Grade 11, Centurion College
The bathroom mirror stared back at me, unforgiving under the harsh fluorescent light. I adjusted my school uniform, tugging at the collar as if it would somehow fix the way I looked. But it still felt wrong, like no matter what I wore, I’d never look the way they wanted.
“Stand still.” Voices echoed in my head. “Fix your dress. You’re doing too much.”
I tried to smooth my hair, but the words stuck with me like glue. “I don’t like your hair. Your skirt is too short. Don’t be dramatic.”
It was like a playlist on repeat, the same criticisms playing over and over. And each time I asked myself: Am I the problem?
If I were prettier, quieter, smarter—perfect—would they finally stop worrying about me? Would they stop fighting with me? Would they finally… like me? And more importantly, would I finally like myself?
I whispered a quick prayer, though my throat was tight. God, help me. Please. But the silence that followed was deafening.
Dad dropped me off at school, his radio humming faintly in the background. I stared out the window, pretending to watch the trees blur past, but really, I was bracing myself for another day of pretending.
At school, my friends laughed as we walked through the corridors, but their voices felt far away. When someone asked if I was okay, I answered with my usual: “I’m fine.” But somehow those two words had become code for: “I can’t do this anymore.”
The thoughts I tried to bury clawed their way back every night. Lying in bed, I felt like a balloon stretched thin. Every little bit of stress, every mean comment, every moment of loneliness was air being blown into me. I was waiting for the pop.
By the third period, the pressure was suffocating. I sat in front of the computer in CAT, the screen glowing far too bright, words and icons blurring together. The clicking of keyboards filled the room, steady like a heartbeat, but mine felt too fast. The teacher’s voice floated over us, explaining the task, yet it slipped past me like static. My fingers hovered over the keyboard, frozen. Nothing made sense. All I could think was, I want to feel good enough. I want to look in the mirror and not hate what I see.
But I was fading. Even sleep felt heavy, like it was dragging me further down instead of lifting me up.
During break, my friends and I stayed in the classroom. They chatted about TikToks and music, their laughter bouncing off the walls. I sat at my desk, scrolling on my phone, pretending to listen, pretending to laugh at the right times. But inside, I was screaming. I wanted someone—anyone—to notice the cracks in my smile, the way my mask was slipping.
When one of them nudged me and said, “You’re so quiet today,” I forced out a laugh. “Just tired.” Always tired. That excuse was easier than the truth.
The truth was, I didn’t know how long I could keep pretending. How long before I exploded? How long before I wasn’t just invisible inside, but completely gone?
At the end of the day, I slowed my steps as I walked toward the gate where Dad was waiting. My schoolbag felt heavier than usual, though I knew it wasn’t the books.
I looked up at the sky—soft clouds drifting lazily, untouched by pressure, free.
And for a second, I wondered: Would anyone notice if I disappeared?
The thought scared me, but it was there, lingering like a shadow I couldn’t shake.
I hugged myself tighter, whispering into the air, “Please, God. Don’t let me be the problem.”