A Christmas back home

Me

It was after my 18th birthday, people often called me a strong-minded, determined girl—a "can-do-it-all" kind of person. Life doesn’t scare me; that’s true. But losing? That terrifies me. I tell myself I’ll handle anything it throws my way. Yet, there are moments when I pause and wonder how much of my strength is real and how much of it is a carefully built façade. Confidence, after all, is something I’ve learned to wear like armor, shielding myself from the sting of people’s judgment and ridicule.

I remember that evening that tested this image of strength I worked so hard to maintain. It was a crisp autumn night, and the town square was buzzing with life. Lanterns hung above the cobblestone streets, casting warm golden light over the small carnival that had sprung up for the weekend. I hadn’t planned to go, but Ash had insisted. “You can’t just bury yourself in books all the time, Suhaila,” he had said, flashing his signature grin. “It’s a carnival! Have some fun.”

Reluctantly, I went along, telling myself it was just for an hour or two. The air smelled of roasted chestnuts and spun sugar, and the sound of laughter and distant music filled the night. For a while, I let myself relax, enjoying the simple joy of being surrounded by people, by life.

Then I heard it. My name.

“Suhaila!” The voice was loud, mocking, and unmistakable. I turned to see a group of girls from school huddled near the carousel, their eyes locked on me.

“Didn’t think you’d show up here,” one of them sneered, her tone dripping with false sweetness.

I felt my chest tighten, but I forced myself to smile. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Another girl laughed. “Oh, I don’t know. You don’t exactly strike me as the ‘fun’ type.”

My grip on the cotton candy stick I was holding tightened, but I stayed calm. “Well, I’m full of surprises,” I said lightly, trying to sound unaffected.

“Leave her alone,” Ash’s voice cut through the tension as he appeared beside me, his easy smile replaced with a rare, protective seriousness.

Before they could respond, Theo emerged from the crowd, his presence commanding as always. “What’s going on?” he asked, his dark eyes narrowing at the group.

“Nothing,” one of the girls muttered, suddenly, finding the ground very interesting.

“Good,” Theo said curtly, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Then move along.”

The group scattered, and I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

“You okay?” Theo asked, turning to me.

“I’m fine,” I replied automatically.

“You don’t have to be fine all the time, you know,” he said softly, his gaze steady.

I opened my mouth to respond but found I didn’t have the words. Instead, I nodded, grateful for his presence at that moment.

As the night went on, I couldn’t shake the lingering doubt in my mind. Was I really as strong as everyone thought, or was I just good at pretending? Standing there amidst the laughter and lights of the carnival, I realized that strength wasn’t about never needing help. Sometimes, it was about letting the people who cared about you step in and share the weight.

Later that night, back at home, I found myself in front of the mirror. My reflection stared back at me—long, thick hair falling in waves down my back, almond-shaped eyes framed by dark, full eyebrows. People often said I was pretty, but I’d never put much stock in their words. There was a shyness in my demeanor, a quiet hesitation that betrayed the fiery determination I felt inside. I had learned to carry myself with confidence, but beneath it all, there was a part of me that longed to be seen for who I really was: someone who could be strong and vulnerable at the same time.