Never written a story before. Voilà:

One was nothing. Zero, from nowhere into something. But the appearance itself created one. One was something, now.
One grew. Small became bigger, coalesced, spiraled (or should that be helixed?) out into everything there was. Development created something, something else.
Something was wrong. Something was left. Nothing was right, then, for one so developed. But still one developed, through the leaving and the wringing.
One had friends, people, and a home, hearth, family.
One was lonely. One found a place, an unreal place, a virtual place – full of people who weren't there. Unpeople, unlonely. One had a home. Vivent Mudcat!