Innocence
1208 Words
Chapter 1
Annabelle’s POV
Having low self-esteem and trust issues was never part of me… until it became everything I knew.
Hi, my name is Annabelle Mercedes. I’m eighteen years years old, currently in my first year of college, and honestly, I’m struggling. Financially, academically, mentally—it feels like life is moving too fast, and I’m barely keeping up. I'm trying to navigate my way through it all.I’m the first of three children. My parents? They’re separated. My mom carries most of the weight now, paying the bills and trying to keep everything together. My dad… well, he’s there, but not really in the way a father should be.
But it wasn’t always like this.
There was a time when things felt normal. When life wasn’t this heavy.
Let me take you back.
Between the ages of two and five, life felt simple. We weren’t rich, but we had enough. Enough food, enough clothes, enough laughter. My mom always made sure we looked neat and presentable, no matter what. Birthdays, especially mine, were always celebrated. They weren’t big or extravagant, but they were filled with family, neighbors, and a few friends. There was always food, laughter, and that warm feeling of being surrounded by people who cared.
Looking back now, I realize something I didn’t understand then. My mom was often moody, easily irritated, always tense about something. My dad, on the other hand, was the complete opposite. He was jovial, playful, and less strict. He laughed easily, joked with us, and made everything feel lighter. Naturally, we loved being around him more.
When it was time for me to start school, my mom made a decision that shaped a big part of my early life. She enrolled me in one of the best private schools in our community. Not because we could easily afford it, but because she valued education deeply. She believed her children deserved the best, even if it meant working extra shifts and sacrificing her own comfort.
I didn’t know any of that at the time.
All I knew was that I was going to a good school.
Life felt full back then. We took evening walks, laughed loudly on Sundays, played games like hide-and-seek, and went on random outings that didn’t cost much but meant everything. It felt like we had it all.
Or maybe we just didn’t know what we were missing yet.
As I grew older, between the ages of seven and eleven, things began to change. Not suddenly, but slowly, in ways I didn’t fully understand at the time.
I got into middle school earlier than most kids my age. I was tall, quiet most of the time, but sometimes I surprised people by speaking up. The problem was, I didn’t fit in. Not really. I had a few friends, but most days it felt like I was alone in a room full of people.
I tried to change that. I joined extracurricular activities—dance, drama, sports—anything that could help me feel like I belonged somewhere. But instead of finding acceptance, I found embarrassment.
I remember one particular day during dance practice. The routine involved spins and coordinated movements, and I had been practicing, trying my best to get it right. In my head, I thought I was doing okay. Not perfect, but not terrible either.
Then I heard my name.
“Annabelle, what do you think you’re doing?” Miss Emma’s voice cut through the room, sharp and loud.
I froze.
“Are you trying to ruin this routine? Is that it? If you know you can’t do something, why stay and make a mess of it? You’re dancing like you don’t even understand what you’re doing.”
The room went quiet for a second.
Then came the laughter.
Soft at first, then louder.
I felt every single eye on me. My face burned with embarrassment, and my chest tightened like I couldn’t breathe.
“I’m sorry, Miss,” I said quietly, my voice barely audible.
But it didn’t matter.
I had already been humiliated.
I ran out of the room without thinking, my vision blurred with tears. I didn’t stop. I didn’t look back. I just ran.
After that day, I never returned to dance practice. Even though, at home, I practiced those same steps in front of my mirror until I got them right. Perfect, even. But no one ever saw that version of me.
Only me.
And I never told anyone what happened.
At home, everything still seemed fine. Family dinners were filled with laughter, conversations flowed easily, and for a while, I convinced myself that everything was okay.
Around that time, I had my first crush. His name was Mike, my seat partner. He was funny and kind, and I liked him more than I wanted to admit. But he liked someone else—my classmate, Lily. So I kept my feelings to myself, burying them deep where no one could see them.
Then came Raymond.
I met him when I was ten. He was kind in a way that felt genuine, the kind of person who made you feel comfortable without trying too hard. He introduced me to his siblings and his mom, and they welcomed me warmly. Being around him felt easy, natural.
Somewhere along the way, I developed a crush on him.
A real one.
But I never said anything. I couldn’t tell if he liked me back. He was nice to everyone, not just me. I told myself I would figure it out the next school year, maybe even gather the courage to say something.
But life didn’t give me that chance.
My parents could no longer afford my school fees. Eight thousand dollars a year had become too much. When they told me I had to change schools, I felt something inside me sink. Not just because of the school, but because of everything I was leaving behind.
Including Raymond.
Then, as if to make things even harder, he invited me to his birthday party.
I was so excited. I imagined how the day would go, what I would wear, what I would say. For once, I felt like I had something to look forward to.
So I asked my parents for permission.
They said no.
Just like that.
I didn’t argue. I didn’t beg. I just nodded and went to my room.
That was the first time I felt that kind of pain. Quiet, heavy, and suffocating. The kind that sits in your chest and refuses to go away.
My first heartbreak.
And somehow…
That was only the beginning.
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