The Europe Challenge

I gradually grew accustomed to being alone. Not necessarily to the feeling of loneliness; however, I was well aware of the fact that I was by myself. To a certain extent, I had been alone my whole life. Sure, there were always people around me, but it wasn’t me who was around them. My existence had always been as if on the side-lines, rather than fully immersed within the so-called ‘my life’.

The struggle to express how I felt and saw had been following me since day one. As a child, I would get infinitely angry with myself whenever I couldn’t explain a certain emotion to myself. So how could I even hope to convey something to others that I couldn’t even interpret for myself? If I, who was meant to be intimately familiar with my own inner world, stumbled into the darkness of my thoughts, how could I possibly explain it to others?

I can’t recall exactly if I was 11 or 12 when I first started visiting the library. Over time, I had created a deep love for books and stories, and I craved more and more, so what better place for this than a building filled with books? The library itself wasn’t anything special at first glance, certainly not like the ones I had seen in movies, but to me, it opened a door I didn’t even know existed.

It was an early afternoon, and I had some time before my lessons, so I decided to check it out before having to get on with my day. The air hung heavy with the scent of old paper in the rooms, each organised by age. The shelves were covered with dust, but despite that, my eyes were drawn not to the imperfections, but to the variety of colours on the spines of books, neatly arranged by authors, genres, and alphabetical order. At that moment, I knew for sure that I would be spending a lot of time there from now on.

A few months down the line, the library had effortlessly transformed into my ultimate spot for hangouts after school. During that period, I began to sense a growing emptiness within me, seemingly without any significant cause—perhaps just an aspect of growing up. I always felt misunderstood by my parents, who had the wrong ideas about me. My friends at school were causing never-ending conflicts, which always made me feel in the middle, which I hated. On top of everything, I gradually drifted apart from my then-best friend. Reflecting on it now, the reasons behind these emotions might not have been profound, but for my middle-school self, they were a bit too much, all at once.

We can all agree that at some point in our lives, we have tried to fit in, to change, and to morph ourselves into what society wants us to be. So, before I knew it, I had managed to act differently in front of the different people I was around. One can only imagine how tiring this might be, of course, if they haven’t personally gone through it, but still. So, pretty soon it was clear to me that, at least to myself, I had to stay true. This is where the books took part.

Hours upon hours I spent in that small library, between the shelves, sitting next to the never-cleaned window, flipping through pages. I quickly figured out which types of books I enjoyed the most, and which style of writing was suitable for my capacity at the time. I practically swallowed the stories. Likewise, I loved each of them dearly because, at the time, they were truly the only things I felt close to—the only things that didn’t make me feel like I had to be someone I wasn’t. I met a thousand characters within these lines, all different and unique. In some, I could see parts of myself, in others, the complete opposite; nevertheless, they were all special. By meeting so many diverse personalities, even though they were only written on paper, I learned to accept certain parts of myself that I had once thought were wrong and needed to be changed. I found comfort and understanding in fiction, but most importantly, I found peace. For once, I could imagine myself being something greater than the self I had created to fit my surroundings. I got into the habit of imagining myself in certain scenarios, which I found especially fascinating in the stories. I even imagined myself having friends like the main characters in the books, something that never happened. Some may claim that it is a bad habit, but the constant daydreaming and imagining scenarios, in a way, saved me from the reality that, at times, I couldn’t bear.

As time passed, those dreams started turning into actual ideas of my own, which led to the desire to pick up a pen and a notebook and write my own stories, with characters and plot twists that I could design to my liking. As I developed my stories, I found myself handling themes and conflicts that mirrored my own struggles. Through my characters, I could explore solutions to problems, navigate difficult emotions, and visualise a world where I felt understood and accepted. The characters I created were reflections of my inner world—some embodying traits I admired, while others represented parts of myself I was still trying to understand. This new hobby felt like a whole new gate that had been opened, a new horizon, somewhere I could pour out all my emotions without fearing that the world would judge and see.

I have no one to thank but fate itself, which led me to that corner of the city, where a whole new world—no, a whole new universe—was hidden, waiting to be explored by a child, lost in their own mind, searching for direction. You see, the first door I opened was the one to the library, but after that, with each page turned, I discovered something new, something that changed me for the better, and helped me become the one whom everyone needs to be in order to have a fulfilling life—myself.

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About the Author

Michaela (born in Bulgaria, 2007) is a high school student from Bulgaria studying English and German. She has been passionate about writing and literature since childhood, and words have always held a special place in her heart. She is eager to develop her talent further and pursue her love for writing to new heights.