I don't know why I feel so cold right now. It's not new to me; feeling a little chilly has always been a part of me, but today, I feel colder. Much colder. I'm sitting in the dining hall, alone, having what should be dinner—or is it lunch? It doesn't matter. It's my second meal of the day, and it's already 11:30 PM. The darkness outside presses against the windows,making the light inside feel harsh and unforgiving.

I hate sitting here. Our dining hall is situated in the middle of the house, which means anyone can see me if they just wander by. 

The openness feels like an invasion, like I'm constantly on display. I curl up as much as I can, slumping my shoulders forward, trying to make myself smaller, less noticeable. 

The hope is that anyone who walks by won't see me, or at least won't notice me enough to stop and talk. I crave invisibility, just for a moment of peace.The food on my plate feels like a collection of insurmountable obstacles, each piece a large, unmanageable lump that I struggle to swallow. It's not a new sensation. 

My relationship with food changes with the environment I'm in. When I'm in a happy place, surrounded by warmth and laughter, I relish my meals. I feel hunger, a genuine, hearty appetite that makes each bite a joy. But when the atmosphere shifts, when the walls close in and the air feels heavy with unspoken words and hidden glances, I lose that hunger. Eating becomes a chore, each bite an effort.

Tonight, the house is quiet, but not in a peaceful way. It's the quiet of tension, the kind that prickles your skin and makes the silence feel oppressive. Every clink of my fork against the plate sounds magnified, echoing in the emptiness. I pick at my food, pushing it around more than actually eating it. My stomach churns, not with hunger but with anxiety. The cold seeps deeper into my bones, and I wonder if it's just the temperature or something more. The chill feels internal, as if it's coming from within me rather than from the room.

 I can't shake the feeling of isolation, even in my own home. I miss the warmth of connection, the simple comfort of being seen and understood. But for now, I remain huddled at the table, shivering in the cold that's more than just physical, trying to finish a meal that feels like a mountain to climb.

As I sit in the dining hall, picking at my dinner, I hear the familiar sound of footsteps approaching. Suddenly, my mother passes by, her eyes catching mine. 

She stops and looks at me with a mixture of surprise and mild curiosity. "Finally, you're out of your room," she remarks, her tone laced with thinly veiled frustration. "What do you do in that small corner all day?" Her words hang in the air, heavy and accusatory.

 I force a smile, the kind that feels awkward and forced, like a mask I've worn too many times. "Oh, you know, just keeping busy," I reply, trying to sound nonchalant. I want to seem silly and harmless, anything to avoid further scrutiny. 

She studies me for a moment longer, then shakes her head slightly and walks away, her footsteps echoing down the hall.

I turn back to my plate, determined to finish the small portion of rice and chicken as quickly as possible. My appetite is nonexistent, each bite feeling like an insurmountable task.

 I pray silently that no one else will come by, that I can retreat to the safety of my room without any more encounters. But, as with so many of my prayers, this one goes unanswered. The sound of footsteps returns, heavier and more deliberate this time. My father enters the dining hall, his presence immediately filling the space with tension. He stops and looks at me, his eyes narrowing with an expression that I've come to recognize all too well—disgust. 

"Why are you sitting here?" his eyes seem to ask, though his lips remain tightly pressed together. His gaze is piercing, making me feel even smaller and more insignificant. 

It's no secret that he has never liked me much; everyone knows that. But recently, it feels like he sees me not just as a disappointment, but as a burden. Someone who merely exists in the house, making the air heavy with their presence.He mumbles something under his breath, words that I can't quite make out, but the tone is clear enough—disdain. 

His eyes bore into me for a moment longer before he turns and leaves, his departure as abrupt as his arrival.I exhale a deep, shaky breath, feeling a fleeting sense of relief. I hastily finish my meal, each bite more a necessity than a desire. I need to escape, to return to the one place where I feel safe. I need to be back in my room, away from the prying eyes and harsh judgments.

With my plate finally empty, I push back my chair and make my way to my sanctuary, my steps quick and purposeful. 

As I reach my room, I close the door behind me, leaning against it for a moment, letting the familiar comfort of solitude wash over me. I crawl into my bed, burying my face deep into my pillow, clutching it like a lifeline. This is my favorite part of the day, the moment when I can finally let my guard down.My room is my refuge, the only place where I feel warm, where I can be myself without fear of judgment. 

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

Here, I am free to be as clumsy as I want, free to indulge in my own little world without anyone's critical eyes on me. I pick up the book I was reading before dinner, hoping to lose myself in its pages, to escape into a world where I can imagine a different life. Reading brings me comfort. It allows me to dream of happiness, to imagine a future where I am loved and cared for. I close my eyes, letting the words on the page transport me to a place where I am not just tolerated but cherished.

 In the midst of my reverie, a thought jolts me back to reality—I have a boyfriend, don't I? I reach for my phone, scrolling through our chat. The last message I sent him was eight hours ago, and he still hasn't seen it, even though it shows he's active. I tell myself he's busy, that he has important things to do. I justify his silence more than I should, perhaps because I don't want to face the truth—that he's ignoring me, that he's pulling away. My heartbeat quickens, anxiety rising like a tide.

 I take deep breaths, trying to calm myself. I can't afford to break down now. My hands are shaking, and I clench them into fists, willing the tremors to stop. I close my eyes, retreating once more into my daydreams, where I am surrounded by people who love me, who support me, who don't see me as a failure. These thoughts bring me solace, a fragile peace that I cling to desperately. They are my lifeline, the only thing keeping me from sinking into despair. For now, I am safe in my delusions, where the harshness of reality cannot reach me. 

Anyway, I feel much more relaxed now. I stay silent for a while, trying not to think about anything. But thinking about nothing only brings me back to the worst memories of my life, dragging me into the depths of thoughts I don't want to remember, feelings I don't want to feel again.

I look up at the ceiling, lying down on my bed. How should I keep myself busy now? How do I stop myself from getting lost in my own thoughts? I try to think of something to occupy my mind, and then it hits me—I have an event tomorrow, and I still haven't prepared anything for it. Panic sets in as I begin to stroll back and forth in my room. My mind races with thoughts about what dress I should wear, how my hair is not even done. I rush to my closet and fling it open, but it feels like a void of possibilities.

 There's nothing to wear, nothing decent enough for the occasion. Frustration builds as I pull out a pile of clothes from the drawer, searching desperately for something suitable. Suddenly, I hear a sound—a knock at my door. My heart skips a beat as I open it to find Ary standing there, her face adorned with a judging smirk. 

She looks me up and down, her gaze lingering on the disarray of my room and my frantic state. "Well, it looks like someone's having a bit of a crisis," she says, her tone dripping with condescension. 

I reply with my usual awkward, forced smile, trying to mask my anxiety. "I'm sorry. I totally forgot about the event, but I'm preparing for it now. You don't need to worry."

"Worry? About you?" She scoffs, her face twisted with annoyance. "I already guessed that you'd somehow forget about it and ruin the event for all of us."

Her words cut deep, and I hate how she talks to me, making me feel like an inferior insect. I hate the way she makes me feel so small and insignificant. Ary continues, her voice sharp and unforgiving. "Even though you forgot about it, our father doesn't want anyone embarrassing him, especially not you, Miss Evelyn Bernard! Do you realize we have a reputation to uphold? So, put your act together and look at this dress."

The sudden mention of a dress from Ary confuses me, and I ask her, "What dress?"

"Are you retarded? Look at this!" she snaps, pointing her finger at a box that sits on the floor beside my door. I guess she threw it here in her typical disdainful manner.

"Dad bought us new dresses for the event. No matter what, we cannot ruin the day for Mark, do you understand? It's one of the biggest days for him, as he is being rewarded for being the best cardiologist here." She leaves as soon as she finishes speaking, as if being in my presence is a curse.

I look at the box, feeling a mix of emotions. She could have handed it to me directly. Why did she throw it here? A pang of sadness washes over me, but then I remind myself that at least I have a new dress. I open the box slowly, the weight of Ary's words still heavy on my mind. The dress inside is beautiful, shimmering under the dim light of my room. I hold it up, feeling the fabric between my fingers, and a small flicker of excitement sparks within me. Yet, the excitement is quickly overshadowed by the pressure and fear of ruining the event. The sorrow of my situation seeps in again. 

Ary's harshness, my father's constant disappointment, and the immense pressure to be perfect all weigh me down. I feel like I am drowning in their expectations, struggling to stay afloat.

i take a deep breath and look at myself in the mirror, holding the dress against my body. I imagine myself at the event, surrounded by people who see me as nothing more than a potential embarrassment. 

But I also imagine Mark's proud face as he receives his award, and I know I can't let him down. 

The dress is beautiful—when I say beautiful, I truly mean it. It's a stunning black, shimmery, long gown with an open back that hugs my body perfectly. A slit on the right leg adds a touch of daring elegance. When it comes to dresses, I don't really have specific preferences. 

My best friend, Lucy, always tells me that everything I wear looks good on me. Maybe she's right, maybe she's just being a supportive friend.

Everyone in my family is blessed with good looks, thanks to the genes of our parents and grandparents. People often tell me I'm attractive, and no matter where I go, I somehow become the center of attention, even though I hate it. Lucy insists I'm the prettiest in the family. I used to be proud of my appearance, but that was before Anvir, my boyfriend, shattered my self-esteem by cheating on me with his ex. 

Since that betrayal, I've never looked at myself the same way. I try to perfect myself more and more every day, but I always feel like I'm not enough—not enough for him, not enough for anyone. The memory of discovering Anvir's infidelity is still vivid, one of the most painful experiences I've ever endured.  

I don't want to dwell on those painful moments now; I have so much to do. Determined to focus on the task at hand, I take a sheet mask from my drawer and carefully place it on my face. The cool, soothing sensation is a welcome distraction. I then turn my attention to my hair, combing through the tangles and trying to decide on a style for tomorrow.

As I stand in front of the mirror, I snap a picture of myself in the dress and send it to Lucy. She's a natural with makeup and dreams of becoming a professional makeup artist someday. She has always been there for me, with her infectious enthusiasm and unwavering support.  Moments later, my phone buzzes with her reply: "OMG, you look stunning! I can't wait to do your makeover tomorrow. We're going to knock their socks off!" A smile spreads across my face. Despite everything, I'm so grateful to have a friend like her. Her excitement and confidence are contagious,  Knowing Lucy will be there to help me makes all the difference. 

With renewed energy, I begin preparing for the event, my mind now occupied with thoughts of hairstyles, makeup, and accessories instead of the haunting memories that often cloud my thoughts.