My name is Muhannad. I'm 24 years old. I live in a city that only sleeps to the sounds of shelling, and wakes up to a fragile hope that amounts to nothing more than a missing pill or a loaf of bread we waited in a long line for.

In Gaza, everything is postponed: dreams, travel, studies, and even love. We live half a day with a charged battery, and the rest by candlelight or broken screens.

I try to be strong, to smile when my mother asks me, "What's up?" I lie and say, "Thank God, everything is fine." She knows I'm lying, but we lie to survive.

I dream of leaving, not as an escape, but in search of a life that resembles life. I dream of a home uninhabited by the sounds of airplanes, and a night unbroken by explosions. I dream of saying my name, Muhannad, without anyone hearing me ever thinking "refugee."

But here I am staying. Between the smell of the sea and gunpowder, I write, I breathe, and I try to remain human.