i grew up in a beautiful house— tall doors, pristine white walls, and a room of my own. that room was my sanctuary. every inch of it was a reflection of me, from the colors of the walls, to the books on the shelf, the huge posters stuck in no particular pattern to the little sticky notes scattered like whispers of my thoughts. it was my favorite place in the entire world, a place that made me feel safe and secure.

there was a time when i didn’t notice the weight of it all. when i was a child, i would run barefoot across the cold marble floors, my laughter echoing through the halls, free from the weight of any expectations. back then, the house was a home—warm, familiar, and safe. but as the years passed, i began to see the cracks hidden beneath its perfection, the quiet ways in which love sometimes came with conditions.

and at some point, the walls i had once carefully decorated began closing in. the space that had once been my refuge started suffocating me. that house, with all its grandeur, suddenly made me feel insignificant. it became a reminder of everything i would never be, every expectation i would never meet. my room, my safe haven became a prison of my own making— a prison i had decorated with care, a prison that was inescapable. the perfect white walls my mother meticulously kept spotless became mirrors of my imperfections. stark reminders of how far i was from being enough.

suddenly, the bed where i could once sleep like the dead became a place of restless torment. each night, i lay awake, engulfed not in peaceful silence but in a heavy, suffocating stillness—one laden with the unspoken hopes and expectations of those asleep within the house. the same walls that had once held my dreams began to stifle them, whispering doubts into the quiet.

i was never the best in that house. never the brightest. never the most accomplished. never the one who made heads turn with effortless brilliance. i was always just enough—never too little to be dismissed, but never quite enough to be celebrated. every corner of that home carried echoes of achievements that weren’t mine, of praises i would never hear, of a version of me i could never become. the weight of comparison clung to me like a second skin, choking with every expectation i failed to meet.

i live far away from that house now. sometimes, i miss it. distance has a way of softening the past, leaving behind only the warmth of familiarity. but when i return, i still catch glimpses of the girl i used to be—the thirteen-year-old tucked between the shelves, hoping to disappear.