The silent suffering

The unseen chains

In the heart of Seoul, in a bustling neighborhood where the modern world danced with tradition, lived a girl named Hana. Hana, meaning "flower" in Korean, seemed like a delicate blossom in the harsh winds of her life. From the outside, her life appeared enviable. She had a loving family, supportive friends, and attended one of the most prestigious schools in the city. But the reality was far darker.

Hana's family had always set high expectations. Her father, a successful businessman, believed that success in academics was the only path to a prosperous life. Her mother, a former beauty queen, imposed standards of physical perfection that seemed impossible to achieve. Her older brother, a prodigy in every sense, had already secured a place at Seoul National University, casting a long shadow over Hana's own aspirations.

Every morning, Hana woke up at 5 a.m. to the sound of her alarm clock. It wasn't the gentle beeping most people used to wake up; it was a shrill, unrelenting reminder of her duties. She had to be perfect. As she dressed in her immaculate school uniform, her mother would critique her appearance.

"Hana, your skirt is too long. You need to look more presentable," her mother would say, tugging at the hem. "And don't forget, your skin must be flawless. Apply more BB cream."

At breakfast, her father would quiz her on math problems, not accepting anything less than immediate, correct answers. The pressure was immense, but it was at school where Hana felt the weight of expectations the most.

Her friends, or those who she thought were her friends, were always competing. They were not interested in camaraderie but in outperforming one another. Group study sessions turned into interrogation hours where Hana's weaknesses were exposed.

"You didn't understand that problem? Are you serious, Hana?" Ji-woo, her best friend since childhood, would say, her tone dripping with mock concern. "Maybe you should spend more time studying and less time daydreaming."

Even the teachers, who should have been her allies, seemed to conspire against her. They would often single her out in class, using her as an example of what not to do. The whispers and giggles that followed her in the hallways were deafening.

The weight of these expectations bore down on her, a relentless pressure that seeped into every aspect of her life. Her grades began to slip, and with each fall, the disappointment in her parents' eyes grew. Her once vibrant personality started to fade, replaced by a shell of who she used to be.

One evening, after a particularly grueling day, Hana returned home to find her parents waiting for her in the living room. The tension was palpable.

"Hana, we need to talk," her father began, his voice stern. "Your latest test scores are unacceptable. You need to understand that our reputation, our family's honor, rests on your shoulders. You are failing us."

Her mother chimed in, "And look at you, Hana. You're not even trying to keep up appearances. You look tired, and it's affecting your looks. How will you ever find a good match if you can't even take care of yourself?"

The words cut deeper than any knife. Hana felt a lump in her throat, her vision blurred by unshed tears. She excused herself, retreating to her room where she could finally let the tears flow freely.

As the days turned into weeks, the relentless pressure did not abate. Her friends continued their thinly veiled barbs, her teachers their harsh criticisms, and her parents their impossible demands. Hana felt herself slipping into a dark abyss. The girl who once dreamed of becoming an artist, who saw beauty in the simplest of things, was now a prisoner of her circumstances.

Her health began to deteriorate. She couldn't sleep, couldn't eat, and found herself in a constant state of anxiety. The headaches became a daily occurrence, and soon, the only thing that seemed real to Hana was the pain she felt every day.

One evening, as she lay in bed staring at the ceiling, she realized that she was utterly alone. Despite being surrounded by people, no one truly saw her pain. They only saw what they wanted her to be, not who she was. It was in that moment of clarity that Hana understood she was not living her life but merely existing in it.

She decided to seek help, sneaking out to visit a therapist without her parents' knowledge. The therapist, a kind woman with a soothing voice, was the first person who seemed to truly listen to her. For the first time, Hana felt a glimmer of hope.

But the road to recovery would not be easy. Hana knew she had to confront the chains that bound her, to fight against the expectations that suffocated her. It was a battle she would have to face on her own terms, finding strength within herself to reclaim her life.