For a while, I thought things were getting better. Not perfect. Just better.
I was waking up earlier. I was trying to keep up with my schoolwork. I had started taking my editing jobs more seriously, even if the money wasn't much. I was trying to eat properly, keep my room clean, and do the little things that made me feel like I was slowly becoming myself again.
It wasn't easy. But I was trying. And I thought maybe that should have been enough.
Apparently, it wasn't.
"Elena."
I looked up from my notebook.
My mum stood in the doorway, watching me.
"Yes, Mum?"
"Why have you been so quiet lately?" I forced a small smile.
"I'm just studying."
She frowned.
"Studying? You used to sit with us in the evening. You used to talk to your brothers. Now you're always in your room."
I looked down at my notebook. "I've just been trying to focus."
Focus on what? "School."
She sighed.
"School is important, yes. But you don't have to become so serious all of a sudden." I didn't know what to say to that.
Because the truth was, I wasn't trying to become serious. I was trying to hold myself together.
But how was I supposed to explain something I barely understood myself?
"I'll come out later," I said quietly.
She looked at me for a few seconds.
"That's what you always say."
Then she walked away.
I stared at the page in front of me.
The words had stopped making sense.
I read the same sentence three times and still couldn't remember what it said.
I closed my notebook.
Maybe I really had changed.
Maybe everyone could see it.
And maybe that was the problem.
Later that evening, I forced myself to sit with everyone in the living room.
My brothers were talking and laughing about something I didn't understand. I smiled when they laughed, even though I hadn't heard the joke.
"You see?" Mum said suddenly. "This is the Elena I know."
I smiled again.
But something about the statement made my chest tighten. The Elena she knew. The cheerful one.
The considerate one.
The girl who noticed when everyone needed something before they asked. The girl who smiled even when she was tired. The girl who didn't complain.
Sometimes I wondered if anyone had ever asked whether I wanted to be that girl all the time.
One of my brothers looked at me. "What's wrong with you these days?"
"Nothing."
"You don't look happy." "I'm fine." He laughed.
"You're always saying you're fine." I smiled faintly. "Because I am."
It was a lie. But it was the easiest answer. My other brother shook his head.
"You've changed. You should be more cheerful."
I looked at him.
"I'll try."
He shrugged.
"You should. Look at how other girls behave. They're more respectful and considerate."
The room went quiet for half a second.
Then the conversation continued.
But I didn't hear any of it. Other girls more respectful. More considerate.
The words repeated themselves in my head.
I knew he probably didn't mean anything serious by it.
Maybe it was just a comment.
Maybe I was being too sensitive.
But lately, everything seemed to hurt more than it used to.
I excused myself and went to my room.
I closed the door behind me and leaned against it.
I wanted to cry. Instead, I laughed.
A quiet, humorless laugh. "What's wrong with you, Elena?"
I asked myself the question I'd been hearing in different forms for months.
Why wasn't I cheerful enough?
Why wasn't I considerate enough?
Why couldn't I just be like the other girls?
Why couldn't I make things easier for everyone?
I walked over to the mirror.
My reflection looked tired.
I studied my face for a while.
"Maybe they're right."
The words came out before I could stop them.
Maybe I really wasn't doing enough.
Maybe I had become difficult.
Maybe everyone else was trying and I was the one making everything harder.
I hated how easily I could convince myself of things when I was already hurting.
I sat on the edge of my bed.
For a few minutes, I let the silence surround me.
Then I heard Mum calling my name.
"Elena!"
I wiped my face quickly.
"Coming!"
I walked back outside.
"What took you so long?" she asked.
"Nothing."
She handed me something to do.
I took it without complaining.
That was what I had always done. I helped. I adjusted. I smiled.
Even when I didn't feel like smiling.
Even when I wanted someone to look at me and ask, "Are you okay?"
Nobody did.
And maybe that was the hardest part.
Not that they didn't love me.
I knew they did.
It was just that sometimes love could exist in a room and still leave you feeling completely alone.
That night, I returned to my room and opened my laptop.
I had another editing job waiting.
My eyes were burning, but I started anyway.
One paragraph. Then another. I made mistakes. Deleted sentences.
Started again.
At some point, I caught myself staring at the screen without typing.
I almost closed the laptop.
Almost.
Then I remembered what I had written the night before.
I want to find myself again.
I took a deep breath.
"Keep going," I whispered.
So I did.
Not because I suddenly felt better.
Not because my family's words had stopped hurting.
Not because I had figured everything out.
I kept going because, somewhere beneath all the doubt, there was still a small part of me that believed I could become someone I was proud of.
Maybe I didn't have to be the perfect daughter.
Maybe I didn't have to be the happiest person in the room.
Maybe I didn't have to smile just to prove I was okay.
Maybe being tired didn't make me ungrateful.
Maybe being quiet didn't make me disrespectful.
Maybe struggling didn't make me weak.
I looked at the clock.
It was late.
My eyes were heavy.
But I finished the work.
I saved the document and closed my laptop.
Then I opened my notebook.
I stared at the blank page for a long time.
Finally, I wrote:
I am still trying.
I paused.
Then added:
Even when nobody notices.
I looked at the words.
For once, I didn't feel the need to erase them.
Because maybe that was the truth I needed to remember.
I was still here. Still studying. Still working. Still helping. Still trying.
Even when I felt invisible.
Even when comparisons made me question myself.
Even when the people I loved unknowingly made me feel like I wasn't enough.
I was still pushing.
And maybe, for now, that had to count for something.
For a while, I thought things were getting better. Not perfect. Just better.
I was waking up earlier. I was trying to keep up with my schoolwork. I had started taking my editing jobs more seriously, even if the money wasn't much. I was trying to eat properly, keep my room clean, and do the little things that made me feel like I was slowly becoming myself again.
It wasn't easy. But I was trying. And I thought maybe that should have been enough. Apparently, it wasn't.
"Elena."
I looked up from my notebook. My mum stood in the doorway, watching me.
"Yes, Mum?"
"Why have you been so quiet lately?"
I forced a small smile.
"I'm just studying."
She frowned.
"Studying? You used to sit with us in the evening. You used to talk to your brothers. Now you're always in your room."
I looked down at my notebook.
"I've just been trying to focus."
"Focus on what?"
"School."
She sighed.
"School is important, yes. But you don't have to become so serious all of a sudden."
I didn't know what to say to that.
Because the truth was, I wasn't trying to become serious. I was trying to hold myself together. But how was I supposed to explain something I barely understood myself?
"I'll come out later," I said quietly. She looked at me for a few seconds. "That's what you always say." Then she walked away. I stared at the page in front of me. The words had stopped making sense. I read the same sentence three times and still couldn't remember what it said.
I closed my notebook. Maybe I really had changed.
Maybe everyone could see it.
And maybe that was the problem.
Later that evening, I forced myself to sit with everyone in the living room.
My brothers were talking and laughing about something I didn't understand. I smiled when they laughed, even though I hadn't heard the joke.
"You see?" Mum said suddenly. "This is the Elena I know."
I smiled again. But something about the statement made my chest tighten.
The Elena she knew. The cheerful one. The considerate one. The girl who noticed when everyone needed something before they asked.
The girl who smiled even when she was tired.
The girl who didn't complain.
Sometimes I wondered if anyone had ever asked whether I wanted to be that girl all the time.
One of my brothers looked at me.
"What's wrong with you these days?" "Nothing." "You don't look happy."
"I'm fine." He laughed. "You're always saying you're fine." I smiled faintly. "Because I am." It was a lie. But it was the easiest answer. My other brother shook his head.
"You've changed. You should be more cheerful." I looked at him.
"I'll try." He shrugged. "You should. Look at how other girls behave. They're more respectful and considerate."
The room went quiet for half a second.
Then the conversation continued.
But I didn't hear any of it.
Other girls. More respectful. More considerate.
The words repeated themselves in my head.
I knew he probably didn't mean anything serious by it. Maybe it was just a comment. Maybe I was being too sensitive.
But lately, everything seemed to hurt more than it used to.
I excused myself and went to my room.
I closed the door behind me and leaned against it.
I wanted to cry. Instead, I laughed.
A quiet, humorless laugh.
"What's wrong with you, Elena?"
I asked myself the question I'd been hearing in different forms for months.
Why wasn't I cheerful enough? Why wasn't I considerate enough? Why couldn't I just be like the other girls? Why couldn't I make things easier for everyone? I walked over to the mirror. My reflection looked tired.
I studied my face for a while. "Maybe they're right."
The words came out before I could stop them.
Maybe I really wasn't doing enough.
Maybe I had become difficult.
Maybe everyone else was trying and I was the one making everything harder.
I hated how easily I could convince myself of things when I was already hurting.
I sat on the edge of my bed. For a few minutes, I let the silence surround me.
Then I heard Mum calling my name.
"Elena!" I wiped my face quickly. "Coming!"
I walked back outside. "What took you so long?" she asked. "Nothing."
She handed me something to do. I took it without complaining.
That was what I had always done.
I helped. I adjusted. I smiled. Even when I didn't feel like smiling.
Even when I wanted someone to look at me and ask, "Are you okay?"
Nobody did.
And maybe that was the hardest part.
Not that they didn't love me.
I knew they did.
It was just that sometimes love could exist in a room and still leave you feeling completely alone.
That night, I returned to my room and opened my laptop.
I had another editing job waiting. My eyes were burning, but I started anyway.
One paragraph. Then another. I made mistakes. Deleted sentences.
Started again. At some point, I caught myself staring at the screen without typing.
I almost closed the laptop. Almost.
Then I remembered what I had written the night before.
I want to find myself again.
I took a deep breath.
"Keep going," I whispered.
So I did.
Not because I suddenly felt better.
Not because my family's words had stopped hurting.
Not because I had figured everything out.
I kept going because, somewhere beneath all the doubt, there was still a small part of me that believed I could become someone I was proud of. Maybe I didn't have to be the perfect daughter.
Maybe I didn't have to be the happiest person in the room.
Maybe I didn't have to smile just to prove I was okay.
Maybe being tired didn't make me ungrateful.
Maybe being quiet didn't make me disrespectful.
Maybe struggling didn't make me weak.
I looked at the clock. It was late. My eyes were heavy.
But I finished the work.
I saved the document and closed my laptop.
Then I opened my notebook.
I stared at the blank page for a long time.
Finally, I wrote:
I am still trying.
I paused.
Then added:
Even when nobody notices.
I looked at the words.
For once, I didn't feel the need to erase them.
Because maybe that was the truth I needed to remember.
I was still here. Still studying. Still working. Still helping. Still trying
Even when I felt invisible. Even when comparisons made me question myself. Even when the people I loved unknowingly made me feel like I wasn't enough.I was still pushing. And maybe, for now, that had to count for something.