It's not like I hate my parents.
Actually, I really, really love them.
They raised me with sweat and sacrifice. My dad worked at a mechanic shop until his knuckles were swollen, and mom took on ironing jobs just to afford my school books. I get it. I appreciate it.
But that's the problem.
I get it too much.
They always say I'm the "good one." The responsible child. The one who listens. The one who doesn't cause trouble.
"You're our pride, Arman," they say. "We can count on you."
I used to feel proud. But now? I feel… trapped.
Because I'm tired.
I'm tired of pretending that the constant headaches are just from late-night studying. I'm tired of being the one who always says, "It's okay" when I don't even believe it myself. I'm tired of being the older brother who sacrifices, and the student who performs, and the friend who listens.
When do I get to be selfish?
I can't even tell anyone this. Who would understand?
If I complain, I'd feel like spitting on everything my parents gave up for me.
So I just smile. Laugh. Nod.
And the pressure keeps building.
Until today.
School was ending, the hallway bathed in gold from the setting sun. Most students had gone home already. I stayed behind, pretending to wait for a club meeting that didn't exist.
I just didn't want to go home yet.
Then, while I was crouched on the steps near the back exit, peeling a sticker off my water bottle just to keep my hands busy, I noticed her.
That girl.
She sat near the garbage incinerator, legs stretched out, one shoe off, cigarette in hand.
A freaking cigarette. On school grounds. Was she stupid?
I frowned. "Hey, you're gonna get caught."
She glanced at me, unimpressed. "Then don't watch."
"Wow. That's your defense?"
"You've got the face of someone who won't report me anyway."
She wasn't wrong. I sighed.
"You're not even hiding. A teacher could walk by."
"Then they'll scold me. Life goes on."
"Why are you even doing that here?" I muttered.
She blew a slow stream of smoke. "Because the rooftop is locked."
"…Not what I meant."
She turned her head toward me fully for the first time, as if sizing me up. Her eyes were oddly clear, despite the smell of nicotine around her.
"You look like you're about to cry," she said plainly.
That hit harder than I expected.
I looked away. "I'm not."
"Okay." She didn't push. She didn't even blink.
"…You ever get tired of being the good kid?" I mumbled after a long silence.
Her only response was an arched brow, like she was giving me permission to go on.
So I did.
And somehow, the words spilled out. Not all at once. Not in a dramatic rush. But in small pieces. Like I was digging them out of myself.
"My dad calls me 'little boss.' Mom says I'm their biggest hope. My younger brother gets away with failing grades and tantrums. Me? If I get anything less than an 80, I feel like I'm stealing from them. They always compare me to the kids who dropped out or got pregnant early and say, 'See? Thank God we have you.' But I… I'm not perfect. And I'm starting to resent the way they make me feel like I have to be."
She listened, didn't interrupt. Just smoked quietly.
"I once stayed up three nights helping with mom's bookkeeping job. I nearly collapsed during a math test the next morning. You know what she said?"
I didn't wait for an answer.
"She said, 'You're so strong. I knew you'd understand our situation.' I wanted to scream."
My voice trembled, but I swallowed it down.
"I want to be free, even if just for a bit. To screw up. To be irresponsible. But if I do… I feel like the entire house will collapse. I'm their pillar. And I'm only seventeen."
The girl looked at me. Her cigarette was almost done.
"You're right," she said.
"About?"
"It's not fair."
I blinked.
She continued, voice soft but steady. "Some families make their best child into their replacement adult. They don't even realize it. It's not done out of cruelty, but out of desperation."
I looked at her. "So what do I do?"
"You keep being kind, but don't forget yourself. Set boundaries. Even with the people you love. Especially with them."
I exhaled. I hadn't realized I was holding my breath.
"You sound older than you look," I muttered.
"I've lived a lot," she replied vaguely.
"…Do you have a name?"
She stood, brushing dust from her skirt. "Alifah."
"I'm Arman."
She gave me a look. "You're allowed to be tired, Arman."
I stood beside her. "Thanks."
She tilted her head slightly. "You might want to throw that sticker away. You've been peeling it the whole time."
I looked down at the shredded label in my hands and laughed for the first time in days.
As she walked away, the fading sunlight caught the smoke trails from her last exhale. They twisted upward, like a quiet kind of rebellion.
—Even a pillar needs a foundation. And sometimes, the strongest thing you can do… is step away before you crumble.