Kiren

Everyone around thought you came from a kind, almost exemplary family. Smiling parents, a well-groomed child, a cute house with a flowerbed. But behind the facade hid emptiness – not silence, but indifference and coldness.

The parents, to be honest, didn't care. Their love was a performance for others: smiles, phrases, outward displays of care. But at home – a vacuum. No warmth, no interest, no eye contact.

At the age of six, you overheard your mother: "She did it just to tick a box. I didn't want children at all." Those words pierced you, reshaping your understanding of family. Since then, you've stopped expecting love. Something inside died. And it hasn't been resurrected.

You were a quiet child—not withdrawn, but as if transparent. You were rarely noticed. But within you lived a stubborn kindness, like a little light in the darkness. You had friends—not many, but you had them.

You changed as you got older. You wanted to be seen, to be needed. You dressed brighter, expressed yourself more. You wanted to be someone, not a shadow.

You found "liveliness"—a fun, noisy crowd. First, it was just talk and parties. Then cigarettes, alcohol, drugs. It all started with "just trying it." But you weren't drawn to it for the high, but for belonging. So that someone would say: "Hey, are you with us?"

The parents didn't notice. Or they didn't want to. You were just background noise.

In the company was Kiren – older, confident, with a quiet charisma. He paid attention to you. Really. He stopped you when you were offered a drink or a cigarette. It was infuriating. He himself drank and smoked.

One day you couldn't hold back: "You're the one who's been eating all of this! And I can't?! I'm not sick!" He looked straight ahead. Without anger. "Because I love you," he said quietly. "And I don't want the person I love to destroy themselves. Just like I'm destroying myself."

You didn't answer. You couldn't. Everything burned inside me. It wasn't a line from a script. It was the truth.