See Me

Funny, isn’t it? A year ago, he wouldn’t even let me step outside after eight in the evening. Now, I was being shipped off to an entirely different country, like a package that had finally outlived its purpose. I still wondered what made him go through with it. The only explanation that ever made sense was this: I was an investment. A long-term plan he was funding now, so he could sit back and reap the benefits later. Crazy. Not that I was complaining. I had never planned on staying with them forever anyway. The people who called themselves my family were also the same people who had hurt me the most. I zoned out, my eyes drifting toward my dad as he sat on the couch, drink in hand, completely absorbed in a newly released movie. Laughter filled the living room. Someone refilled a glass. Someone else turned the volume up. This was supposed to be my send-off party. I didn’t know how I felt about that. I wasn’t sad. Not even close. If anything, the scene dragged me backwards, straight into a memory I had tried very hard to bury. Two years ago. Another night. Another fight. Back then, he had lost his mind because I wasn’t home by nine. We lived in a gated community. The safest kind of neighbourhood people brag about when they want to feel superior. I had been at a friend’s house after celebrating a festival, sitting around eating snacks because we were too tired to do anything else. I had informed my mom. She knew exactly where I was. His ego, however, didn’t care. He had been drinking the entire day. I barely existed to him until the clock crossed nine. That’s when I became a problem. My mom called me, her voice tight, asking me to come home quickly because he was throwing a fit. I rushed back, guilt already pooling in my stomach, only to be met with shouting the moment I stepped inside. He went on about responsibility. About rules. About respect. I stayed quiet. I always stayed quiet. Until he crossed a line. He muttered something about my friend’s father, hinting that his intentions toward me might not be “good.” That was it. How could he even think that? This man had never managed to be a real father to me, yet he felt entitled to question the character of someone who had shown me nothing but kindness and respect. The argument spiralled fast. The moment I started pointing out how unreasonable he was being, he completely lost control. He stormed into my room, grabbed my travel bag, threw it onto the floor, and began shoving my clothes into it like he was erasing me. His words were sharp. Final. “If you refuse to follow my rules, you don’t get to live under my roof.” I was sixteen. How exactly was I supposed to react to that? I froze, rooted to the spot, watching him pack my life away in anger. My mom rushed in moments later, pulling him out of the room and locking the door behind her. She stayed with me, along with my siblings, Ava and Alec. I didn’t cry. I just sat there, staring at the bag, trying to understand how a place could stop feeling like home in a single night. Alec nudged my arm, snapping me out of my thoughts. My drink slipped from my hand and spilled onto the floor. I muttered a quiet thanks to the universe that it wasn’t the sofa and stood up to clean the mess. When I looked around again, everything was the same. Same walls. Same people. Same noise. And yet, I didn’t feel even a trace of pain about leaving them behind. A few hours later, my mom and I were packing food into my suitcases. She kept rambling about how worried she was about my diet, about whether I would eat properly once I left, as if concern had suddenly become a personality trait. I almost laughed. The irony was impressive. She was the same woman who had body-shamed me two years ago for being chubby. The same woman who forced me to eat less. The same woman who once stared at me when I went back for a second serving and asked, “How much more are you planning to eat?” That sentence stayed with me longer than it should have. I stopped eating. Quietly. Efficiently. I threw away my lunches at school. I cut my dinners in half. Some nights, I skipped them entirely. Somewhere along the way, my appetite gave up trying to survive. I lost fourteen kilograms. I used to weigh around fifty-five kilos. I’m five feet tall, so my chubbiness has always been obvious. By the beginning of twelfth grade, I didn’t look healthy. I looked unsettling. And then, in the middle of all that chaos, I went bald. High school, of all times. The years when appearances matter the most, and mirrors feel like enemies you can’t escape. The reason wasn’t medical. It wasn’t dramatic either. I had been doom-scrolling one night, watching reels of women chopping their hair off, saying things like, “Hair holds memories.” Breakups. Trauma. Fresh starts. Cut the hair, cut the past. I took that advice a little too seriously. I walked into a salon and told them to take everything off. Apparently, I believed in a full factory reset. The combination of sudden weight loss and a bald head did wonders for rumours. People whispered. Teachers spoke to me gently, like I might shatter if their tone was wrong. At some point, I got tired of correcting assumptions and just let them believe whatever they wanted. The perks were undeniable. I slept through classes without being scolded. I got sent home early. Half-days became normal. No one questioned it. Sympathy, it turns out, is a powerful academic accommodation. Eventually, I recovered. I gained some weight back during my gap year. My hair grew back too, slowly and stubbornly, like it hadn’t done anything wrong in the first place. Tomorrow was D-Day. I lay back on my bed, staring at the ceiling, letting the past few years replay themselves whether I wanted them to or not. My life hadn’t always been like this. Once upon a time, my family was well-to-do. I was loved openly, without conditions. My father wasn’t a serial alcoholic. My mother wasn’t a professional snitch disguised as a parent. For nine whole years, I was an only child, and life felt stable. Predictable. Safe. Then my parents announced they were pregnant. I was happy. Truly. I didn’t complain. Like everyone else, I hoped for a baby boy. My reason was simple. I was a girl, and I wanted a brother. My parents’ reason, I later realised, had more to do with legacy. I was too innocent to notice the difference back then. To their mild disappointment, the baby was a girl. Ava. She arrived like a ray of sunshine. I loved her instantly and fiercely. For a while, everything stayed good. Maybe even better. And then, exactly one year later, my life took a sharp left turn. I was diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes. I didn’t understand what it meant at first. I just knew my mom cried, adults whispered like it was a tragedy, and suddenly, hospitals became familiar places. I stayed under observation for days. That’s when I learned I would need insulin to survive. Injections. Before every meal. Forever. It was hard to adjust, especially for someone with a serious sweet tooth. But I adapted, because children always do. For a year, my parents were careful with me. Overprotective, even. Then my mom got pregnant again. This time, I didn’t hear from them. My grandmother slipped up during a visit, casually revealing it like it wasn’t something I deserved to know. When I confronted my parents later, they acted calm. Normal. Like I had crossed a line by asking. So I didn’t make a scene. Soon enough, my brother Alec was born. That was when everything changed. I suddenly had two siblings, ten and twelve years younger than me. I thought life would continue the same way, just louder. I was wrong. The moment my brother entered the house, I was quietly sidelined. I was no longer a priority. I existed to babysit, to absorb blame, to carry frustration that wasn’t mine. If something broke, it was my fault. If my siblings misbehaved, I was responsible. I was the oldest. That was their logic. Responsibility without authority. Blame without context. Apparently, I was expected to make up for the fact that they weren’t ready to raise children again, but wanted lineage anyway. A classic failure of family planning. From that point on, everything went downhill. Financially. Mentally. Emotionally. Nothing was the same anymore. And just to make sure things didn’t improve by accident, the pandemic arrived and made everything worse. After that, nothing moved fast anymore. Especially not my future. When my twelfth-grade results came out, it was obvious I wasn’t going to make it into any prestigious college. At least, not the kind my father had always imagined for me. The disappointment was written all over his face. I noticed it. I just didn’t care. I had chosen science and math as my core subjects with full confidence back in tenth grade, right after scoring ninety-five percent overall. On paper, I looked like exactly the kind of student who was meant for that path. Reality disagreed. By early eleventh grade, I knew science wasn’t my cup of tea. My results confirmed it for me. Loudly. Repeatedly. So I adjusted. I was ready to join a local community college. Nothing fancy. Nothing impressive. Just practical, affordable, and far away from expectations I had never signed up for. And then, out of nowhere, my father received a call. A consultancy. Something about studying in France. He asked if I wanted to check it out. I barely reacted. Between his unreasonable protectiveness and our already fragile finances, the idea felt like a joke that hadn’t landed. I nodded absently and forgot about it. A week later, boredom got the better of me. I called the consultancy myself. After that, everything happened fast. Applications. Emails. Calls. Documents. Decisions. What astonished me the most wasn’t the process. It was my father. For once, he wasn’t hesitating. He wasn’t saying no. He wasn’t listing reasons why I shouldn’t go. He was… willing. Almost eager. That should have comforted me. Instead, it unsettled me. I applied for the spring semester because it was already too late for fall. For a brief moment, it felt like things were actually lining up. Then finances stepped in. As they always do. My education loan didn’t get approved on time. So the spring intake slipped away, and I deferred to the next fall semester. Waiting again. Paused again. That’s how the gap year happened. Not because I needed time to “find myself.” Not because I was lost. But because every time I want something badly, I either don’t get it at all, or the road to it stretches endlessly, just to test how much I’m willing to endure. By then, I had learned the pattern well. Slow progress. Delayed relief. Hope, with conditions. But in the middle of all that madness, there was one thing I held onto. My best friends. They were my real family. People love to say friendships are overrated because “friends just support you through your nonsense without judging.” That’s not what real friendship is. Real friendship is a safe space. It’s being allowed to be your truest, messiest self without fear. It’s not about supporting you when you’re wrong. It’s about guiding you while letting you figure things out on your own. It’s about standing beside you when you fall, ready to hold you. Without judgment. And in that one category, at least, I know I’m lucky.