My Friend is my obsession

Melina POV My name is Melina. I grew up in a broken family—though, to be honest, I never understood when it actually became broken. Perhaps it was already like that from the beginning, and I was simply too young to notice. I had two brothers, a grandmother, a father, and a mother. On the surface, we looked like a complete family. But inside that house, warmth never existed. My father was a playboy. He rarely stayed home, and when he did, his attention was never on us. He was always on his phone, laughing softly at messages that weren’t meant for my mother. Sometimes he left for days without explanation. Other times, he came home smelling of unfamiliar perfume. I learned early not to ask questions. My mother wasn’t much different. She was always going out—shopping, meeting friends, attending gatherings where she smiled brightly and laughed loudly. She rarely stayed home, and when she did, it felt as if she was only there physically. Emotionally, she was somewhere else entirely. As a child, I often waited. I waited for my mother to ask how my day was. I waited for my father to notice I was growing taller. I waited for someone—anyone—to care. But no one ever did. My brothers were closer to each other. They had their own world, their own laughter. I existed beside them, but never with them. At home, silence followed me everywhere. Even when the house was full, I felt alone. Slowly, my heart became numb. At first, I didn’t understand what was happening to me. I just felt tired—tired of expecting things that never came, tired of hoping for attention that never arrived. Over time, that exhaustion turned into emptiness. And that emptiness turned into something darker. I began to hate myself. I hated how quiet I was. I hated how invisible I felt. I hated how desperately I wanted to be loved. Eventually, I began to dislike people too. Being around others felt uncomfortable, heavy, exhausting. I preferred staying at home, locked inside my room, where no one expected anything from me. Being alone felt safer. At least loneliness didn’t disappoint me—it stayed consistent. Then, one day, my parents divorced. There was no dramatic fight in front of me. No screaming or shattered plates. Just cold words exchanged behind closed doors, followed by silence. When my mother finally spoke to us about it, her voice was calm, almost emotionless. She asked us a question. “Who do you want to live with?” My two brothers chose my mother without hesitation. I watched them speak, their voices firm, their decision clear. No one looked at me. No one asked what I wanted. When it was finally my turn, I chose my father. Not because I loved him more. Not because I believed life would be better with him. I chose him because, in my heart, I believed that no matter who I chose, nothing would change. Love would not suddenly appear. Attention would not suddenly exist. So my choice felt meaningless. After that, I moved in with my father and my grandmother. We lived in a house provided by his boss—a large house that never felt like home. But we weren’t alone. My father brought one of his male friends to live with us. He had his own family, and for some reason, they all shared the house together. It felt strange. Like strangers forced into the same space, pretending to be comfortable. The first day I met my father’s friend’s family, I wasn’t interested at all. I didn’t care who they were or how many children they had. People were people—temporary, disappointing, irrelevant. That man had three children. Two boys and one girl. The girl was around my age. Maybe a year younger. I noticed her not because I wanted to, but because she kept staring at me. Her eyes were bright, almost glowing, filled with curiosity and something else I couldn’t understand. It made me uncomfortable. I avoided her gaze, turning my head away, hoping she would lose interest. But she didn’t. Instead, she walked toward me with light steps, her expression open and warm. She introduced herself. Her voice was cheerful. Too cheerful. She smiled as if she had known me for years, as if she wasn’t standing in front of a stranger who barely acknowledged her existence. “My name is Seyra.” For a brief second, an unwanted thought crossed my mind. Her name is beautiful. I immediately shook that thought away. I didn’t want to think things like that. It felt dangerous—as if acknowledging beauty would invite feelings I wasn’t ready to face. Maybe I was already losing my mind. Or maybe I was just exhausted. I wanted to sleep. I still introduced myself to my father’s friend and his family out of politeness. My voice was quiet. My movements stiff. I didn’t look at them for too long. That night, I ate dinner alone in my room. I was used to eating by myself. Sitting at a table with others felt foreign, uncomfortable—like wearing clothes that didn’t fit. The sound of conversation from outside my room made my chest feel tight, so I locked the door and stayed inside. After finishing my meal, I stepped out to put the plate in the sink. That’s when the woman—Seyra’s mother—approached me. She smiled gently. “Just leave it there,” she said softly. “I’ll wash it later.” I froze. Her smile wasn’t forced. It wasn’t practiced. It didn’t feel like the smiles my mother gave in front of her friends—the kind meant to impress, to show off. This smile was real. I glanced around and noticed her husband and children looking at me. Suddenly, I felt painfully aware of my presence. My hands trembled slightly as I nodded. “Thank you,” I murmured. I returned to my room immediately, closing the door behind me as if shielding myself from something unfamiliar. Once alone, I let out a soft sigh. My mind replayed that woman’s gentle smile again and again. I compared it to my mother’s smiles—the hollow ones meant for appearances. For the first time, I realized how starved I was for sincerity. That night, I allowed myself to imagine something dangerous. A perfect family. A warm home. A place where smiles were real. It was only an illusion, something I created inside my head. I knew it wasn’t real. I knew I would never have it. But for a moment, I let myself dream. The next morning, I woke up early. The house was quiet, wrapped in the calm of dawn. I stepped outside and took a slow walk, observing the surroundings. The air was cool, refreshing. I followed a familiar path toward a workshop not far from the house. Inside, I sat down on a chair and let the morning wind brush through my hair. It felt peaceful. This was something I loved—being alone with the silence, where no one spoke and no one expected anything from me. Then, footsteps. I stiffened. Seyra appeared, accompanied by her younger brother. My body reacted before my mind did. I stood up, ready to leave. I didn’t want to deal with people. I didn’t want conversation. I wanted to disappear. But before I could walk away, Seyra spoke. “Do you want to be friends with me?” Her words stopped me completely. I turned to look at her. For a moment, I searched her eyes—not for affection, but for a reason. People always wanted something. Attention. Validation. Entertainment. I wanted to know what she wanted from me. But I found nothing hidden. Only sincerity. Her eyes were clear, honest, and hopeful. She smiled—not brightly, not excessively—but gently, as if she truly meant it. She really wanted to be my friend. And that frightened me more than loneliness ever had.