High school is where many young people feel they discover themselves, or at least try to. I, once cheerful and full of energy, entered the world of high school with new hopes. After going through difficult times in junior high, I was determined to become someone who could always radiate positive energy, someone who could make others feel happy to be around me. I wanted to be remembered not for my sadness, but for my smile that was always present.
At first, everything went as I had hoped. I started making new friends, laughing in class, and felt that this new world was full of possibilities. But shortly after, I met them again—three of my childhood friends. R, S, and B. My heart leapt when I saw them in the school hallway. I wanted to approach them immediately, to tell them who I was, to remind them of the promise we made together in the past. But as I got closer to them, something was different.
They didn't remember me. Not one of them.
"Who are you?" R asked, his gaze full of confusion when I mentioned my name. I tried to explain, trying to bring them back to the fond memories of our childhood, but they just laughed awkwardly and continued their conversation without a care.
I stayed cheerful, trying to approach them with a smile, thinking that maybe they just needed time. I waited, hoping that one day, they would remember me again. But the reality was far more bitter than I had imagined.
A small incident at school set everything in motion. I accidentally dropped S's personal note while we were exchanging assignments in class. The note contained something deeply personal, something I didn't know could hurt her feelings. I apologized repeatedly, explaining that it was an accident, but she refused to listen.
That day, everything changed. Whispers started to surround me. I was met with cynical glances every time I walked through the hallways. R, S, and B—they began to distance themselves from me, not just distancing, but actively spreading stories about me. They made me the center of the wrong kind of attention. "She's pretending to be friendly," "She's weird," "She doesn't know her place."
I became the laughingstock of the class, even from those who had been close to me before. No one cared that I just wanted to be a friend, that I was only trying to be accepted. Their words became sharper. "Look at her, pretending to smile when she's obviously sad," "Why doesn't she just leave?"
I tried to hold on. I kept smiling, as though the world was still beautiful. But little by little, that smile began to crack. My nights were filled with tears I couldn't stop. I started questioning myself—what was wrong with me? Why was I always a burden to others? Why couldn't I find my place in this world?
When I finally sought help, I went to see a psychologist. I knew I needed someone to listen to me, to tell me that I wasn't crazy. But when the news spread, everything got worse.
"She went to see a psychologist? She's crazy!" That's what they said. They spread the story all over school, even on social media. I became the target of digital mockery. Hate-filled messages flooded my account every day. "Crazy!", "Attention seeker!", "Trash!"
My family also felt the impact. Neighbors started talking, spreading gossip that I was a "troubled kid." My parents were bombarded with questions and cynical stares whenever they left the house. There were even strange packages sent to us—old items with notes filled with mockery, like "Raise your kid properly!" or "Just throw your kid away."
Eventually, we had to move schools, even move houses. I entered a vocational high school, trying to start over. But the wounds didn't heal. Every time it rained, I remembered all the insults and taunts. I remembered how I lost everything—my dignity, my friends, even the family that used to be so cheerful.
One night, in the pouring rain, I stood in front of our small rented house. I cried silently, feeling the cold water mixing with the warmth of my tears. My body felt fragile, like it would collapse at any moment. And indeed, not long after, my body finally gave way.
I was hospitalized for weeks. My health deteriorated, not only physically but mentally as well. My parents ran out of money, selling whatever they could to pay for my treatment. I watched them struggle, but I felt helpless. All I could do was lie in bed, feeling like a burden.
Then one day, in that hospital, I met Arya. He was in the same ward, just a few beds away from me. I didn't know why he was there, but when I saw him, I felt something strange. A tiny hope appeared, like a small light in the darkness.
"Hey," he said softly when I looked in his direction.
I didn't answer, only stared at him with tear-filled eyes. But somehow, for the first time in a long while, I didn't feel alone.