People are quick to name things they don't understand.
They assign words to behavior before they bother to look for meaning. They shape assumptions out of glimpses, snippets, or impressions—and those assumptions often stick more firmly than reality ever could.
Lily heard the labels before she ever heard an explanation. Too serious. Too competitive. Too distant. Each word felt heavy, as if it had been pressed onto her shoulders without permission, something she had not chosen but was now forced to carry. She tried to shrug them off at first, convincing herself that words were harmless—but they were not. They lingered, echoing in hallways, in quiet moments between drills, in the space where laughter had once been easy and welcoming.
No one asked why she trained alone at home, why she stayed hours after practice perfecting the same movements over and over. No one asked why winning mattered so much to her, or why she set impossible standards for herself and refused to settle for less. No one asked why she pushed herself harder than anyone else, why she seemed to chase progress rather than applause.
If they had asked, she might have told them everything. She might have said that training was how she coped—with pressure, with expectations, with the quiet, gnawing fear of being seen as lazy or ungrateful. She might have explained that every drop of sweat, every blistered finger, every aching muscle was a promise she made to herself to keep moving forward, to stay disciplined when life outside the court felt messy and unpredictable. She might have told them that her seriousness was not coldness, her competitiveness not arrogance, her distance not rejection—but a quiet armor that allowed her to survive and grow.
Instead, she learned what it felt like to be misunderstood in silence. She learned that the absence of questions can be louder than the loudest accusation. That being unseen, or seen only through a narrow lens, can make even the most confident person doubt herself. She learned that labels, once spoken, can shadow you long after they've been uttered—and that carrying them alone is a weight that bends the heart quietly but surely.