I imagine how it would be if they even bothered to ask me how I am doing. Just once. Not about the latest results or my grades or assignments or how I will address the most recent failure—but actually asked, “Are you alright?”I think about that a lot. What I would like to tell my parents if they only just listened to me or at least stopped nagging me about things I have done wrong or things that I need to change. If they just realized how much I have been suffering, how drastically I’ve deviated from the person they used to know. Would I tell them? Would I free fall, overwhelmed with nerves and anxiety, and let out whatever I was feeling? I don’t even know anymore. Maybe it’s too late for that.It is, however, not that they can’t care—they do, though it may not necessarily be in ways which have fully come into the view of the observers. But wanting to be the perfect daughter and wanting me to be well are two different things. And it is this that they find they can scarcely attain, as if it does not exist for them. I wish they would ask. I wish they’d stop long enough to see that I’m no longer the same person, the flaws that are slowly eating me alive. Then, perhaps, I would be able to stop with the facade. Perhaps if they did not so soon jump to conclusions, I could explain why I no longer am me.But they don’t ask. They don’t see. And so I stay silent.Because the sound of no beep is less dangerous than the sound of a missed chance. It is safer than letting them in, only to have them look at me, the same look I’ve come to dread—the look that says I am broken and in need of fixing. How funny that I can be longing for people and, at the same time, being afraid of them. How I wish I could share with them everything that is happening to me and, on the other hand, how scared I am of what will become of me if I ever let it out. If only they would ask me what’s wrong. If only they cared enough to know why I’m always so distant, why I’ve stopped trying so hard to please them. Maybe then I’d explain the truth—that it’s exhausting to always be “on,” to always be perfect. That no matter what I do, it’s never enough. I’m dying inside. And they don’t even notice.So I smile. I nod. I say the right things. Because that’s what’s expected of me. But I wonder how much longer I can hold everything together before the mask finally slips, and they see what’s really underneath.Would they even care?I often think of my friends, Joel and Petra. I know they care about me deeply. They’ve always been my safe havens, the ones who make me laugh when I feel like crying, the ones who stand by me during those rare moments when I can actually be myself. But even then, I find myself pulling back, hesitant to let them in completely. The last thing I want is to burden them with my struggles. They have their own lives, their own problems. Joel, with his infectious smile, is the epitome of light. He’s the friend who stands tall, always encouraging me to reach for the stars, to not let anything hold me back. And yet, in his enthusiasm, I sometimes feel an unbearable weight of guilt. How can I share my darkness when he shines so bright? I don’t want to be the shadow in his light. I don’t want him to feel like he has to carry me when I can’t even carry myself.Then there’s Petra, my anchor, whose understanding runs deeper than the ocean. She has a way of sensing when something is off, a sixth sense that makes her feel like she can see right through my carefully constructed facade. I remember the times she’s asked, “Grace, are you okay?” It’s in those moments that I feel the walls start to crumble. I want to scream, “No! I’m not okay! I’m falling apart!” But instead, I just force a smile and reassure her that I’m fine, even though it eats away at me inside. They both deserve my honesty, my vulnerability. Yet I keep them at arm’s length, terrified of pulling them into my chaotic world. I don’t want them to feel the weight of my pain; I don’t want to be the burden that they feel obligated to carry. What I crave is my parents’ genuine love, support, affection, and care. I long for them to notice me, to ask me how I’m truly feeling, to see through the cracks and into my soul. But with each passing day, the gulf between us widens. It’s as if I’m trapped in a glass box, screaming silently while they pass by, blissfully unaware of my struggle. They continue to celebrate my accomplishments, to shine the spotlight on my successes, but the deeper issues remain buried beneath a surface of normalcy. They don’t ask how I feel; they don’t question the weight of my silence or the shadows beneath my smile. It’s not that they’re bad parents; they just can’t see me anymore. I find myself wondering if my silence is a plea for help or a cry for attention. I don’t know if I want them to notice or if I simply want to blend into the background, fading away from the weight of expectation. Maybe, in some twisted way, I think that if I can just disappear from the face of earth.