> I was never the favorite.
Not the soft one.
Not the spoiled one.
Not even the loud one who got noticed for crying too much.
I was the quiet one. The strong one. The cold one.
The one they called heartless.
I didn't cry at funerals.
I didn't scream when I got hurt.
I didn't throw tantrums when I was ignored.
And so they said:
"She doesn't feel anything."
"She's too sharp for a girl."
"She's the hard one."
But they never knew I was bleeding inside — just silently.
They didn't see the nights I stayed up with a pillow over my face, not to cry louder, but to cry quieter.
---
Other kids had friends.
They played outside, laughed in sunshine, ran barefoot across red earth like they had nothing to fear.
Me?
I sat inside with my back against a wall, watching Kdramas where the girls got rescued, where pain had a soundtrack, and someone — always someone — noticed when they were about to fall.
That was my escape.
That was my therapy.
Because in my real life, no one ever came.
No one asked:
> "Are you okay?"
"Do you feel left out?"
"Do you need someone to sit next to you?"
I didn't need attention. I needed safety.
And I never got it.
---
So I learned to numb.
I became the one who always says "It's fine."
The one who shrugs off insults with a smile.
The one who disappears into the background but still shows up when someone else is hurting.
Because that's what they expected.
Be strong. Be silent. Be available.
And so I was.
But what they didn't realize is that a person can only be the last option for so long before she starts to believe she was never meant to be chosen at all.
---
Even now, at nineteen, I still flinch when someone asks me what I like.
I don't know.
No one ever asked.
Not about my favorite food.
Not about my dreams.
Not about the little girl I used to be — the one who just wanted someone to say,
> "You don't have to be strong today."
---
> They call me heartless.
But how can you call a house heartless just because it has no lights?
What if no one ever lit them in the first place?
---