Beautiful souls, how can I find you?

Dear April,

I am truly sorry for leaving you when you needed me the most. At the same time, I am so glad to see the wonderful person you’ve become, even if you don’t believe in yourself just yet. I know this world has let you down countless times, but I promise you, your life will be beautiful. You are such a kind and amazing person. No matter how hurt you are, you always remain good-hearted, and that is one of the rarest and most precious things in this world. You need to know how incredible you truly are.

You can’t imagine how broken my heart feels when I sense your pain. I wish so deeply that I could hold you tightly and show you that this world can be warm, that you are absolutely not alone. In the future, there will be countless moments when you’ll feel weary, disappointed, heartbroken, and lost again. But I hope you won’t cry alone, won’t let the sadness slip by unnoticed, and won’t pretend that everything is fine. There are still many wonderful people in this world. If you close your heart because of those who hurt you, you’ll miss the chance to meet the right people and lose the opportunity to find happiness again.

I love your sincerity and honesty. I love your imperfections, your vulnerability, and your strength. I love the darkest and brightest parts of you. I love every version of you. I hope you know that you never need to hide any part of yourself from anyone, because the authentic you is the most dazzling existence in this false world. Your light draws people in—both those who know how to treat you kindly and those who don’t.

I wish there were a camera following you every moment to capture everything, so you could see just how radiant you are. This unique version of you will one day become a beacon of light and strength for others. I hope you know and never forget that you have always been, and will always be, someone who shines brightly. Your story will touch thousands of beautiful souls, and you are far stronger than you think.

Always loving you,99Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡkkmC4eOEDp
April

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"Have you ever wished that something in your life had never happened?"

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"I've thought about it a million times... but at the same time, I wonder, would I still be who I am today? I don’t think so. There have been so many moments where I wished I hadn’t gone through all that pain, but if I could go back, I wouldn’t try to stop it all. Instead, I would hold my younger self tightly and tell her, ‘I love you. I love you so much that I will never leave you, even if it means I have to suffer. The road ahead is hard, but we have each other. Don’t keep enduring everything in silence—reach out to the people you care about. If you open your heart, they’ll understand and protect you. And stop silently staring at others, because one day, you too will be a radiant and dazzling presence in this world, gently and firmly lighting up the lives of others. I know you will, because you have a brilliant inner self, one you have never seen, but others have. They are irresistibly drawn to you, just to experience the happiness and beauty of life together, healing their weary souls so they can find the strength to heal the world.”

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I wish I had enough time and linguistic ability to traverse this vast world. I want to learn the story of every life, every tale in the universe. I hope to create stories of my own, allowing people to understand me through my words. And one day, I dream of having the power to change the world through writing.

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When I was young, I didn’t wear a mask around people. I let myself fully experience my emotions, releasing them whenever I needed to. I cried and laughed over the smallest things, never caring whether others understood me. All I cared about was myself. My emotions surged so intensely that if I didn’t release them outward, I felt like I would drown in them.

I’ve never met anyone like me, and I’ve never been completely myself in front of anyone—not even my closest family or friends. Everyone seems so repressed, and so am I. Everything feels so suffocating.

Why are the children in the classroom so different from me? Why do they all have such blank expressions?

I remember in elementary school, I would often point at others and laugh uncontrollably, only to be met with scolding. Amid the blur, someone would mutter under their breath, “What a lunatic.” I saw the looks people gave me, heard the teacher in front of me telling me to stop laughing, but I couldn’t. I kept laughing, like someone out of their mind, until tears streamed down my face. It was only when I could laugh no more that I realized just how strange I must have seemed to everyone else.

It seems that from that moment on, I began to care about how others saw me. I grew extremely quiet, silently observing everyone’s expressions, trying my best to blend into society.

People liked to be around me, to become my friend, but I never enjoyed the attention. I didn’t want to stand out; I wished we could all simply stop laughing and crying and not be different from one another. On graduation day, everyone’s eyes brimmed with tears, and once again, I was confused. When is it the right time to cry? When is it the right time to laugh?

I’ve had so many questions, but no one to answer them.

I rarely cry over goodbyes because I’ve long understood that nothing in life is permanent. Friends come and go, and when the time comes to part, all I can do is quietly accept it and continue moving forward alone.

We were once young and innocent, but time has pulled us apart, and no one has taken the initiative to stay in touch. Our lives moved forward, and for years, our paths never crossed again.

Looking back now, I realize I can barely remember what we were like back then. I can’t even recall the sound of my own genuine laughter. I’ve finally come to understand that I didn’t grow up; I simply never saw them as true friends. I never felt their love, and I never truly loved them either. I didn’t make friends because I wanted to, but because I didn’t want to be alone. And it was this mindset that, unknowingly, hurt those who had treated me with genuine kindness.

Love, to me, used to be an awkward concept. Who would believe that we could love our friends more than we love our family? No one ever taught me what love is—not even my parents. It’s not because we had a bad relationship. On the contrary, they loved us very much, but their love was suffocating.

We never said “I love you” because we thought it was a given. It was like saying the sun rises in the east and sets in the west—everyone knows it. But keeping love buried in your heart without expressing it isn’t enough because humans have emotions and constantly question each other’s sincerity. Yet, saying “I love you” all the time isn’t enough either, because words can be lies. We can betray, deceive, and pretend. We have minds that no one else can read.

And that’s where every story begins.

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Chapter 1 Love, Serenity, and Chaos

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That night, the city was unusually quiet. There were no cars on the road or pedestrians walking in groups. I sat in the car, staring at the dots of light under the night sky. The streetlights passed by so quickly that I couldn’t make out their shapes. I kept my eyes fixed on the blurry lights, completely unaware of the passage of time.

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We arrived at the airport. I got out of the car silently. Dad had already grabbed the luggage and was waiting with Mom beside him. I looked straight ahead and followed Dad’s figure into the airport. Outside, it was dark, but inside, the brightness stung my eyes. The terminal was filled with travelers, their faces glowing with joyful smiles.

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Among the crowd of passionate people, my heart was strangely calm. It felt like I had unintentionally stumbled into a paradise, witnessing the joy and happiness of the world as an outsider.

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At the airport, a quietness settled around me. I looked around without emotion, recording every moment with my eyes, unaware of how time was flowing.

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Time slipped away unnoticed. It was time to go.

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"Take care of yourself! Dad and I will be here waiting for you to come back!" Mom said, her eyes filled with worry and affection.

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"Mm!" I replied with a smile. Without meeting their eyes, I walked toward the crowd. From a distance, I couldn’t clearly see their faces. I waved and smiled at them, hoping they would turn and leave.

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I busied myself capturing everything, writing a diary of all I saw and heard in my mind. Ahead of me, a girl waved her arms excitedly as she watched her parents leave. But as soon as they were out of sight, she broke down in tears. I heard her heartbreaking sobs and, in my mind, I comforted her, saying, “It’s okay. This isn’t goodbye—you’ll see them again.” A couple nearby whispered softly to each other, leaning close. Behind me, a group of friends laughed out loud, sharing inside jokes only they could understand.

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Everyone had a story to tell, but mine hadn’t started yet.

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I looked inward, waiting for any emotion to surface. One second, five seconds, ten seconds. Two minutes passed, and still, nothing. My heart remained still. Surrounded by people brimming with energy, a calmness wrapped around me. I began imagining their life stories—their destinations, what they were doing, and why they shone so brightly.

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During the hours of waiting, I observed the beauty of the world. Everything around me sparkled, the scene warm and genuine. I had never known that being alone at an airport could feel so novel.

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As I boarded the plane with strangers, the air was cool, but the flight attendants' smiles were warm. Passengers took their seats one by one. A baby cried loudly. The hum of people’s whispers was comforting. The lights ahead dimmed. The airport announcements echoed. Finally, the view outside the window began to move.

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I thought back to my first time flying as a child. I had been so afraid of the engine’s roar, but the sensation of weightlessness had startled me so much that I forgot to be scared. Looking up at the slanting night sky, I felt as if I was flying once again.

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Something sparked within me. I gazed at the lights below, imagining the people inside, fast asleep in their homes. Where is home? Mom and Dad should be home by now, exhausted and falling asleep instantly, not worrying about me at all.

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I soared higher, taking in the view of the land below. I was in awe, lost in its beauty. This beautiful, resilient island—Taiwan—was home to the people I cared about, my life, and my memories.

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For the last time, I looked down and softly said in my heart:

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Goodbye. I’ll see you in a year. I won’t be lost anymore.

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I soared toward the sky.

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The sky was vast, and the wind gently brushed my face. A flock of birds joined me. I laughed loudly, screaming into the sky, unafraid anymore.

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I was free.

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In that moment, and every moment after, I was finally free. I cast off my burdens and flew toward the sky, feeling more relaxed than ever. A new chapter had begun, and my life was about to start anew.

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I had found my passion again. The passion for my life.

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Lyon is a city full of vitality at every corner. Sitting in the taxi, I stared at the scenes outside, too captivated to blink. The sky was so blue, the clouds so dreamy. The trees lining the streets stretched to the horizon, their shadows casting on the road, weaving into a grand avenue.

The air conditioning was broken, so the driver rolled down the window. Without the glass barrier, the sounds of the city filled my ears, and I could see everything clearly. Passersby were laughing as they walked by, their eyes sparkling with tiny bits of light. I watched the pair of people deep in conversation, and as the car passed them, no one noticed me.

We stopped at the cheapest hostel in Lyon. I got out of the car, and the driver quickly unloaded my luggage before driving off. I looked at the building in front of me: the mottled gray stone walls framed a row of blue iron windows, and the wooden door was wide open, revealing a dimly lit, wooden interior.

Curiously, I dragged my luggage inside. A man at the front desk looked up.

"Hello!" I smiled and spoke softly.

"Hello!" he greeted me warmly. I gathered my courage and said, "I’d like to check in, please."

"No problem!" His voice was cheerful, like a song’s interlude. "Can you give me your ID?"

"Sure." I took out my passport and handed it over. "Here."

"Thank you~" he said playfully.

I couldn’t help but wonder why he was so happy. Was it because he enjoyed working here, or was he just an optimistic person? Did he have no worries?

After two weeks of experience, I found the answer.

Youth hostels are an inspiration for all writers. People from all over the world come with stories, leaving with new ones. There’s no calculation in the conversation, no prejudice, and no arrogance—only pure curiosity, flowing like a gentle stream, nourishing my heart. People working here clean while humming to music, occasionally taking breaks to relax or chat playfully. They never race against time or try to please others. They never talk about money or comparisons; everyone’s life path is different, yet everyone shines brightly.

They’re busy living, glowing in their own world. It’s selfish, but it’s also self-love.

I had never felt so happy before. This is life, I thought. My life was just beginning.

The female dormitory already had several guests, mostly backpackers. They chatted animatedly, as if they were old friends reunited, with no barriers between them.

Why did they seem so close, even though they had just met?

Why is it so beautiful outside, yet I don’t want to go out?

I listened to their conversations and quietly packed my things. When someone asked me a question, I answered, but the conversation didn’t continue.

I never know how to keep a conversation going.

The first day passed quickly. After taking a shower, I had already forgotten the names of everyone. Even the girl who said goodbye to me before leaving that morning—her face was already a blur.

That evening, a new person arrived at the dorm. She dragged her suitcase gently and spoke politely. She was older but staying at the youth hostel alone, just like a young person.

Just like me.

I felt a sense of familiarity and主动ly asked her, "Are you here traveling?"

"Yes, are you?"

"Oh no, I’m here to study," I folded my clothes.

"I have a month off and always use it to travel. It’s really great! You should try it!"

"A whole month?!" I exclaimed, stopping my work to look at her.

"Yes," she replied as if it were the most natural thing. "Thirty days."

Curiously, I asked, "How many vacation days do you get in your first year of work?"

"Twenty days."

"Twenty days!" I couldn’t help but be amazed.

She maintained the same expression. "Oh, that's not the most. If I remember correctly, in Malta, they get almost forty days."

I gasped, incredulously saying, "We only get seven!"

"Seven days!" she widened her eyes.

It felt like I had found a kindred spirit, and I spoke freely: "If you start a job in your first year, you only get seven days off. But I didn’t even stay for a year, so I didn’t even get that seven."

"Where are you from?"

"Taiwan!" I answered happily.

"Taiwan!" she echoed with enthusiasm.

"And you?" I had to know which country had such great work benefits.

"Budapest!"

"Are you traveling alone?" I couldn’t hold back my curiosity.

"Yes, I’m not married and don’t have children. I like traveling alone during my time off." She looked proud but not arrogant, as if she was satisfied with her life.

So cool.

A year later, I still remember that woman. She didn’t tell me her story, but she wrote in her journal on her bed, and I took out my pen to record our conversation from that day.

I hadn’t written anything with a pen for nearly five years.

The next day, the bed across from mine was empty. That woman had left early; she hadn’t said goodbye, as she had already mentioned the night before that she was catching an early train.

We hadn’t exchanged names, but I still remembered her face. Perhaps one day, if we meet again, I might still recognize her.

Among the many backpackers passing through, only one person, like me, was about to start studying abroad but was still struggling to find a stable place to live. That person was Amy, from Germany. When I met her, she had long straight blonde hair, which didn’t suit her, and a few months later, she got her hair permed. I thought she looked more lively and vibrant then. Her blue eyes were still clear as glass, and I could see myself reflected in them.

She listened to many of my troubles, but I never knew hers. She treated me sincerely, sharing her secrets, while I never returned the same enthusiasm. She had a gentle yet strong heart, and my own heart felt weak and powerless in comparison. In her presence, I always felt like a child.

She was quick-witted and full of energy, always patiently listening to me and responding kindly. Though our time together was short, it was wonderful to be her friend.

If it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t have met Ash, who ruined my values. If I hadn’t met Ash, perhaps my story with Matthew would have turned out differently, or maybe I wouldn’t have become such close friends with Lily. Perhaps I wouldn’t have had the chance to grow and become a different version of April.

Amy was very busy, looking for housing and preparing for school. I arrived in Lyon a week earlier than the start of school, but I didn’t have the motivation to find a place to stay like she did. I thought it was because I hadn’t had enough fun yet and wanted to fully enjoy the foreign life without worrying about practical things.

However, when the eight-person dormitory quieted down and the confusion about life settled like a light mist, I just looked out the beautiful window, wondering why I didn’t want to go outside.

Rarely having the chance to travel here, what’s wrong with being alone? Why not go out and see the world?

I told myself this, but still had no motivation. I was always lacking motivation. I was always searching for the meaning of life.

Before my chaotic thoughts could gather, another tall red-haired girl entered the dorm.

I couldn’t help but marvel at the beauty of fate, because as I walked through my life’s journey, I always had this strong feeling—that every event in life was interconnected, like my friendship with Aya, meeting Lily, and all the beautiful souls I met afterward.

If I hadn’t forgotten to bring shorts to Lyon, and if Aya hadn’t asked me about them out of curiosity, we wouldn’t have gone shopping for pants together the next day; if I hadn’t changed from my shy self in Taiwan and openly communicated with her, she wouldn’t have trusted me as much; if I hadn’t been so busy looking for accommodation, and if she hadn’t stayed for almost a week instead of just a few days, we wouldn’t have gone to Annecy together and become such good friends.

She trusted me so much that on the second day we met, she told me she had depression.

I had heard of this condition, but didn’t fully understand what it was. I looked at her with sadness in my eyes, yet she didn’t look depressed at all. Her expression was bright, and she asked me several questions about myself.

I quickly caught her positive mood. She had a charm that filled me with energy.

She wasn’t afraid to talk to people, while I was shy and always stayed by her side. We went to Annecy together, and that was the day I laughed the most.

The time was so pure and beautiful, leaving me with deep memories. I met many faces I had never seen before and forgot many conversations, but only three people continued to shine in my life, guiding me on my path.

I often wonder, if I hadn’t spent time in the youth hostel, would I have met them?

If I had never met them, what kind of life would I be living now?

Would I still be writing this novel?

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At Amy's invitation, I attended my first party abroad. If I hadn't left her side, it would have been a wonderful night.

The loud music and energetic strangers overwhelmed me. The cramped space was filled with everyone's madness and passion, and there was hardly any air. Just when I was about to reach my breaking point, one of Amy's friends asked me if I wanted to leave with her. I agreed, thinking we could find a quiet place to chat.

However, she took me into her circle of friends. Due to language barriers and my introverted nature, I found it hard to join their conversation. Not long after, I began to zone out.

Once again, like in the airport, I stared blankly at the crowd, lost in my own thoughts. Then, my gaze met a guy's. The next minute, he walked up to me.

His name was Ash. He asked me a lot of questions, trying to make me feel at ease. If our story had ended that night, I might have thought he was charming and considerate. He was the first mature man I met, but in the end, he became the most repulsive person in my life.

We didn’t meet just once, but three times. I even brought Amy along the second time. Naively, I thought everything was fine. If I had known more about men, I would have recognized the red flags.

Neither of us liked texting much. Due to our completely different lifestyles, we didn’t have much time to get to know each other. I knew so little about him, which made me both curious and hesitant about whether to pursue it further.

While I still had lingering thoughts about him, I met Matthew.

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Before meeting Matthew, I never imagined what I would be like in a relationship. He was straightforward, confident, and good at socializing. He could always answer questions quickly and was willing to share and listen.

That day in Lyon, the sky was so blue, the clouds so dreamy, and the river shimmered in the sunlight. Everything was still so beautiful and captivating.

Matthew was very good at expressing himself, always able to accurately describe his feelings in the moment. I, on the other hand, was better at expressing myself through words, as I needed time to process everything I saw, heard, and felt.

When I sensed that his attitude toward me had changed, I was sad the whole day. Later, I asked him to meet. He explained his feelings to me: even though he liked me, he still thought there was no future for us because our cultures and languages were too different.

I had known for a long time that love cannot be forced. If one side is not interested, no matter how much you like the other person, it’s futile. However, my understanding of love ended there. I had never had a boyfriend, never had the chance to experience what love truly is. For me, love was not something beautiful, but more like the thorns of a rose—painful and discouraging.

When he told me about his past relationships, I was surprised to see tears in his eyes.

"Are you crying?"

"I’m just feeling emotional."

Seeing his vulnerable side felt like seeing my own. I sincerely said to him, "I hope you find a good girl."

"Thank you." He curled up and smiled at me.

Our story should have ended there, but before I realized the problem, I found that all my emotions were stirred by him, because in him, I saw the shadows of many others. He was the benefactor who guided me along my life path, but he was also the nightmare I desperately tried to avoid for the rest of my life.

"Do you miss your family?" This was my third attempt to have a deep conversation with Matthew.

During this time, I kept asking my friends this question, thinking there was something wrong with me because when others cried due to homesickness, I felt nothing. I was captivated by the charm of living in a foreign land, and I had no attachment to my hometown, family, or friends. I didn't miss anyone or anything.

I felt like I didn't love my parents. I was tired of seeing their messages and didn't want to answer their calls. I didn't have the habit of checking in. This was our way of loving each other—quietly, without feeling. Often, I felt like I didn’t love them.

"I'm so tired. I'm so disappointed with this world. I don't want to live for too long..." I said to Matthew.

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"Don't say that! You don't love yourself at all!" He became very serious.

His words made me sit up straight. "What do you mean? I love myself."

"No, you're hurting yourself."

"No! I would never hurt myself! I don’t want to die. I still have so much I want to do! I just wish my parents would stop worrying about me... They miss me, but I don't miss them at all. I feel like something's wrong with me. I can’t feel that I love them..."

"You don’t need to feel it. You know you love them."

"But I don’t know! I don’t know if I love them."

"Why? Have they hurt you?"

"No! They would never!.... I just…. I just feel like I don’t love them."

"You love them, April. If they treat you well, you will love them. My father wasn’t good to me, but I still love him."

With just a few short sentences, he pulled me out of my emotions, something my other friends couldn’t do. I always thought Matthew was the most special person; he always knew what to say because he had been through it too.

Later, I realized that my story was just one of many in the world, but I still wanted to write it down. Even if I’m insignificant, I still want to leave traces of my journey in this world.

My parents were extremely worried about me living on the other side of the world, especially my mom, who was both anxious and panicked.

A few months before I left, she asked, "What if you can't find a place to stay?"

"I'll find one."

"Oh! What if you really can't find a place? Will you sleep on the streets?"

"I haven’t thought about it."

"What will you do then? What if something happens?"

"What could happen?"

"It’s dangerous! You’re going so far alone, and I’m really worried!"

"Stop worrying!"

"But I can’t help it! You’re my child, I’ll always worry about you!"

When she tried to get closer to me, I pulled away. I didn’t like her worrying about me.

It wasn’t that I hadn’t considered these issues, but excessive worry was pointless. I needed to step out of my comfort zone, to explore the world, or else I would be trapped by the fear of the unknown.

Even so, my mom’s unease still affected me. I didn’t know how to reassure her because, to be honest, I wasn’t sure myself.

I had been avoiding her.

I had been avoiding my hometown.

When I arrived in France, my mom sent me a message.

"We fully support your dream, but don’t forget to come home!"

Home.

I looked at the river in Lyon.

Home.

I didn’t want to go home.

I can't forget the conversations I had with Matthew. His expression, especially the moment when tears welled up in his eyes, reminded me of my adolescence—those countless nights when I curled up alone in the dark, crying for my broken soul, whispering to myself that everything would be okay.

I had long since put those past experiences out of my mind, forgotten my own pain, as though it had happened a lifetime ago. I thought I would never remember again.

Yet, I don't know why, when Matthew took my hand in his sleep, a person flashed through my mind. I thought it was no big deal.

I once thought I would never remember.

Or maybe, I had grown up and wouldn’t be so devastated by such small things anymore.

But the nightmare came faster than I expected. Everything was so vivid, as though it had only happened a few days ago. The memories flooded back, bringing with them sadness, anger, guilt, fear, pain, and sorrow. Before I knew it, I was back in that room, and the demon smiled as it welcomed me. This time, I was the one imprisoned.

While walking by the river, I looked at the beautiful scenery of Lyon and couldn’t help but cry. My eyes filled with tears, and I could no longer feel the warmth and beauty of the city.

Ten years have passed. How could I still remember the shadows of my childhood? Why, even so far from home, do those memories follow me like a shadow? Why am I still crying over something that happened ten years ago?

I feel so cold and heartless. When my mom expresses love, I feel no joy, only suffocation. I don’t know what to say. All I can tell them is the good news, but there’s so little of it during those days.

My life is a mess, and it’s hard to consider their feelings. My mind is full of chaotic thoughts, my will fighting with the demons within, and my rational mind condemning my coldness. Although I’ve grown a lot, when everything overwhelms me, the demons take control of my heart.

After weeks of mental torment, I no longer feel love or warmth.

Seeing Matthew at school makes it even more painful because he’s the only person who smiles at me sincerely. I try to force a smile, but when my heart is filled with ugly thoughts, the smile becomes harder and harder.

When I see the warmth in his eyes, a voice rings in my head.

"Help."

I immediately block the memories that rise up.

I went into the toilet to release my sadness, feeling as though I had returned to being twelve. The walls were covered with students' graffiti. Although I was in France, every scene felt so familiar.

Before class, I walked out of the toilet expressionless, trying to blend in with the crowd and laugh with my classmates, even though I had no idea what they were laughing about. I felt like a good actor, or maybe a madwoman, performing a comedy with my tragedy.

If Matthew hadn’t repeatedly walked up to talk to me, I might have forgotten everything. His fragile expression and actions kept replaying in my mind, overlapping with my younger self.

I wanted to lean on him but feared breaking down in front of others. I was afraid to show my vulnerability, afraid of being a burden. I wished he would pretend not to know me, stop smiling at me. I wished my parents would stop texting and stop worrying about me. I wanted to go somewhere where no one knew me, cared about me, or spoke to me. I hoped everyone would forget about me so I could live quietly on my own.

I couldn’t say it out loud—ten years, and I still couldn’t move on from the past. I wasn’t ready to face the pain. I felt like I would never be able to get past it, and that thought made me cry even harder.

I met Matthew. I used to feel proud of myself for being able to perfectly control my emotions in front of him.

He said, “This is not something to be proud of, you know? It’s not good.”

"Why?" I didn’t understand why he felt sad, and I didn’t understand why it wasn’t something to be proud of. I thought I had done well, at least not scaring anyone, but he said things I didn’t understand.

"You shouldn’t suppress your emotions. It’s not a good thing."

"But I don’t want to cry! I want to be strong..."

"Hey, it’s okay." He gave me a warm and powerful hug, something I hadn’t felt in a long time. I didn’t realize how much I missed warmth from others. I couldn’t stop sobbing.

"I don’t want to cry anymore… I want to be strong..." He didn’t say anything, but the strength he gave remained. I said without thinking, “I don’t want to cry… I don’t want to cry in front of you…”

"It’s okay, I don’t mind. Tell me what happened." His voice was so firm. How can one person be both strong and gentle?

I wished I could tell him everything, wished I could let him see the real me. But my thoughts weighed me down, and I didn’t even know where to start.

I rehearsed it many times in my mind, but when it came time to speak, I couldn’t find the words. I stared blankly at the lake, not knowing where I was.

"I’ve tried to kill myself." As soon as I saw the sadness in Matthew’s eyes, my tears flowed uncontrollably.

There has always been darkness inside me. For years, I’ve struggled with a lack of confidence and security, trying to hide this darkness. Even when people say kind things to me, I instinctively deny them. I don’t believe I am attractive or lovable; I don’t believe I can bring happiness or hope to others; I don’t believe I will ever fall in love with someone or form a deep, intimate relationship. I’m afraid to let anyone see the real me. No one ever told me that suppressing my emotions was wrong; no one ever told me directly and firmly not to be afraid to show vulnerability. Matthew was the first. I think I will never forget him.

I had a dream when I was young,

I loved to daydream, always imagining what the world in the clouds would be like. I believed there were people living there. Every day, I would look up at the blue sky and white clouds, imagining that I could fly, soar up to the clouds, meet the people there, and explore the unknown world together.

I wasn’t like other girls. I didn’t like staying at home. I loved adventures, I wasn’t afraid of getting hurt or facing danger, I was afraid of nothing.

I loved stories, and my best friend, Luna, would share her stories with me. We would create new stories together. This was the happiest part of my school day. Every day, the thing I looked forward to the most was seeing her and telling stories together in our secret base.

One day, after school, I couldn’t help but share Luna’s stories with my family. I forgot she had asked me not to tell anyone, and I became so excited that I couldn’t wait to share our stories.

Unexpectedly, the adults just laughed and said I was childish.

“Luna told you she saw fairies in the clouds?”

“That’s right! She said fairies are real! She’s even talked to them many times!”

The adults laughed even louder.

“Oh, April, you’re so naive. There are no fairies in this world. She’s lying to you.”

“She can’t be lying to me! She’s my friend!”

“You can’t trust friends completely, they lie to you.”

“You’re the ones lying! We’ve really seen fairies, I’m not lying…” I began to choke up.

“You’ve seen fairies? Where did you see them?” The adults were very serious.

“I’ve seen them! But… they don’t want you to find them.”

“April! Do you know how much I hate it when you lie?”

“I’m not lying… what I’m saying is true…”

The adults were so boring, I didn’t want to tell them stories. I missed Luna, only she could understand me.

The weekend finally passed, and I finally saw my good friend.

“…I don’t understand why my family doesn’t believe me. They say you’re lying to me, but you’re not, right?”

Unexpectedly, she looked very nervous.

“April… actually… I made all of it up… I’ve never seen fairies…”

“What? But… why didn’t you tell me you were making up stories?”

“I thought you knew those were fake.”

“How could I know? I trusted you so much!”

She became so strange. She angrily said, “Why did you tell others? I asked you to keep it a secret! Why didn’t you keep your promise?”

“I… I just wanted to share! I didn’t know you were lying to me!”

“Is that my fault? I never asked you to be my friend, you started talking to me… You’re a traitor! I don’t want to be friends with you anymore! Go away!”

Why were her words so hurtful? What was she thinking when she made up those stories? What was she thinking when she saw my innocent expression? How naive was I to trust her so much, believing every word she said?

I couldn’t bear the pain of losing my best friend, and I cried every day.

After my parents found out what happened, they just said, “It’s okay, at least you’ve learned a lesson! Not all friends will stay with you to the end, and you’ll make new friends.”

Adults tried to teach me the lessons of life, but the world was too big, and I couldn’t tell the truth from lies. Everyone worried about my naivety, reminding me not to trust others too easily, not to be deceived.

But I just couldn’t learn how to protect myself.

–

I am the eldest daughter in my family. My parents gave all their love to me, but all my cousins hated me. They never wanted to play with me, and they said things I didn’t understand, laughing at my ignorance. They liked to stand far away, coldly watching me cry loudly, as if I were an immature baby, a nuisance.

It wasn’t until years later, when my younger sister was born, that I slowly began to understand their feelings.

Adults always favor the youngest child but won’t admit it. My sister doesn’t need to do anything to get more toys and attention—just by speaking, my things are taken away from me.

Once, she snatched one of my toys, and I couldn’t help but explode.

I yelled at her, “I wish you were never born!”

My mother was shocked and immediately rushed over to comfort her. “April! Apologize to your sister! She’s still young!”

“She’s a monster!” I retorted.

“No! She’s your sister, you should love her! She doesn’t know anything. Why can’t you learn to grow up?”

In such a cruel world, I didn’t know how to grow up. Whenever I thought the adults were wrong, I would argue for myself.

Once, my mother called me “black-hearted,” and then she turned to my sister and said, “Don’t listen to her, her heart is black.”

What hurt the most was that my sister started laughing and calling me “black-hearted.” She looked like a demon in human skin, pampered and showing a naive smile at my pain.

Why is everyone so cruel to me? What did I do wrong?

I listened to their laughter, feeling hurt and abandoned.

Once, I watched a movie with the adults. When the male lead died, I cried so sadly.

"April, why are you crying?" adults asked.

"Because he died."

"He didn’t really die, he's still alive."

"But I just saw him die."

"That's not real, he's acting."

"I don't understand. How did he act?"

"He’s acting, can’t you understand?"

"What’s acting?"

"Ugh! How do I explain this to you? Kids shouldn’t ask so many questions. You’ll understand when you grow up."

Adults are so strange. They never believe what I say and never explain why they're always right. I felt both frustrated and sad, so I stopped asking questions—after all, I’d understand when I grew up.

I liked to look at the sky and imagine what it would be like to become a cloud. Clouds are real, right? If I could become a cloud, I could go anywhere in the world.

I didn’t want to stay at home. I wanted to become a cloud or a bird. I wanted to fly, fly up into the clouds, and fly all over the world.

My home wasn’t here. My home was in the forest, by the streams; in the vast ocean, on the beach; in the mountains, rivers, seas, and lands—but not in this house. I didn’t love this house, and I didn’t love the people in it.

I played outside alone. I loved spring. I catched butterflies with a net and put them in a tissue box. I even picked a flower to serve as their food, but not a single butterfly lived longer than a day. I watched their wings flutter, then gently tremble, and fall silent.99Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡPqxgnFJIAG
I trapped them in the paper box, broke their wings, and made sure they could no longer dance in the air.

Grandmother’s voice was as loud as ever.

"April! Come inside and act like a girl!"

I didn’t like being at home. It was so dark, but outside was just as lonely. I played with my grandmother or with my younger siblings, not understanding right or wrong, experiencing my life as I pleased.

I always told myself that once I grew up, I’d leave this house immediately, even though I didn’t really know what “growing up” meant.

I used to think growing up meant becoming an adult, like my parents, older, with the freedom to do whatever I wanted or get whatever I desired. But growing up actually meant learning how to live in a world far bigger than I had imagined. I’ve gotten lost countless times in life, experiencing both its beauty and its ugliness.

When I learned to distinguish between what’s real and what’s fiction, I had long forgotten the dream of a little girl who once wanted to live in a kingdom of clouds.

Chapter 2 Love, cage and Shackles

As a sensitive teenager, I struggled with my interactions with others. I enjoyed reading and wondering what the world was like beyond my knowledge. Gossiping among girls seemed meaningless and boring to me. I preferred spending time with boys, who didn’t view me as scheming or mean. They were generally easygoing and straightforward when it came to friendships.

Things started to change when I distanced myself from the girls. They began to gossip, hinting that I enjoyed being the “special” girl among the boys. But that wasn’t my intention. I was overwhelmed by their malicious remarks, and cried because I didn’t know how to handle the situation. The boys were surprised, perhaps even felt sorry for whatever they had said. Afterwards, they became hesitant— afraid to play with me, look at me, or say anything that might make me feel worse.

But I didn’t cry harder because of their words—I cried harder because they cared. Their comfort touched me, making me reveal my vulnerability.

I was too young to understand all my emotions at the time. The boys found my tears frustrating, as they felt powerless to help. They complained, saying I was just trying to gain sympathy, claiming that tears were a girl’s greatest weapon.

Hearing those words made me start hating myself. I hated myself for being so sensitive, but I didn’t know how to control my emotions. I rushed to the toilet whenever I felt a breakdown coming on. It was the only place where I felt safe enough to be myself. I would come out with a poker face, pretending that I wasn’t hurt by anyone’s words.

Throughout all those years of studying, I learned how to solve trigonometric equations, what had happened in our land and the world, how cells functioned, and how ancient poets felt when they created their masterpieces. But I learned nothing about myself.

Being sensitive isn’t the problem. The real issue is a lack of self-confidence and self-love. When we don’t love ourselves enough, one careless word can leave us traumatized, stripping away our ability to love and feel loved. If we aren’t confident in ourselves, we'll always be hurt by others, forever stuck in the past.

As I was still healing from the ugliness of the world, the mindless words clung to me, haunting me for many years and severely impacting my mental health. They distorted my understanding of the world in ways I didn’t realize were wrong for over a decade. Without knowing where I had gone wrong, I found myself lost at the edge of the world, alone and broken.

I was only twelve at that time.

It all started two years before everything else happened.

When I was ten, I had a close relationship with Shawn. He was the only boy who made me feel special, and I thought that meant I liked him.

There was another girl in our class who liked him too. She was braver than me; unlike me, she openly admitted her feelings. I wasn’t sure if she confided in her friends hoping they’d keep her secret, or if she wanted them to tell others so Shawn would know.

Soon, rumors spread. Everyone was talking about the three of us. My friends whispered to me whenever they saw her, commenting on how fake she seemed and insisting her “tricks” wouldn’t work because Shawn liked me, not her. They said I was prettier than her.

Hearing their praise didn’t make me happy, but I said nothing. Compliments are always nice, but I didn’t particularly enjoy being called “pretty.” People often treated it as my only asset. I also didn’t like being compared to others—it was meaningless and humiliating. However, I understood why they did it—it was how society worked. People admired beauty and saw it as a kind of power. In a small society like school, kids naturally gravitated toward those considered beautiful.

Despite trying not to care, I couldn’t help but watch the girl whenever Shawn was around. To me, she was attractive—brave and confident. I didn’t understand why Shawn chose me over her; I didn’t think I was prettier.

She wasn’t my friend, though. I didn’t know how she felt when Shawn and I spent time together. I had never liked anyone before, never felt my heart race or ache.

Shawn never told me he liked me. Only rumors and the time we spent together convinced me of his feelings. Nothing romantic ever happened between us—no hand-holding, no kisses, no sweet words. We just did silly things together with other friends, and I found myself enjoying it because it was all so new to me.

To teachers, I was always a good student—well-behaved, hardworking, never causing trouble. But when our teacher noticed Shawn and me growing closer, she pulled me aside one sunny afternoon to talk in the hallway. She criticized my behavior, trying to sound gentle, but I could sense her disappointment.

I couldn’t hold back my tears. I didn’t know what I had done wrong. Passing students stole glances at me. I wanted to run to the toilet but didn’t dare leave because she was not only an adult, but also my teacher. I felt so small in front of her.

That conversation left me deeply upset, and I started distancing myself from Shawn. This must have confused him, but I didn’t know what I wanted or even dared to think about it.

Even so, whenever the boys were around, I would instinctively look for Shawn. I still felt a flutter when I noticed him watching me and still enjoyed being with him. But I no longer let our relationship progress. I stopped smiling or showing happiness around him. I became unpredictable.

He might have thought I was unsure of my feelings or didn’t like him at all because he never talked about our relationship or tried to change it.

Months passed. I felt a bit relieved he didn’t try to change things because I never knew how to respond to his feelings. I didn’t want to reject him but also knew we couldn’t be together. I lacked security and never felt safe with him. I didn’t think he could understand me or support me when I felt low.

I still remember that summer. Every child in school was excited about graduation and the new chapter awaiting us. After our exams, every day felt like a celebration. We only had to wait for the new semester at a new school.

Shawn chose a middle school far from mine. It wasn’t bad news—just a fact.

The teacher played a movie for the class, but none of us paid attention. We were simply enjoying our time together. The girls sat on the floor, and the boys sat on chairs. There was some playful commotion among the boys. Suddenly, one of Shawn’s friends grabbed his hand, guided him closer to me, and brushed against my private area—just for a second.

Our eyes met. In that brief moment, I felt a mix of emotions—playfulness, awkwardness, and a silent apology. The next second, we both looked away, and neither of us said a word.

Looking back, that memory plays in my mind like a slow-motion movie clip, a memory I never thought would be worth holding onto. It would have been buried deep in my mind, just a funny story to laugh about years later, if nothing had happened when I was twelve years old.

My interactions with others didn’t improve when I entered a new environment. The middle school, the only one nearby, gathered kids from all the surrounding towns. I hardly knew my classmates, which was, in a way, a relief. It allowed me to retreat into my own world, reading and entertaining myself in solitude.

I devoured all kinds of books, sometimes venturing beyond my understanding. But I reveled in immersing myself in those pages. As I read, I created vivid scenes in my mind, where every character came to life, speaking to one another, and I felt everything they felt. I understood their thoughts as if they were my own. I shed tears for their sorrow and pain and found renewal in the beauty of their stories.

Books make me small, but in a comforting way. Rather than stripping me of my power or confusing my values, they filled me with strength, hope, and a profound sense of wonder. They never left me feeling weak, useless, or weary. Instead, they felt like home.

When I read, the outside world faded away. According to my friends, it took calling my name several times or even touching me to pull me back from the imaginary realms I inhabited.

I could find a good book much faster than I could find a good friend. The more I read, the less I desire to spend time with my friends—or with people, in general.

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Over the years, I’ve discovered so many life-changing books. The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini is undoubtedly one of them. Though I didn’t fully grasp the historical context of the war at the time, I connected deeply with the characters, feeling their every emotion.

It was a heavy burden for a teenager to bear, but I couldn’t abandon the story without knowing how it ended. It took me longer than usual to finish because there were moments when I had to tear myself away, staring out at the blue sky beyond the classroom window, to reassure myself that there wasn't a bomb flying overhead.

I couldn’t comprehend why children like me had to grow up in the midst of war, while I sat safely in a classroom, reading their stories, and my classmates were busy bullying two others.

I reached out to Ivy, the girl who was bullied, only to find myself further isolated. I was overwhelmed with confusion, hatred and anger at the situation they had placed me in. Yet, I didn’t know how to make them listen, understand, or feel what I felt.

A few days later, I was shocked to find that someone had destroyed Ivy’s backpack. I immediately told her we must inform the teacher, but she wearily stopped me. I asked the indifferent classmates, trying to find out who did this to her, but was only met with resentment in their eyes. By uniting against us and making us outcasts, they stripped me of my power without even trying.

I turned back to Ivy and saw myself reflected in her sad eyes—a clown performing my own scenes among indifferent people.

I hadn’t helped her at all. Instead, I had embarrassed her. Who was I to imagine myself a hero for her when I couldn’t even protect myself?

I hated school. Everything was so ugly. Everyone was so cruel. What was the point of it all ?

I missed books. I missed home. I had a feeling that books could teach me more than anyone else ever could. I learned nothing from people. I wished I never had to speak to anyone again and let them hurt me.

I wished I had enough time and language ability to read every great book in the world. I wanted to know every story of life, every story in the universe. I wished I could create my own stories, that people would understand me through my words, and that one day I could have the power to make a difference through my writing.

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Ivy was more introverted and withdrawn than I was. I didn’t know how to help her open up or become more confident around others, especially since I felt just as helpless in the center of the bullying. Gradually, I stopped being friends with her.

I grew indifferent to every bad thing that happened around me, as it only deepened my hatred for the world. I retreated into the world of words, creating stories in my head and living in my own mind.

I had a crush on someone from ages 12 to 15. I didn’t have the courage to tell anyone, and I felt a wave of embarrassment when one of the boys in my class discovered it and asked me about it. I grew angry without understanding why, and I denied my feelings entirely, pretending I wasn’t falling for anyone.

But I couldn’t control my feelings. As time passed, they only grew stronger. I felt a rush of joy when he spoke to me, nervousness when he was near, and a deep sadness when I didn’t see him for a while.

I cherished every feeling he stirred in me. It was all so new, so profound. I had never felt this way about anyone—not even for Shawn. I believed John was my first true crush. I reveled in the sensation of my heart soaring. It wasn’t always a wonderful experience, but there was a certain pleasure in every hard and soft flutter of my heart.

John was one of the popular boys everyone talked about. He was charming, confident and mysterious. We only encountered each other by chance at school, as we weren’t in the same class. Our time together was limited to once or twice a week at the tutoring center where we both studied mathematics.

I didn’t like mathematics—I was terrible at it—but I was overjoyed to be there with him. I had never really seen him in a classroom, and I often wished we were classmates so I could learn everything about him. Perhaps then, I might have discovered who he truly liked.

I heard countless rumors about others' relationships, but never about his. I never seriously considered confessing my feelings to him because I felt he didn't care for me as much as I did for him. Though I barely knew him, I could tell he was too self-assured to care about what girls were thinking. He would never make the effort to understand my feelings.

I’d rather have a soaring heart than an aching one.

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My friends often said I seemed crazy for having so many different faces, but I was really just confused about my emotions. I didn’t understand myself well. Every feeling hit me differently. I didn’t know why I would start crying while playing and laughing with them. It wasn’t because they were too rough or anything they did—It was something I couldn’t explain. How could anyone understand me when I didn’t even know why I was crying ? I simply felt sad and wanted to cry for no particular reason. Did that even make sense ?

I always felt like there was something wrong with me. I didn’t feel normal, I doubted I ever would.

I forced myself to meet new people and interact with them, trying to live in the real world. Deep down, I still longed for someone to understand me, to touch my soul, hug me, and reassure me that it’s okay to be different.

I was surprised when my cousin told me that two of her friends were interested in me. I had never considered being with a girl; I was never attracted to them.

Still, I became friends with them because they wanted to get to know me. They were a year older and had a bad reputation, but I wasn’t afraid. I’d never seen them do anything bad, and they were good friends of my cousin. More importantly, they helped stop the bullying in my class simply by standing beside me and declaring that I was their “nominal young sister”.

Their actions changed my life and my perspective on the world. Words held immense power in my imaginary world, but they seemed insufficient in real life. They couldn’t instill fear or influence behavior.

I began spending time with my new “sisters,” but found myself anxious in their presence. They treated me as if I was delicate, taking care of every detail of my life before I even had the chance to open up. They spoke to me gently, as if I were made of glass.

I knew they meant well, considering me fragile and lovely. But it was difficult for me to relax. I struggled to see them as friends of my own age or even as sisters who made me feel safe despite my quiet nature.

I had a strong sense that I didn't belong there, no matter how kind they were to me.

I continued meeting new people. We texted, wrote letters, or hung out at school, but I didn’t develop strong feelings for any of them. I didn’t feel the urge to be in a relationship. Everyone seemed the same to me. They looked at me, approached me, and talked to me in the same way. There wasn’t a single person who made me feel safe.

My friends kept asking what type of boys I liked because the boys who were interested in me were curious. They tried various ways to win me over. But I was insecure and lacking in confidence. But I felt like all of this was wrong. We shouldn’t change ourselves just to please others. Although I didn’t have a clear ideal type, I knew that what I wanted was someone who saw me as an independent individual, not just as a sensitive girl, a fragile flower, or a beautiful object that needed to be protected.

I feel uneasy in the crowds. It takes me a long time to feel comfortable among strangers or to grow close to my friends. No one ever tries to reach my heart because I’ve built a wall to hide my emotions. I fear love, viewing it as an inherent source of subconscious pain.

As I’ve grown older, the wall around me has only grown taller, and I’ve never tried to break it because no one has told me what they see in me. I’ve always lived in fear.

I once longed for love, but I’ve become disillusioned with people. I’m tired of making friends, tired of trying to open my heart. I’m exhausted by dull conversations that will be forgotten the next day. I just want to retreat into my own world, even if others see me as strange.

Thank goodness for John. I let myself fantasize about him, hoping it would make me fall for him more. I imagined being with him—a kind, gentle, talented person who would never say anything to hurt me.

If this world were a little kinder to me... if I were a little kinder to myself, perhaps I really could fall in love with someone.

I can’t recall exactly when it happened or how long it lasted. But I believe it was in early September, during my second year of middle school.

Everything from that time is wrapped in a hazy glow in my memory—the sky, the trees, the laughter of the kids. It was a time of innocence, a time I cherished.

Until the rumor began: Shawn had paid me sixty euro cents just to touch my private part.

I laughed when I first heard it. It was so absurd, so ridiculous that I dismissed it without a second thought. But I underestimated the cruelty of others, and I overestimated my resilience.

I had thought that books had taught me so much, that I was mature beyond my years. But I was completely undone by mean words.

Words spoken by people.

Words had once saved me from the hell on earth. But I never realized they could also destroy me.

All those years of reading hadn’t prepared me to face the harshness of the world. I had been hiding, avoiding the ugliness around me. I had crafted a beautiful cage for myself and lived within it for years. I fantasized about how wonderful the world beyond must be, how kind the people must be. I had forgotten those who had hurt me so recklessly before. I had forgotten how naive I once was. I clung only to the beautiful memories, but I only found myself bleeding again and again.

At the age of twelve, I was too exhausted to rise once more. I didn’t believe I had the strength to get up again. I couldn’t understand why I cared so much about what others said, why I allowed their words to wound me.

It wasn’t until ten years later that I finally found the answer.

I had always put others' feelings before my own. I cared too much about everyone else and never stopped to ask myself who I was, what I wanted, and what I could do—not for someone else, but for myself. For me. For April.

There were hierarchies among the kids at school. The pretty or charming ones were always the focus of attention. People stared at them wherever they went, discussed everything they did, and longed to be close to them.

At first, I didn’t understand what was happening. But suddenly, the popular boys started coming to me, one after another. I was extremely nervous, just like any ordinary girl would be.

We had spoken before, but we never became friends. I didn’t enjoy the attention as much as they did, so I tried my best to stay invisible. I had no idea what they wanted to say. I had no clue why they were coming to talk to me.

Then I heard the same question over and over again,”Some say you got paid for letting Shawn touch your thingy, is it true? ”

“Who said that ?” I was surprised.

They were probably more surprised that I cared more about who started the rumor than about the question itself. They didn’t leave until they forced an answer from me.

I said no. “No! Who told you that ?”

I had already forgotten about the summer. I didn’t even connect it to the situation I was facing now. Why did they care ? Why did I care ?

I was furious with anyone who confronted me, but my anger didn’t change anything. The boys kept coming, asking questions, and mocking me. They were a thousand times meaner than others—arrogant and completely indifferent to my feelings. If I didn’t answer, they’d either come back the next time or refuse to let me go until I responded. They thought they were charming and funny, assuming I enjoyed the joke as much as they did.

For weeks, I tried to find out who started it so I could direct my hatred to someone specific. But to my despair, it didn’t work. Everyone had “heard” the rumor, but no one could give me a name, a face, or anything solid to hold on.

I wished I had the courage to stand up for myself and tell the boys how unthoughtful it was to approach me in such a joking manner. I wanted to let them know that I was uncomfortable and didn’t want to share what had happened, especially since we weren’t even friends. I wished I could have been mature and rational, but instead, I was weak and emotional. I didn’t understand what they wanted from me. Why did they care about the truth so much ?

I couldn’t figure out what went wrong. I asked myself a million times, but I still couldn’t understand how everything had changed so quickly. The rumors were unstoppable, spreading everywhere in school—on the playground, at the school gate, in the hallways. Wherever I went, the boys followed with their relentless questions.

I felt like I was lying to everyone, hiding the truth since I never told anyone what really happened. I denied everything with a simple “no” and nothing more—dismissing all my feelings with that single word.

Yet, I couldn’t lie to myself.

I didn’t blame Shawn. I didn’t hate what he did. To be honest, it felt good. I was ashamed of myself for feeling that way, too embarrassed to admit my deepest thoughts. I considered telling people the truth, hoping they might lose interest and stop teasing me. But I was afraid it would only make things worse. Based on my experience with the boys in my class, I feared someone might twist my words and humiliate me like one of my classmates did.

Most of the boys in my class were kind to me, but there was one who was particularly loud and arrogant. He believed he knew everything about sex, having started watching pornography at an early age. But to me, it was intolerable to see his face, which I found disrespectful to women. He openly commented on our bodies and got defensive when we made fun of his size.

I used to fight back whenever I heard his insulting remarks, but I always ended up getting hurt. It was frustrating trying to communicate with someone who didn’t know how to respect others. I didn’t know why I always believed I could change people with my words.

The school taught us the basics of the adult world and how to protect ourselves, but it never taught us how to respect or relate to others. As we grew up, we carried that lack of understanding into society, venting our frustrations about the world’s unfairness while hoping to create a better one for our next generations. However, creating antithesis only fuels hatred and prejudice on both sides. The world doesn’t need more hatred; it needs kindness.

As my rage simmered without an outlet, all my strength gradually drained away. I replayed that day in my head a thousand times, trying to figure out where things had gone wrong. Everything from that classroom had faded into a blur as time passed. I couldn’t remember any of their faces except for Shawn’s and my close friend’s.

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I wanted to reach out to them. I wanted to ask how their life had turned out. Had they gone to something similar ? Were people mean to them too ? How did they react ? Did they fight back ?

I was terrified of going to school. I dreaded hearing my name from anyone’s lips and being questioned about what had happened with Shawn. I was also afraid that people might twist and exaggerate the truth even further, given how much people loved to gossip.

I had no idea who had heard the rumors, but it seemed like almost every boy my age knew, as they never stopped coming for days, weeks, and even months. I felt as if all my classmates knew. The more I feared, the weaker I became. I was no longer the girl who dreamed of princes, miracles, or fairylands. I was now consumed by an intense fear of people.

I started to break down when the boys changed their ways of teasing me.

One day, while I was wandering the playground, gazing at the blue sky and joyful students, I heard someone call out from a distance.

“Sixty cents!”

The words sent a chill through me. I turned around and saw the boys laughing. Overwhelmed with fear, I felt paralyzed, as if I had been pinned to the ground. It seemed like everyone on the playground was staring at me, even though I knew it wasn’t true.

I had never felt so weak, small and helpless before. I wanted to sob and ask them if it was fun to see me suffer, but I didn’t want to collapse in front of them. I didn’t want to show my weakness and do nothing but cry. I wanted to fight back, yet I felt powerless.

I sought comfort in the toilets, wishing I could stay there forever. I imagined a ghost friend in the tiny corner next to me. Even though they couldn’t touch me, they could feel my sorrow. I talked to them, asking for help and begging them to do something to make the boys fear me, to leave me alone and never come back again.

But no one ever answered or appeared. Not even once. No one ever asked if I was okay. No one ever cared about me.

And that was when I began to feel hopeless.

I never considered asking the teachers for help. I had seen how they handled my two classmates who were bullied and doubted their ability to save me from my own torment.

Bullying among girls was mostly verbal abuse, but boys could be physically violent. I had witnessed them fight until they were both bleeding. Before I could even grasp what had happened, I saw the deep resentment in both their eyes and was too shocked to think clearly. The boy who was despised by the entire class fled the room, leaving me and my friend in stunned silence.

Frightened and confused, I tried to carefully ask what was happening but got no useful answers. He was annoying, but why ? I couldn’t understand why the whole class loathed him so much and accused him of being a nuisance. I felt as if I had missed something crucial—a trigger that had ignited all this resentment. There had to be a reason. He must have done something to provoke everyone’s anger; otherwise, it would make no sense. Otherwise, the world would be too unbearable to live in.

My teacher tried to uncover the root of the problem. She sought to be fair and discover the cause of the animosity. She handed out pieces of paper, asking us to write down why we disliked him so intensely that we wished him gone. She assured us it would be anonymous and that she wasn’t going to punish us.

Soon after, she was disappointed to find nothing substantial. The only reasons noted were that he was annoying and had irritated everyone.

I sat in the middle of the class, listening to her voice tremble. She was outraged but mostly frustrated, realizing she couldn’t solve the issue. She tried to change us with her words, urging us to think before we acted and to consider how our actions might harm others.

And then she left. After that, my memories of the class faded away. I no longer remember the faces or the events clearly.

I wouldn’t say her efforts were entirely futile, as no further violence occurred. However, it didn’t improve things. It felt as though the world of those who were bullied had stopped spinning that day, as their existences became so insignificant within the class. They were ignored completely, as if they were ghosts, smoke, or nonexistent.

I barely remember what those two poor kids looked like by graduation. What were they thinking ? Did they hate us ? Did they despise the world ? Did they cry at night ? Had they ever wondered what they did wrong ? Had they thought about leaving or seeking revenge ?

I never reached out to any of them. I never thought about Ivy or checked in to see if she was okay. My heart had slowly withered from the endless verbal assaults I endured.

Just when I thought I couldn’t be more heartbroken, the world hit me harder and proved me wrong more than once.

I still remember that day vividly. The sun was shining brightly above the carefree students. I was standing beside the playground with a boy, mustering all my courage to confront him about spreading the rumor at school.

He had been my classmate when we were eleven. We weren’t close, but he was kind. We had never been friends; to me, he was just an old acquaintance. I didn’t even remember he was there when Shawn touched me that day.

He must have felt guilty seeing me, as he kept looking at the basketball court.

“I didn’t know it would end up like this. I only told one person…I’m sorry!”

“Why did you make up the rumor?”

“I didn’t! How would I know what happened between you two?”

“Then who told you?”

“It was Shawn. He told us. I thought it was real! ”

” ….Why…? ” I was too shocked to finish my question.

He shrugged, “ I don’t know. Maybe it was just for fun. You’ll have to ask him to find out. I just heard him say it.“

I felt as though all my strength had drained away. I didn’t know what to say or what else I wanted to know.

I could hardly believe what I heard. I never imagined it was Shawn—that it could be Shawn. In my memory, he was kind and gentle. He had been someone who liked me and stayed with me for almost two years.

I felt my heart shatter, as if he had driven a knife into it while I smiled at him. My world was turning upside down. Every memory was tainted, and every joy destroyed.

I couldn’t understand why. I had never wronged him. Why had he fabricated a story and spread it around ? Didn’t he like me ? Or did he hate me for some reason ?

Questions swirled in my mind day and night. I wanted to ask him directly, but I was afraid. I feared hearing his answer, his hurtful words, and seeing his guilty expression. We hadn’t seen each other since graduation, and we were no longer in the same city. How could I confront someone I hadn’t seen in over several months and ask why he made a joke months ago—or even a year ago—to hurt me?

All these years, through all the tears, I’ve wondered more than once: if I hadn’t chickened out back then, would I have healed faster and lived happier afterwards?

My life only got worse since then. One day, I saw Shawn posting a photo of his girlfriend on social media. The fact that his life seemed unaffected cut me deeply. How could he forget what he had said about me, and continued living his life as if nothing happened ?

I wanted to yell at him, to hurt him as he had hurt me. I wanted to expose him to his girlfriend and watch her leave. I wished for him to be alone and sorrowful, to cry and experience the pain I felt every day.

I wanted to ask him why. Why did he do this to me ? Why did he spread a half-truth and a lie ? What did I do wrong?

My need for answers drove me to the brink of madness.

I asked him in my thoughts, dreams and in my diaries, but I never reached him in the real world. My rage led only to endless despair.

I knew I would cry in front of him, my hurt eyes confusing him. I would be unable to speak if I ever saw him face-to-face, and he would never truly understand what he had done to me. He would probably apologize, claiming it was a joke, a misunderstanding, that he never meant to

hurt me. He might feel guilty for a while, but he would soon move on, leaving people to find new stories to gossip about.

But I didn’t want his apologies or any dramatic confrontations. I just wanted him to erase my pain, undo what had happened, and make people forget about it. However, none of that would ever be possible. He couldn’t change anything. He couldn’t heal my heart. Reaching out to him would only spread the story further and worsen everything.

Over the years, through countless tears, I’ve asked myself more than once: if I hadn’t been so timid back then, could my wounds have healed more quickly? If I had confronted him and his friends at the time, would things have been different? Would the rumor have never existed?

Why hadn’t I acted then? Why had I just watched and let it happen? I should have been angry. I should have yelled at him so he would know how to be more mature. Why hadn’t I done anything?

Every day and night, I suffered in agony. I wished someone would listen, truly care, and ask me what was wrong. I wished they would stand by my side and support me. I longed to cry in front of them without fearing their judgment.

I had an overwhelming urge to confess everything to someone, even just once, to feel a little relief. I told a girl at school that Shawn had touched me, but the rest was fabricated. She didn’t ask for more details—she had no idea I was blaming myself all the time.

I still wanted to hide and cry. My heart was full of wounds, and even if they could heal, the scars would remain forever. No matter how beautiful I might have appeared in people’s eyes, I felt ugly inside.

Most of the time, I managed to control my emotions in front of people. But there were moments when I couldn’t, and it broke my heart in ways I never imagined.

I struggled to handle my emotions when it came to those I loved and cared about with all my heart.

First, it was my mother.

We used to have an iPad that every family member could use. I never had privacy concerns because I had passwords on my social accounts and no one else would ever want to look at my messages.

It was a cruel twist of fate that my mom happened to glance at the screen when a message appeared—a message about the question again.

As soon as she asked me what was going on, my tears began to fall uncontrollably. I couldn’t utter a word. My mother wanted to help me but didn’t know how. She asked if she could tell my teacher and get help, but the last thing I wanted was for everyone to know. I just wished I could vanish, escape to a place where no one knew me, and for everyone to forget me completely. I wished I could disappear from the world, so all my pain would fade away.

“Please tell mom….what do you need me to do? How can I help you?”

I kept sobbing without saying a word. I didn’t know what she could do to help me ease my pain, nor did I know how to make it go away. I just wanted to be alone.

Her eyes were filled with sorrow, maybe even tears. With a gentle but firm voice that cut deeper than anything else, she said to me:

“Do you know how heartbroken I am when I see my child crying and all I can do is watch?”

Her heart ached a thousand times more than mine, but I didn’t understand at the age of twelve. I couldn’t grasp the difference between an adult and a parent, as I had never experienced being either.

I tried every effort to hide my sorrow from that day on.

John saw me with a boy on the stairs after school. A regular girl and a popular boy—the perfect ingredients for rumors. He was curious about what we were talking about, but the boy asked him to leave.

I was exhausted, too tired to react. I had no strength left, but the boy wouldn’t let me go until I answered his question. So I said no—wearily.

I felt miserable in front of people. However, John was always special to me. I still felt butterflies whenever I saw him. But I never thought of him while I was crying. I dreamed of someone saving me from my misery, but it was always a faceless blur. I never truly believed it would come true; it was just a comforting lie I told myself to cope with the harsh world.

We were about to tutor at the teacher’s house. I never expected John to call me aside and lead me to the kitchen while some classmates were waiting for our teacher in the living room.

I was extremely nervous, wondering what he would say after separating us from the others. He was the only person in this cruel world who could soften my heart. I liked him so much that I didn’t want him to see my ugliness.

But he did see it. He brought up the painful question again, right after no one had mentioned it for almost a week.

My heart sank. I immediately wanted to cry. I rushed to the bathroom the next second, leaving him nonplussed outside the door.

It was then that I realized, even if there was a slight chance he might like me, we would never be together.

I felt I would never be with someone.

I was too lonely, hopeless, and exhausted, teetering on the edge of the monstrous world, struggling not to fall. I had no energy left to see the beauty in life, to fall in love, to experience happiness, or to laugh as if there were no tomorrow.

Because I still had to think about tomorrow. And everyday was a torture to my soul and my heart.

My cousin was at the same tutoring place that day—not the older one, but the one who was my age. We had been going to school together every morning since we were six. We played, fought, and made up as kids, but we had never shared secrets.

I never expected her to ask about what was happening, because girls never came to me with the question. I thought it was just a fun thing among boys.

I didn’t know when it would all end. Each time I thought the question had faded away, someone would come and ask, dragging me through the painful ordeal again.

They weren’t being malicious; they were just childish or curious. Everyone seemed shocked when they saw my tears. No one understood why I was suffering so much. No one in the world except me knew.

I tried everything to avoid being so fragile, but it was incredibly hard. I was exhausted from crying and desperately wanted to change. But I was lost, beaten down by innocent people countless times.

I was terrified that everyone would find out how ugly my heart was. I was especially scared of my family discovering everything. There were no secrets in our house; I couldn’t face them if they knew.

I couldn’t find the words to speak to my cousin. I couldn’t calm myself down, even though I knew I had to, as my mom was waiting for us outside. We hadn’t talked about it since that day, and I didn’t want to make her sad.

I didn’t want to go to school; I just wanted to stay home and curl up. But I dreaded the thought of anyone asking about what had happened. I couldn’t bear to talk about it. I was already overwhelmed with pain and didn’t want to carry any more.

I wanted to get better. I didn’t want to cry anymore. But I didn’t know how to make the pain go away. I was trapped in my own thoughts, suffering day and night for many years.

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I was convinced that John must have said something to the others, as none of them ever came around again. But nothing could mend the damage. I became increasingly quiet and withdrawn, retreating further into myself whenever I was with people.

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Suppressing all my emotions had a severe side effect. I lost the ability to feel anything positive when I was around others. I still laughed, but I rarely felt true happiness. And after those fleeting moments of joy, a deep sadness would wash over me, leaving me even more depressed. I still cried about everything when I was alone.

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Yet, there wasn’t much alone time for me at home, since I lived with my family. I couldn’t truly relax or release my sorrow whenever I needed to.

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Home wasn’t a sanctuary for me—the toilet and the night were.

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When I was certain no one would interrupt me, and the sound of the running water would cover my sobs, that was when I finally felt safe enough to let my guard down and reveal my fragility without reservation.

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I pretended nothing was wrong. I didn’t want to break my family’s heart by letting them see me suffer. I thought it would be better to hide than to let them know what happened to me.

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Living with someone physically close but mentally distant slowly destroyed my soul. It felt like my world was collapsing. Every night, I saw myself crying and wandering alone at the edge of the world. I cared deeply about my family—so much that even when I had lost all hope of living, I still wanted to get better for their sake.

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But my heart ached terribly. It ached in a way that I had never experienced neither in books nor in reality. It felt as if a giant hand was crushing my heart with an excruciating grip. Every inch of my bones hurt. Every breath I took was agonizing. Every cell in my body ached and screamed, begging me to end the torment immediately.

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I tried to hurt myself, hoping to momentarily forget the heartache. But I wasn’t brave enough to make myself bleed. Every night, I kept a knife under my pillow. But it broke me even more to see my family sleeping soundly next to me in the dark, while all I could do was weep as quietly as possible.

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When I had no more tears left, depression dragged me down into an abyss. My heart ached every time I tried to stand up again. Slowly, I stopped fighting and lost touch with my emotions, not even realizing something had gone terribly wrong inside me.

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The joy and passion drained from my life. I no longer had the energy to read books and imagine the beauty of the world. I had no desire to meet people or talk to anyone. Laughing, crying, or even yelling felt pointless—every emotion required too much effort and threatened to consume what little was left of me.

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My mom thought I had become mature, but I couldn’t bring myself to admit that inside, I had long since withered. As I sat in the backseat of her car, staring out at the shifting road and the vast blue sky, all I could think about was opening the door and jumping out.

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Death is a scary concept when you’re still excited to see the sun tomorrow, but it isn't when you can’t feel happiness anymore.

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I couldn’t think of anything except death. I was thinking about death all the time. I was imagining my death and how the world would be without me. The only thing that kept me alive was the thought of how heartbroken my family would be if they had to live in a world without me. I couldn’t bear the idea of ruining their lives and leaving behind so many broken souls, especially when they loved me with all their hearts.

And so, the only way I could find relief was by tormenting myself. The result was that, as I grew older, all I could remember were the painful memories. I forgot how much my family loved me, and I forgot how deeply I once loved them.

I had never heard of therapy or depression until I was 18, when I met Mia, one of my close friends in high school. Back then, talking about mental health wasn’t something people did. I was only told that growing up was a hard journey, and I always thought that was just the way it was.

So no matter how deep my despair was, I never considered telling anyone, asking for help, or falling apart in front of others—I didn’t want to be called fragile.

All I wished for was to grow up quickly, believing that time would eventually take the pain away and make me strong enough to protect myself.

I wanted to grow up as quickly as possible. I wanted to escape from my nightmares.

“You wish you could grow up? I wish I could be a child!” My dad would say this whenever he heard my words.

Adults never took what I said seriously ever since I was little. In their eyes, I was always just a child—a child who couldn’t take care of myself, a child who knew nothing, a child who had to accept reality and behave well.

They often underestimate how much a child understands about life, especially when we aren’t burdened by financial concerns.

“You’ll understand when you grow up,” my dad often said.

He never explained anything to me, never taught me what love was, and never encouraged me to explore my own interests or discover what I truly wanted. All he did was give me money, tell me to study hard, and advise me to find a stable job in the future. As a mechanic—a so-called lower-class job in our flawed society—he worked tirelessly to support our education, hoping to give us better lives. His way of showing love was limited to financial support.

But what if that’s not what I truly wanted? What if the education he insisted on only crushed my spirit rather than giving me hope?

I used to wish I could be close to him and understand his thoughts, but he never showed any vulnerability or shared his deepest feelings. Communicating with him became difficult, and eventually, silence was the only thing between us.

I remember once trying to lean my head on his shoulder. He flinched, clearly uncomfortable, and asked what I was doing. I never dared to touch him again.

I was closer to my mom, but she was harsh when I was young.

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Instead of teaching us how to navigate a harsh world, they tell us to enjoy our childhood and not worry too much. They don’t want to harden our hearts, nor do they know how to explain life’s complexities.

But whether we are children, adults, girls, boys, men, or women, we are all individuals; we are all human. No one is superior to anyone else. We all want to be seen as equal and be understood.

My senior high school was miles away from my hometown. I had to wake up before 5 every day to catch the school bus, which departed 15 minutes later.

It was always a bit awkward to see John waiting at the bus stop, especially since we had had an argument a month prior. I still cared about him a little, thinking he might care about me too.

But it was all in my head. We never made eye contact during those early mornings. I didn’t want him to talk to me because I was afraid of him. He had become cold and indifferent to his surroundings, someone I no longer recognized.

As time passed, my feelings for him eventually faded, and I didn’t even notice when he stopped waiting for the bus.

By tenth grade, I had become fully absorbed in my studies. I didn’t focus on making new friends or adjusting to my new environment. I devoted all my time to lectures and tutorials, aiming for good grades.

The learning process was enjoyable at first, as my grades improved significantly. I found it fascinating to study various subjects, discovering how vast the universe was and how insignificant we seemed in comparison. I learned about the human body's interpretation of the world, the stories of ancient poets, and world history.

Every moment of learning felt like an adventure, until the workload became overwhelming. The more I grew, the harder the studies became. Any distraction in class made it difficult to keep up, and I could only struggle to stay in pace with the teachers.

I never expected to see John again, given how different our paths had become. Yet, one day he appeared outside our classroom, chasing someone with a group of friends.

My biology teacher, pausing at the noise, teased as his eyes fixed on his tutorial, “That’s who you’ll become if you don’t study hard.”

Everyone laughed, except me. I was deeply saddened to see John in this way. I knew there were many gangsters in middle school, and once teenagers were exposed to them, escaping the underworld was difficult. I couldn’t help but wonder how he had ended up like this.

I never saw him again after that day. I buried all memories of him deep in my heart, never revealing to anyone that he was my first crush and that I had chosen this school partly because he was there too.

My hard work paid off a year later, when I was 16. I was admitted to the second-best class of the eleventh grade, where top educational resources were available to help us get into good universities. However, this also meant being separated from my only friend from tenth grade.

Though I wasn’t actively trying to fit in, it was still challenging to navigate school life without friends, especially when we spent an average of 13 hours a day there. Most of my new classmates had been together before, some even from a young age. Being isolated and socially awkward, I felt like I would never connect with any of them.

Then, Noah came into my life.

He was well-liked by many, maintaining a friendly demeanor that made everyone feel at ease. He had an attractive personality that was unlike anything I had encountered before. He made me smile genuinely and encouraged me to interact with others. The new classmates were wonderful and kind, and their acceptance made me forget my previous disappointments with people. Despite a few who disliked me, I valued being part of this group and meeting my new friends.

Studying in one of the best classes proved to be more challenging than ever. My classmates were top students, and I began to doubt myself, feeling I could never measure up to their level of excellence. I poured my tears into my studies and felt increasingly insecure about my abilities. Despite never being scolded for my grades, the high standards and competitive atmosphere weighed heavily on me.

In Taiwan, good grades were crucial. They were seen as the only way to get into a good university, utilize top school facilities, and secure a successful career in the future. My father’s only wish was for us to focus on our studies, but he didn’t care about our grades as long as we tried hard.

I dedicated myself to studying from dawn till night, focusing solely on passing tests and exams, leaving no room to contemplate my future. Each stage of life eventually hits a bottleneck. At 17, I reached mine. Despite my hard work, I found that effort alone doesn’t always guarantee success. Surrounded by the top students, I felt anxious and questioned my own value.

"Maybe it's about talent. Maybe I just don’t have any," I told myself, exhausted by the relentless studying. The realization that even after surpassing countless peers to enter a prestigious school, there were always smarter, more capable students around me was a blow greater than never having the chance to work hard.

I felt doomed if I couldn’t excel in studying. What was I supposed to do if, as a student, I couldn’t even succeed in my primary role?

There must have been many others who felt like I did, struggling with their studies and personal challenges. I was relieved that I wasn’t alone on this journey. I had friends who shared the same goals, fought the same battles, and experienced similar emotions. Our shared struggles created a bond between us, even though we rarely talked about our pasts.

Despite the school’s distance from home, I woke up early and stayed up late for three years, seeing my family less than my friends. With my busy schedule, I had little energy to dwell on the past. I was able to restart my life without the constant fear of being judged.

Yet, I couldn’t predict when or why my painful past would resurface.

One ordinary day, while walking with my best friend back to our classroom, I heard something that froze me in place. Someone from a distance called out “60 cents,” and I turned to see a familiar face—one of the popular boys from my middle school. The shock of seeing him and hearing that term was overwhelming. I hadn’t realized we were at the same school.

My instinct was to run away and vomit. I looked anxiously at my friend, who seemed oblivious to the situation. The number meant nothing to her or anyone else around us, but it was the scariest word in my life for nearly five years.

The memory it triggered shattered my sense of normalcy, dragging me back to a past I thought I had buried. The nightmares returned, whispering that I didn’t deserve happiness and dragging me back into depression. Within days, I was consumed by the darkness again.

Feeling nothing inside was terrifying. My world turned black and white; my hearing became distant. I couldn’t laugh, cry, or even force a smile. Everything felt beyond my control.

My friends were concerned and puzzled by my sudden change. They tried to cheer me up with stories and jokes, but I remained detached, unable to connect or express my feelings. I wanted to cry and talk but couldn’t. A faint voice urged me to fight, but I felt helpless.

I felt immense guilt for causing my friends worry, but no one could pull me back from the abyss. Gradually, they stopped visiting and gave me space, which only deepened my sense of loneliness. I felt isolated even in a crowd, watching others laugh and not understanding why they were happy while I felt entirely sad.

It took years for me to understand what was wrong. My childhood trauma had affected me far more than I realized. I had been afraid to confront my past, viewing it as ugly and shameful. I lived in fear of others discovering what I had been through and judging me. Avoiding the issue hadn’t resolved it. For a long time, I couldn’t face my reflection in the mirror, still seeing that helpless child holding a knife and pleading for help. I couldn’t save her. The only thing I could do was cry with her.

The symptoms lasted for several days. I felt completely disconnected from my friends. They continued to try and talk to me or say something funny, but they became discouraged when they saw my expressionless face.

One sunny afternoon, after one of my friends made a joke, I sat down on the basketball court and finally started crying.

Everyone was stunned and kept apologizing. However, I was so overwhelmed by my grief that I couldn’t say a word. I couldn’t explain that I wasn’t crying because of their jokes, but because their caring words had finally reached me. After weeks of depression, I was finally feeling some warmth in my heart. I could finally let out my tears.

Letting go of my sorrow made me feel somewhat better. I couldn’t feel true happiness, but at least I managed to smile. I must have seemed odd to them, but none of my friends left me because of it.

I think they are friends for life.

I don’t remember the reason, but one day our teacher asked everyone to talk about their troubles in front of the class. I had been eager to share my story because I didn’t want to be the person who could only cry and couldn’t stand up for herself. I knew my friends would understand. They would listen and tell me it’s okay. And then I would be able to tell my younger self that she was amazing.

However, I didn’t anticipate that just standing in front of everyone would be so intimidating and make me tremble. After the first sentence, my throat tightened, and I couldn’t continue.

The room fell silent for several seconds. No one showed any emotion or made any sound. I felt like I had made a mistake.

Then, our teacher thanked me for my bravery. I walked back to my seat feeling frustrated. I didn’t feel brave at all, since I couldn’t even share my whole story properly.

I tried to discuss it with my best friend later, but it didn’t help much. Although she listened, she looked troubled and didn’t know how to respond.

I never brought it up in front of anyone again.

If I had become friends with Mia earlier and shared my feelings with her, she might have understood and saved ourselves. But I wasn’t close to her at that time. By the time I learned her story, I thought I had already dealt with all my childhood trauma, or I forced myself to believe I was healed.

I was paralyzed when I heard her trying to commit suicide when we graduated. I heard the child crying again, but I immediately shut her up.

We went to the hospital to see Mia after hearing her recover. I was hiding behind my friends because I didn’t have the courage to look at her. It felt like I was lying on the bed. I couldn’t bear to see her and cry in front of her, even if she was my close friend.

As time went on, I managed my sorrow better. I only released my emotions in the dark, laying on my bed and whispering that everything would be fine when I grew up. It hurt, but time would heal everything. I imagined that one day, I’d look back on those painful days, proud of how far I’d come and how much I’d overcome. It hurt, but I would be fine one day. No matter how long it would take, I would be fine with everything one day.

As the countless tearful and lonely nights passed, I grew into the kind of adult my father talked about. An adult who no longer had time to think about childhood dreams because just living was exhausting enough.

Mia attempted suicide.

On the day of our graduation ceremony, Mia tried to take her life and was urgently sent to the hospital.

At the time, I was with other friends and hadn’t yet understood what had happened. When I saw Mia lying on the stretcher, my mind went blank, and all I remember is her unconsciousness, one hand weakly swinging along with the stretcher.

A few weeks later, we went to the hospital to visit her. I can’t explain how my feelings changed in such a short time, I felt like I wasn’t thinking, just instinctively hiding behind Noah, not daring to make eye contact with Mia.

That should have been me.

I should have been the one lying in the hospital bed.

I didn’t say anything to her. I didn’t know what to say. I just silently followed my friends, then silently left.

I don’t remember making eye contact with Mia, I don’t remember offering her comfort, I don’t remember telling her firmly, “You’re not alone.”

I didn’t become her support.

I ran away.

When my friend needed me the most, I ran away.

I wasn’t ready to face the trauma.

I had been avoiding the past, only to find myself constantly back at the starting point. Later, I realized that we can’t forget the past; the things we need to face, we must face—it's just a matter of when.

In the end, I will have to uncover my scars.

Chapter 4 Love, learn and grow

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I was so overwhelmed by the pressure of studying that I didn’t do well on the university entrance exam. I wasn’t sad; I just felt relieved, as if my purpose in life had been fulfilled and I could finally enjoy life.

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To my surprise, I ended up in the French department. Despite never having studied French before, I began this new journey without knowing where it would lead me.

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My university life was extremely dull. I had never gone to parties, nor had I ever been in a relationship. I didn’t have the urge to socialize and meet new people. And everyone including me didn’t feel wrong.

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As time went by, I had long forgotten there was a child crying inside me. My life was peaceful and calm. I thought I had recovered.

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In university, I met three best friends and created many great memories with them. They showed me the warmth a friend could offer, accepted me wholeheartedly, and never turned their backs on me when I showed my fragility.

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As we approached our final year of university, my mind was filled with worries about the future. It seemed gloomy and uncertain for all of us.

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I attended as many courses as I could, learning about the business world and necessary skills. Yet, I still felt lost and unsure of what I wanted to do. I was passionate about creating, but it didn’t seem like a good career path. I stopped doing what I loved and tried to follow trends, searching for my purpose in life.

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Time flew by frighteningly fast. Graduating from university, I returned home and found a job that I didn’t even consider if it was right for me.

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The interview with Hector, my boss, was far from pleasant. He wasn’t looking for someone careful and responsible but rather a machine who could work long hours and still be efficient the next day. However, I was swayed by the high salary. There was no other place offering that kind of pay for a literature graduate. I convinced myself to take the opportunity.

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I used to think my main goal in life was to make a lot of money and improve my family’s lives. It had been my belief and motivation throughout high school.

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Yet, reality proved harsh. Money doesn’t come easily, no matter how talented you are. Society doesn’t encourage chasing dreams; it teaches us to work for a living, as dreams can’t feed us.

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As one of the few young people in the company, I found myself socially isolated. I had no shared values or interests with my coworkers. They didn’t care about my ideas, dreams, or opinions. My time was owned by the company, my work benefited the company, and if I wasn’t efficient, someone else eager for the job would replace me. To do something great, I needed experience to prove my abilities. But I was just a graduate with no work experience. I had no voice or power. I had to follow my supervisors' rules without question.

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My family didn’t understand me either.

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“No one likes work. Everyone feels wronged and cries, yet still goes to work the next day. That’s just life,” my parents said, sharing their own stories. It was shocking that they had worked in one place for nearly thirty years, even if they weren’t happy.

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“But how can you endure such a life for so many years?” I asked in disbelief. I couldn’t even last a year.

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“It’s all because of you and your sister,” my dad replied. I couldn’t tell if he was content or discontent.

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He was always a hero to me as a child. He worked six days a week to support our family, never complaining about life, never having bad habits, nor breaking down. We never had to worry about money because he made our home safe and warm.

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He pretended to be unbeatable because that’s what a father should be in his children’s eyes. Neither of us were good at expressing love. We were just playing our roles—a parent and a child—according to society's expectations. We only shared good news and hid the bad. We only performed comedies in front of each other.

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I used to sit on his shoulders and pretend I ruled the world. I thought of him as my superhero, even though he never played with me or said anything sweet. I admired him greatly because people always praised him as a good father.

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But he never lived for himself. He never bought himself nice clothes or enjoyed great food, never traveled alone or took a break on weekends, never pursued his interests or questioned the life he wanted because his family depended on him. He knew that if he fell, we all would.

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He was my Superman, but as I grew older, I realized he was just human.

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“Have you ever regretted having us?” I asked him.

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He went silent, but I pressed for an answer.

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“….What else can I do? Now that I chose to have you, I have to take responsibility for my decision.”

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I didn’t fully understand why he chose to have children. Perhaps he felt his life was meaningless and thought having a family would complete him. Or perhaps he never thought about why.

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We certainly had happy moments, but we never talked about the bad times. He must be grateful for us because we gave his life meaning, though he might have questioned his own decision more than once over these years.

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I felt sorrowful for him, unable to live for himself. I used to ask why he worked so hard, why he didn’t develop interests or travel when he had the chance. He said he didn’t have time; just working was exhausting. I didn’t understand. All I thought was that I never wanted to live like that.

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If I could look into his eyes and feel his unspoken words, I would have known it’s the love I never felt. His love is always silent, yet deeper than I could ever imagine.

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My parents never wanted us to be great in the eyes of the world. They never imposed any pressure or had lofty expectations for us. Their only wish was for us to be safe, healthy, and to lead smooth, uncomplicated lives. They were more than happy when I started earning a good income and living with them. But I wasn't happy at all.

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The real world turned out to be even more toxic than school. This is a money-driven society where people measure each other's worth by their earnings. Men, especially, are expected to earn more because they’re supposed to be the breadwinners when they start a family. They flaunt their expensive cars, properties, and stock returns, all in hopes of attracting a suitable woman and achieving what they believe are life goals.

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At work, everyone seemed obsessed with women’s relationship status. If a woman remained unmarried, they gossiped about her personality. If she was still single, they pried into what kind of man she was looking for. If she married a wealthy man, they questioned why she wasn’t staying at home, living off her husband.

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No one understood why I hated my job. They told me I should be proud of myself for earning such a good wage. It was as if they believed that happiness naturally followed financial success. But the more I earned, the less alone time I had, and the less happiness I felt.

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Every morning, I felt the urge to quit. I wasn’t even excited to see the sun the next day. Each day felt like torture to my soul. Within six months, I was completely burned out from the relentless overtime and the toxic relationships at work.

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I lost all my passion and energy, becoming an empty shell without a mind. I stopped thinking, imagining, and creating. I felt trapped in the invisible framework that society had constructed around me.

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Things only got worse when one of my coworkers quit, leaving me with an even heavier workload. My supervisor kept asking how she could make me more efficient, while Hector, my boss, would ask what time we got off work, yet never offered any real solutions to ease the burden.

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Every night, I came home to an empty living room and cold food. Tears would roll down my cheeks and into my bowl as I tried to eat. I had no appetite; all I wanted was to sob.

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I didn’t know what I was doing or why I was living this way. I didn’t work hard in school just to end up like this.

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I wanted to do things that I loved. I wanted to feel passion in my life. I wanted to be excited about tomorrow and the days after that. I wanted to do something different, something meaningful.

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People would say, "I know you’re not happy with your life, but you need to learn to accept reality. If you ask others, you’ll realize a perfect job doesn’t exist. You’ll hate your work no matter what because that’s what work is. You need to work when you’re tired, when you’re annoyed, or when you don’t want to—otherwise, you’ll starve. That’s just life. What can you do to make a change? What are you going to do with your dreams and passions?"

But what is the meaning of life if I stop learning and growing? Why should I continue living if my life is filled with suffering and lacks meaning?

I felt like no one around me could understand how I felt. No one would ever understand why I had lost hope, even though I seemed to have everything that so many people desired.

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However, having a complete family, an attractive appearance, or considerable wealth doesn’t genuinely define who we are. It’s our minds and hearts that reveal our true selves and tell us where we belong. There must be a reason for everyone’s existence. It doesn’t have to be grand, but it must be meaningful to us.

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I refuse to follow the path society has laid out for me. I need to know what I want to do with my life. I don’t want to live without understanding why I’m living. I don’t want to live as if I’m dying.

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My parents had no choice because they needed to raise us. But I was fortunate enough to have choices. And I chose to change.

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Hector showed a bit of concern when I handed in my resignation.

“What are you going to do after?” he asked, his curiosity piqued.

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“I don’t know yet. I want to take a break and think about my future.”

“Alright. It’s good to see young people like you have thoughts. I respect your decision, but I don’t believe you have no idea about your future. You’re an insightful young lady. I know you’re going to be great. Maybe I’ll hear your good news soon… Maybe you’ll get married soon. Who knows?”

Hector liked to think of himself as open-minded and thoughtful, but in reality, he was just living in his own world. He often said he was sharing his wisdom with the younger generation, but he never really tried to understand what we were thinking. Like many from his generation, he believed that people ultimately belonged in families. Women, in particular, should find a good man, get married, and have children, because that’s how life is supposed to go.

I can’t say I’ve never imagined being someone’s wife or mother, but I refuse to believe it’s the only path for me. I hate when people make assumptions about who I am without trying to understand me, and when they share their experiences proudly, as if their way of life is the only way to succeed, seeing themselves as winners and others as lost.

Determined to find the meaning of my life and to explore the world beyond what I knew, I booked a ticket to France, setting off on a journey to a foreign country miles away from home, feeling lost but hopeful in my twenties.

Chapter 5 Love, poison and cure

As I grew older, my mother tried to repair our relationship. She hoped I would open my heart to her and reconnect. She apologized for everything she had done in the past, but I felt nothing. I didn’t understand why she was showing this now. When she reached out, my instinct was to pull away, because her closeness made me uncomfortable. I didn’t know how to love someone, nor did I know how to let them into my heart—even if it was my own mother.

It wasn’t until I learned how to love my friends that I realized how deeply my childhood had impacted me. People often assume that family love is natural—if parents love their children, the children will naturally love their parents. If not, it must be the child’s fault. Many adults never truly try to understand others, let alone their own children. They raise children based on their own thinking. They stifle the children’s imagination, scold and beat them, making them feel unloved, only to feel guilty years later and attempt to repair the relationship. But by then, the damage has been done, and healing a broken heart takes time.

People often say that we can only truly understand our parents once we become parents ourselves. But why can’t we learn to love before raising lives? Why must we constantly hurt those we love and wait for them to come back? Why must we wait until our souls are deeply wounded before we change the way we express love? Why do we expect those who have never hurt us to heal our wounds?

In my memory, there are several moments from the past that always bring me to tears when I get lost in them

I have imagined countless times going back to those moments, wondering if things would have been different, if I had handled my emotions differently back then, would I have become a “normal” person today? Would I have met someone I liked, fallen in love, and discussed our future together?

But I know it’s hard for me because I can’t forget my past.

When Matthew took my hand in the dark, a figure emerged from the chaotic and scattered memories.

It wasn’t Shawn, it wasn’t John, nor Noah.

It was my family.

I still remember that New Year’s Eve, when we watched a horror movie. He took my hand like Matthew, squeezed it like Noah, and violated my body like Sean.

But, he made me feel safe, just like John.

He smiled at me gently like Matthew.

How I wish I could see him again, how I wish I could embrace his children.

I once thought I had to bury this in my heart and take it to the grave, but I realized I couldn’t. I couldn’t pretend nothing had happened.

After meeting Matthew, I could no longer do that.

Over the years, I’ve been trying to escape my past. I desperately tried to forget everything and move on. I thought I wasn’t trying hard enough, so when I thought back to those days, I was always brought to tears, knocked down time and time again.

I’ve shared my story with many friends, but no one truly understood me. They didn’t know how fragile I was, and I didn’t want to expose my weaknesses.

Once, I confided in a middle school friend when we were just 22. Even though we walked through the mountains in the evening, and she couldn’t see my face, when I spoke the first words, I couldn’t help but tremble.

What shocked me was that she said she had never heard of Shawn.

My cousin was the same; she didn’t even remember asking me such a question.

This made me feel sorry for myself. When I wished everyone could forget the rumors and give me peace, they wouldn’t let me go. But when those memories turned to ashes, entangling me everywhere, everyone had long forgotten the past.

Everyone left, and I was still trapped in the past because I couldn’t forgive myself. After my heart was broken, I built a wall because I didn’t want to be hurt again. However, the result was that I locked myself and the demons inside the wall. I kept torturing myself. Everyone wanted me to be happy, but I stopped myself from being happy. It was all because of me. Matthew was right; I was hurting myself.

I had never felt this good before after talking to Matthew. He probably never knew how his words had changed me. But they smashed a hole in my wall. When I took my courage to look out of it, there was not extreme darkness, but a world full of birds and flowers, love and warmth, hope and happiness.

I had never felt so alive before.

The passion and beauty in life were back in my heart again. The love I felt from my friends and family was stronger than I could ever experience. I couldn't wait to share my new transformation with all of my friends and the beautiful people that happened in my life.

I texted Asher, after losing contact for more than one month with him. He tried to contact me once, but didn’t get any response. When hearing I had a bad time recently, he immediately asked me if I wanted to talk.

I said yes without any hesitation. I couldn’t wait to share our stories.

I was so overwhelmed with the beauty and love I felt for the first time in a while, that I didn’t see clearly that there were vipers hiding in the garden too, waiting for me to fall into their traps.

Asher was slightly different from the last time I saw him. He said in a relaxed manner that he just came back from vacation. I was fascinated by his passion and enthusiasm for life.

Then I heard about his age. I must admit that I was surprised to hear he was forty. But I didn’t care. After all, does a beautiful soul lose its color because of age, nationality, skin color, gender or any other factor?

I went to his place in hopes to have a deep talk, because I didn’t want to sob in public. I took off my mask and showed him the real me. I was completely vulnerable in front of him. I thought he wanted to know me. I thought he cared about me. But I looked into his eyes and all I saw was nothing but coldness.

“What are you thinking?”

“Nothing. I think you worry too much. You’re young. You should just go with the flow and enjoy the moment.”

“But you don’t know me. You don’t know what kind of person I truly am. What if I’m just a bad person?”

“Oh yes, you’re bad.”

He was smiling. But I could feel my heart sinking. “What? How do you know?”

“Oh, I know you’re a bad girl. You’re just like me, that’s why you’re here with me, isn’t it?”

He couldn’t be bothered by what I was saying. He didn’t care about my feelings, because he thought that I had none.

It was the moment that I realized I was already surrounded by the vipers. How pitiful I was to walk delightedly into the middle by myself ?

I didn’t want to be with him, nor did I want to see him anymore. I didn’t even have the strength to hate him or tell him he was wrong about me. I just wanted to go home. I wanted to be alone.

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I had just missed my last bus. I took his money and waited for the taxi at the gate with him.

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He was still trying to kiss me. I felt like my heart had totally died at that moment. I looked at his closed eyes and spaced out. I didn’t fight. I didn’t even care what he wanted to do to me. I had no expectations for him. I just wanted to go home.

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I didn’t bother to say goodbye to him. I didn’t want to see him ever again. I got in the taxi, and the driver tried to have a small talk with me. I looked out from the window and tried to smile when he was talking. Then he gradually went silent and let me drown into my thoughts.

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I felt like a clown—easily trusting people and being twisted by others. There was nothing inside me. I was too tired to think. I just wanted to go home and take a rest.

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I dreamt about Asher that night. I dreamt about him kissing a row of women after kissing me. I woke up in the morning with a severe headache.

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I texted Matthew about the old man’s real age.

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“……what the fuck?” He replied back after a few minutes.

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Even though he never met Asher once, he knew age was a problem. While I met him four times and still didn’t realize the issue. I had nothing to say. I was dumb.

The headache hadn’t fully gone. I had no strength to think of what happened, and no emotions about what happened last night.

After class, Matthew asked me what had happened the night before. I told him everything, but what I didn’t tell him was that, before going to Ash’s house, I had already known his age.

No matter how shocked Matthew was by what had happened to me, even gagging in front of me, I didn’t shed a single tear. I had no energy to think about what had occurred that night, and I was too exhausted to feel anger.

I used to hate boys because they were childish and didn't care about my feelings. But the first mature man I’ve ever met had become the most disgusting man in my entire life. He made me feel like I deserved nothing good in this world, and think that I had a rotten soul filled with darkness and would never be able to escape from my past.

But what can I do? Who made me so naive, never imagining I would meet such a terrible person?

I shrunk back into my shell, avoiding talking to people.

I started recording my life and tried to find beauty in nature.

Lily, a 20 year old Swiss girl I met in the hostel, sent me a long message after seeing my diary online.

“Hey, I just wanted to tell you I love how open and honest you are! I just met you for three days, but within this time I already felt so much admiration for you! I’m so happy that we met! You are such a beautiful soul and you shine in this lovely energy that I admire so much! You are an amazing person, never forget that! I hope we can meet in Switzerland or in Lyon or somewhere else soon.”

I couldn't help but tear up when I saw her message. I never knew what I looked like in people’s eyes. I never knew that I shined in people’s eyes.

I decided to visit her during my vacation.

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When I was young, I always dreamed of living in picturesque Europe, and Switzerland was the place of my dreams. It boasts magnificent landscapes, fresh air, and a peaceful atmosphere, making it a special place in the hearts of every traveler.

I went there with a tiring heart.

Words could never describe how I felt when I was standing in front of the most beautiful nature scene which no human could ever create.

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“Look, April ! We made it here…. This is one of the most beautiful things you’ve never imagined in your life. Do you know how proud I am of you? You were so brave when you were thirteen. It is you who brought us here. Without you, we would never have the chance to see the beautiful view, nor see the most beautiful souls in the world. Look…April…. Poor girl… you have no idea how much I wish I could give you a hug and show you the beauty of the world. Please don’t give up. Don’t give up on yourself. You’ll feel the love one day, no matter how heartbroken you are right now. Don’t listen to the demon. You’re amazing no matter what they say. You are strong and undefeated. You are not alone, because I understand every feeling you have. I will never leave you, so don’t leave me either. Even when the world doesn’t treat you kindly, you need to treat yourself kindly.”

I stood there for hours and hours, weeping so hard in front of the sea and the mountains, not caring about people walking behind me.

When I was young, I always hoped I would never speak to anyone again. I would rather live in my own world than socialize. In my house, there is music and art, plants and pets, blue skies and sunshine—simple joys in a peaceful life. I could imagine and create in my mind without being overwhelmed by deep sorrow and endless tears.

However, by doing so, I would never encounter those beautiful souls, nor would I feel the love that surrounds me. I never wanted a broken heart.

But because of this, I had the opportunity to experience pure love and warm embraces. I felt love I had never experienced from my family, and I began to see my family with a new perspective, feeling the love they had never spoken.

When I felt love, I began to see it.

Love is the bread a young woman gives to a homeless man, the first smile exchanged with a stranger, the moment of walking out the door to bask in the sunlight, and the silent understanding between long-lost friends.

Love is precious and sacred, the tears shed by those we love, the sparkles in their eyes, the warm rice at home, and the lifetime spent with a loved one who is now gone.

No one in this world can fully understand us, because humans have emotions. Emotions are the most complex things in the world, sometimes even we cannot explain every feeling in our hearts and what we truly feel. But emotions are also the most precious existence in the universe, because no other beings can feel and convey every emotion like humans, letting the universe understand our existence.

I once wished to avoid everyone, never having to speak to anyone, because communicating different perspectives with others was so exhausting, and my heart was always scarred, aching deeply.

No one wants a broken heart. We build high walls to prevent others from hurting us. We ignore others’ feelings simply because we don’t want to endure great pain again, nor do we want to lose the hope of living anew.

But if I closed my heart, I would miss the chance to meet beautiful people in my life.

Everyone carries a different burden. Our feelings are similar, but the way we interpret, respond, and express them is different. Sometimes we cannot understand why people hurt us or why we hurt them because humans have the ability to think and feel. Our feelings do not always align with our thoughts, and our thoughts do not always match our feelings.

Without emotions, there would be no heartbreak or pain; without emotions, there would be no warmth and love within, nor true laughter or ultimate happiness.

Without thinking, stories cannot be told, art cannot be created, adventures cannot be completed, and innovations cannot be invented. People would live in their own world—happy, but naive.

However, the world is not always this beautiful. In places we cannot see, many children still cannot have enough to eat, many people still cannot laugh wholeheartedly, and many lives are still battling illness.

I believe everything happens for a reason, and each reason is an experience in life. The people who come into our lives must have something special about them. These lessons cannot be learned from books, movies, or other people and things. Only the specific people can bring us such experiences.

Heartbreak does not mean there was never happiness in the past. On the contrary, it helps us realize what we most long for in this world. Everyone expresses love in different ways, but ultimately, what we seek is the same—to be treated gently by those who truly understand us.

We can choose to remember past heartbreaks and live on with hatred, fear, and misunderstanding; or we can choose to treat ourselves with kindness, living with goodwill, hope, and love.

The world will not become beautiful just because we choose to change, but we have the power of choice, and that is the key to changing the world.

Even though I have seen the ugliness of the world, I still believe there are many beautiful souls in this world. When my inner self became beautiful, I began to see the light they radiated.

I no longer suffer for love, because the love I have is so abundant.99Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡuVIq9JkYUu

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