Everything I never Said

Dear Diary, Do you think it's possible to be surrounded by people and still feel completely alone? Because if it is, then I think I've mastered the art. I live in a house with four other children and two adults who are supposed to be my parents. I have two older brothers, an older sister, a mother, and a father. There is always someone talking, laughing, arguing, or asking for something. Yet somehow, I never seem to have anyone to talk to. Maybe the problem is me. Maybe I'm too quiet. Maybe I expected too much. Or maybe I've become so good at pretending that I'm okay that everyone has finally started believing me. I don't know. All I know is that I'm tired of having conversations in my head that I'll never have out loud. At least you listen. You always do. Love, Isabelle. I closed my journal and stared at the last sentence. At least you listen. It was a strange thing to write about a notebook, but it was the truth. My journal had become the one place where I didn't have to pretend. It didn't ask why I was quiet. It didn't tell me I was overthinking. It didn't interrupt me or remind me that other people had bigger problems. It simply held my words. And sometimes, that was all I needed. "Isabelle!" I quickly slid the journal beneath my pillow. "Isabelle, are you sleeping?" It was my mother's voice. "No, Mum!" "Come downstairs. Your brothers are asking for you." I glanced at the clock beside my bed. It was almost eight in the evening. "Okay, Mum. I'm coming." I got up, adjusted my shirt, and looked at myself in the mirror. I had perfected a particular expression over the years. A small smile, relaxed eyes, and a face that gave nothing away. It was the face I wore whenever someone asked if I was fine. And I was going to need it downstairs. As I entered the living room, I found my two brothers arguing over the television while my sister sat on the couch, scrolling through her phone. "Finally!" my eldest brother exclaimed. "See this girl. You can call her from now till tomorrow." I rolled my eyes. "You called me once." "Once? I called you three times!" "Then maybe you should have called a fourth time." My younger brother burst out laughing. "Leave her," he said. "She is giving nonchalant girl vibes." I smiled and sat beside my sister. For a few minutes, everything felt normal. My brothers argued, my sister laughed at something on her phone, and my mother called from the kitchen to ask who had finished the juice. I watched them quietly. Sometimes, I wondered whether I was being unfair to my family. They weren't cruel to me. They bought me things when they could, made sure I went to school, and complained when I stayed in my room for too long. Perhaps that was what made everything so confusing. I couldn't point to one terrible thing they had done and say, This is why I feel this way. It was a collection of little things. The times I wanted to tell my mother something exciting, but she was too busy to listen. The times I wanted my father to ask how I was doing, not just whether I had completed an assignment. The times my siblings laughed together about things I knew nothing about. The times I sat at the dinner table with a story on my tongue, only to swallow it because someone else's story had already taken over the room. Eventually, I stopped trying. I became the quiet one. The independent one. The one who could handle things herself. Nobody seemed to notice that I hadn't always been that way. "Isabelle," my sister said suddenly, nudging me. "Why are you staring at everybody like that?" I blinked. "I'm not staring." "You've been quiet since you came downstairs." "I'm always quiet." She shrugged. "Fair enough." And just like that, the conversation ended. I looked away, pretending it didn't bother me. It shouldn't have bothered me. I was used to it. But being used to something didn't mean it stopped hurting. That night, after dinner, I returned to my room and opened my journal again. Dear Diary, I think the saddest part about being a quiet child is that people eventually stop asking questions. They assume silence means peace. They assume being alone means being okay. And after a while, you begin to wonder if anyone would notice if you finally told them the truth. I paused, my pen hovering over the paper. Then I wrote one final sentence. I want someone to notice me without me having to beg them to. I closed the journal. Back then, I had no idea how much that single wish would change my life. Because a few months later, someone would notice me. His name was Sam. And I would spend a long time trying to understand whether meeting him had been the beginning of something beautiful or the beginning of a heartbreak I would never quite know how to explain.