When silent scream ; faith shame survival

Before anyone ever called her a survivor, she was just Cilla. She was the kind of girl you noticed not because she demanded attention, but because there was a peace about her. A soft, intentional presence. Quiet strength. She smiled politely, prayed before her meals, and said “Thank you” like she meant it. And she did. Her identity was rooted in what was right. In her family, faith wasn’t optional it was breath. She grew up hearing: “Keep yourself.” “God is always watching.” “Don’t let boys touch you.” “Your body is a temple.” And Cilla listened. She wore her modesty like a badge of honor.No parties. No funny business. She clung to her books like it was the only way to survive in a world full of chaos. In nursing school, everyone called her “that annoying girl.” She didn’t mind. What they didn’t see, though what no one ever asked about was the weight she carried under that title. Because when everyone expects perfection from you, there’s no room to be human. When she stood in front of the mirror each morning, fixing her white uniform and brushing down her edges, she often whispered, “Today’s gonna be a great day.” She wasn’t just dressing for herself. She was dressing for the version of herself everyone wanted her to be. But being good is lonely sometimes. There were nights she stared at her phone screen too long, hoping someone would text her. Someone who didn’t want an introvert , or a moral lesson, but just wanted her. Someone who would see past what she does and ask about the ache she couldn’t name. Someone who made her feel like more than a label. And when that someone finally came, she mistook attention for affection. She mistook curiosity for connection. She mistook charm for love. And she never knew how much one wrong reflection could shatter everything she believed.