As I slowly got used to my life—going to school, practicing new languages, walking the same streets every morning and returning home every afternoon—I began to feel something changing inside me. At first, I thought it was nothing. I had already learned how to feel invisible, how to be quiet, how to exist like air in a room. But this feeling was different. It wasn't emptiness. It was awareness.
I started to notice people.
Some classmates were kinder than I expected. They smiled at me, spoke gently, or waited for me when I walked too slowly. Even at home, things began to soften. My parents, who once felt distant and tense, started showing me more care. More warmth. Small gestures—asking how my day was, sitting near me, listening just a little longer. For the first time in a long while, I felt like maybe I wasn't invisible anymore.
And then there was her.
Lili.
Her full name was Liliann, but to me, she was just Lili. She wasn't loud or dramatic. She felt familiar, safe, like someone who understood me without asking too many questions. We shared secrets, laughs, small moments that felt important in a quiet way. She became my best friend without either of us needing to say it out loud. I trusted her completely.
That trust would later become the sharpest pain I had ever known.
Everything changed in sixth grade.
I don't remember the exact moment it started breaking. I only remember how fast everything fell apart. Lili shared my secrets—things I had only ever whispered, things that lived deep inside me. She told people at school. She told my first ex. Words that were never meant to leave my heart suddenly belonged to everyone.
My life shattered.
It felt like someone had taken a puzzle I spent years building and swept it off the table. I couldn't recognize myself anymore. I cried for a whole week, alone at home, my tears soaking into pillows and silence. My family was worried—more worried than I was capable of being. I didn't know how to explain the pain because it didn't feel physical. It felt like fear.
That was the first real fear I had ever met.
After that, I slowly began destroying the things that once saved me. I quit writing stories. I stopped drawing. I stopped going outside. The hobbies that once gave me confidence now felt pointless, like reminders of a version of myself that no longer existed. I became smaller. Quieter. Dimmer.
When I returned to school, I was still the same person inside—but people saw me differently. Or maybe they always had, and I just noticed it now. They called me weird. Disgusting. Said things that echoed in my head long after the bell rang. I had never imagined being this alone. I used to believe the world was beautiful for everyone, equally. That belief cracked too.
Eventually, I changed schools.
It was supposed to be a fresh start. And in some ways, it was. I met new people—Bohdana, Karolina, and Mary. They were loud, talkative, always joking. Yappers, really. Easy to tease, easy to laugh with. For a while, it worked. We played Roblox together, went skateboarding, drew for each other, shared hobbies like they were glue holding us together.
Those moments were real. The fun was real.
But friendships built too quickly can break just as fast.
Arguments started. Small ones at first, then sharper. And one day, they decided they didn't like me anymore. They said I was useless. Just like that. A word that lodged itself into my chest and refused to leave. I lost them too.
Around that time, I had my second ex by my side. I thought maybe love could fill the empty spaces. But my family didn't approve of him—not because of who he was, but because of how he looked. His darker skin became a reason for rejection, and that made something inside me turn cold. I hated my family a little for that. I hated that love could be judged so easily.
Soon after, everything collapsed again.
I broke up with my second ex. I lost my friends. I had no one standing behind me. No safety net. No shoulder. Nothing but my own mind—and that can be a dangerous place to be alone in.
I kept playing Roblox, trying to laugh, trying to distract myself, trying to find people who would stay. I searched for friends the way someone searches for light in a dark room—carefully, desperately. Sometimes it worked for a moment. Most times, it didn't. Maybe it worked for others. Just not for me.
And now, when I look back at that time, I don't just see sadness.
I see survival.
I see a girl who was betrayed and still stood up again. A girl who lost her voice and still tried to speak. A girl who felt useless to the world and yet continued waking up each day, breathing, hoping—quietly—that one day, someone would understand her.
I still hope.
Because even now, deep down, I believe I'll find someone. Someone who won't leave. Someone who won't twist my trust into a weapon. Someone who sees me not as air, not as useless—but as real.
And until then, I keep going.
Even when I feel broken.Even when the world feels too heavy.Even when I don't believe in myself.
Because maybe surviving is already proof that I matter.