I didn’t have that loving parents anymore. My dad was an alcoholic, deep into it, the kind you couldn’t reach no matter how hard you tried. My mom? She left. Took me with her, and for a while, I thought maybe things would get better. But then came my stepdad. At first, he seemed okay, like maybe this was a chance at a fresh start. But soon, his anger turned into fists and shouting, and I couldn’t even tell my mom. I didn’t know how to, or maybe I just didn’t think she’d believe me.

Even back then, I knew I wasn’t a normal kid. I couldn’t pretend like everything was fine. The cracks in my family didn’t just break me—they showed in everything I did. No matter how much I tried to act like everyone else, it was always there, just beneath the surface.

On top of that, I was half-blind. My left eye didn’t work at all. I didn’t know what it was at first, but one day at school, I snuck into the computer lab and looked it up. It was something called hemianopia, a condition where you lose half your vision. Sometimes it was temporary, but for me, it had been nearly ten years. At first, it was impossible to adjust—I kept bumping into things or missing people standing on my left side. But eventually, I got used to it. At least, as much as anyone could.

High school was when things really started to fall apart. I’d just transferred to a new school, and I still remember the way my stomach churned when my teacher asked me to introduce myself. I stood in front of the class, trying to keep it short, but I could already hear the whispers.

As I walked to the empty seat in the back, the murmurs got louder.

“Look at his eye. It’s like he’s wearing some weird contact lens,” someone muttered.

“What? Is he trying to look cool or something?” another voice said, followed by stifled laughter.

Then a boy tapped my shoulder. I froze for a second before turning to him. “Hey, is that, like, a new trend?” he asked, pointing at my gray, blind eye.

I hesitated, my throat tightening, but I managed to say it. “I’m half-blind. My left eye doesn’t work.”

For a moment, he just stared, like he didn’t know what to say. I thought maybe he understood. But after lunch, it was like everyone in class had heard. Some of them were just curious, giving my eye long, awkward glances. I could handle that. But others? They looked at me like I was some kind of freak, their stares full of judgment, disgust, and something else I couldn’t quite place.

The worst part was the laughter, the way some of them whispered and snickered whenever I walked by. Even the ones who didn’t say anything still made me feel like I didn’t belong. Like I’d never belong.

It wasn’t just my eye they were laughing at—it was me.

Back then, the only thing I was really good at was being shy. Awkward, quiet, and weird—that was me. It wasn’t something I chose, but it became my armor. Hiding in plain sight was the only thing I knew how to do.

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When we moved into the new house, it didn’t feel like a fresh start. It felt like I was being erased. I couldn’t blame my mom for wanting to be happy, but seeing her with her new husband was like watching her build a new life that didn’t have room for me. He didn’t like me from the start, and it only got worse over time. He had his own son, and slowly, I watched my mom grow closer to him. She treated him like he was her real child.

At first, I told myself it was fine, that it didn’t matter. But then came the little things that chipped away at me. Like how they’d sit together at the dining table, laughing and talking like a perfect family, while I sat alone in the living room. I’d listen to their voices, trying not to let it hurt, but it always did.

His new husband had a way of comparing me to his son, subtle but sharp enough to leave scars. “You’re really great, son. I’m so proud of you. You’ve got so much potential.” He’d beam over some award his son won, showering him with praise. I had my own award from the same school, but I didn’t bother showing it. I couldn’t bring myself to ruin their perfect moment. My mom was happy, and if staying quiet kept her that way, I was willing to do it.

At school, my first year as a transfer student wasn’t terrible. People were curious about my half-blind eye, some amazed, some laughing, but I learned to deal with it. When vacation rolled around, I decided I’d had enough of just surviving. I wanted to change. I needed to.

I started small. Going out more, not just to escape the house but to push myself. I began jogging in the mornings, even saying hi to strangers as I passed. At first, it was a disaster. People barely noticed me, and when they did, it felt like they were judging me. But I kept going. Little by little, I got used to it. I used to be so insecure about my nose and lips, always trying to hide them. But after a while, I realized people didn’t care. They’d look at you, maybe for a second, and then they’d move on. It wasn’t as deep as I made it out to be.

I also started studying more, even during the break. I threw myself into books, determined to come back stronger.

When my second year began, I noticed the difference. I looked healthier, more confident. I could hold conversations without stuttering, without feeling like I had to shrink away. I aced my classes that semester, surprising even myself.

I even met someone I considered my first real friend. I met him after I started to improve myself slowly.

We’d hang out after school, talking about the most random stuff—movies, music, or whatever came to mind. He taught me how to be silly, how to let loose. We will be running down the pavement, laughing like maniacs, flipping off passing cars with both hands raised high.

“Dude, get your finger higher! It looks cooler!” he’d yell, grinning like he didn’t care who saw us.

“This is ridiculous,” I’d mutter, pretending to hate it. But inside? I felt alive. It was the first time I wasn’t hiding behind my awkwardness or trying to blend into the background. For once, I was just... me.

“Yeah, that’s better! Hahaha! Let’s keep going!” he’d shout as we ran toward the park, our middle fingers still up.

The truth was, my “friend” wasn’t someone else—it was me. I was finally letting myself be free, and it felt incredible.

“This is amazing!” I shouted, jumping in place at the park, my heart pounding with excitement. For the first time, I felt like things were starting to fall into place. My confidence, my habits, even my relationships—they were all improving. Life was finally giving me a break.

But life has a way of reminding you that the climb up is never easy. There’s always someone waiting to pull you back down.

“Wassup, you weirdo.”

The voice cut through my celebration. I stand there, turning to see who it was.

It was a guy from my class, the one who always sat in the back, quiet but smug. After school, I’d see him with his group, sneaking cigarettes or causing trouble around the near streets. He was the kind of guy you didn’t want to mess with.

“What a coincidence seeing you up here,” he said, his smirk widening. “I thought your mom locked you in the basement or something.” His laugh was loud.

I forced a small smile, thinking I could just walk away, but then I noticed another figure stepping in front of me. He was tall—way taller than me—and he didn’t look like a student at all. His clothes were rough, his face hard, like someone who’d seen and caused his share of fights.

Panic. My legs felt like they were stuck to the ground, my mind racing with questions I didn’t want answers to. What did they want? Were they just here to mess with me, or was it something worse?

Deep down, I knew. This wasn’t just trouble. This was the beginning of something that would drag me back into the darkness I’d fought so hard to escape.