enrollment guide and housing assignment shortly."
His stomach sank.
Like he'd just swallowed something too big, too raw.
September 2002.
The air in London was as damp as ever, but the street outside Bankside Hall buzzed with an energy that felt borrowed from another city.
Julian stood with a frayed North Face backpack and a massive IKEA bag in one hand. Inside: an old kettle, sachets of 3-in-1 coffee, two bottles of shampoo, and a single towel.
He hadn't bought anything new. Just packed whatever he could steal from home.
The queue for check-in stretched out the door.
A boy in a beige Barbour jacket complained about having to check his suitcase. A girl beside him, Chanel polish perfectly matched to her pink Tumi luggage, was texting her boyfriend.
Julian kept his head down. He couldn't see their faces, but he could hear their voices—
that tone people used when London was a stage, not a survival site.
"Welcome to LSE."
A staff member handed him the welcome pack with the trained smile of airline cabin crew—friendly, polished, and distant.
Julian nodded and stepped into the elevator.
Two boys were already inside.
One had an Oxford accent and was rambling about his gap year internship at a ski lodge:
"I mean, the hedge fund wasn't even official, but my dad said it was a great way to learn asset structuring…"
The other nodded, adding:
"We're reviewing our family portfolio this Christmas. Just a few long-term bonds and some property in Surrey."
Julian stood in the corner, pretending to study the buttons.
His clothes were a little worn, shoes frayed at the edges. He tried to angle his backpack to hide the IKEA bag from view.
As they neared the top floor, the Barbour boy snickered:
"Guess the uni needed some spice this year."
His friend replied:
"Mate, one of my flatmates is from East Ham. Took the night bus to the offer-holder event."
They laughed.
Not cruelly. Not loudly. Just enough to sting.
Julian didn't flinch.
But his ears flushed slightly.
His eyes stayed fixed on the glowing floor number—
like he was waiting for the light to turn green.
When the door opened, he stepped out first.
Not fast.
Just without looking back.
The dorm was a twin room. The other bed was still empty.
He dropped his bag, pulled out the chair.
The floor was dusty, so he wiped it with a tissue before sitting down.
Outside the window, he could see the reflection of office lights across the street.
He pulled out a packet of instant coffee, poured it into the cup he'd brought, and filled it with water from the kettle.
Too weak.
Like a cover letter for strangers—bitterness hidden at the end.
That night, he didn't greet anyone on his floor.
Didn't go to the welcome drinks.
He lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling.
In his head, a phrase kept looping:
"Didn't know they took students from way out East."
Not loud. Not cruel. Just… stated.
But he heard it clearly.
Like someone had used invisible ink to circle him on a map.
Not his name. Not his grades.
But his route. His postcode. His shoes.
Like he hadn't walked into LSE—he'd been misdelivered.
Autumn 2003. Second term.
Julian finally moved out of his mother's flat.
The place he rented was near King's Cross—a red-brick building with peeling walls and a rusted gate. Sometimes, at night, you could hear coins being shoved into the mailboxes, trying to pry them open.
He lived on the second floor.
A single room.
Storage bins under the bed.
A window facing a trash lot, where pigeons sometimes landed with plastic bags caught around their legs.
The rent was covered by his father—
wired as a lump sum, with a note in the transaction memo:
"LSE term 2."
No message.
No "Take care."
Not even a line break.
Julian stared at the record for a long time, then scribbled something on the paper receipt:
"Freedom, even when rented, still has a price."
On weekends, Julian worked at a chain café near Lincoln's Inn.
The shop opened at 6 a.m. sharp.
The first wave of customers were lawyers and interns in tailored suits, ordering like chess players—quick, deliberate, no eye contact.
Julian manned the milk station.
Black gloves on, steaming pitcher in hand, eyes on the thermometer.
From the front register, the sharp-nosed manager barked instructions like commands:
"Don't smile. Don't chat.
You're not their friend. You're staff."
One morning, a white customer snapped:
"Do you people even get trained?"
Julian looked up, voice even:
"I'm studying maths at LSE."
The man blinked—just once—
his expression shifting from disdain to confusion, then silence.
He turned and walked out.
Julian carried that three-second silence in his mouth the rest of the day.
Rolled it around like an unfamiliar vowel.
He wasn't trying to prove a point.
He just needed to confirm he still spoke the language of humans.
The walk home passed through a corner where the air reeked of garbage and diesel.
That night, he was coated in a mosaic of smells—coffee foam, steamed milk, dust from old library books, and the sting of blisters in his shoes.
He collapsed onto the chair in his rented room, switched on his phone.
A message from his mother lit up the screen:
"Landlord came asking about the old flat's utilities.
I covered it.
Don't stay up too late."
Julian didn't reply.
He took off his coat, hung it on the rusted hook behind the door, and sat down at his desk.
There, on the screen, was a Bloomberg internship application form.
He didn't want to just rent space in this city.
He wanted to rent the keys to the system—
even if only for a few hours.